the tv demon had a reputation — smooth, cocky, perfectly composed on-screen and off. but all of hell knew the truth by now: when you walked into the room, that composure never stood a chance.

you didn’t even need to say anything. the second vox’s eyes landed on you, his static sputtered into blue-tinted waves, and a soft “bloop!” escaped his screen as neon halo hearts popped up in the air around his head.

“ah—!” he’d immediately swat at them, embarrassed, trying to act cool. “it’s a glitch. a dumb system bug. not— it’s not on purpose!”

every. single. time.

it happened when you brought him coffee, when you fixed his tie before a broadcast, even when you walked by humming to yourself. the more he tried to hide it, the worse it got. sometimes his screen went so bright with heart-shaped static that he’d have to reboot mid-sentence, mumbling curses under his breath.

“why do you do this to me?” he groaned one night, his voice crackling softly as you rested your head on his shoulder.