Lost but found twice
here‘s part ix masterlist: Lost but found twice This is the final chapter (for now) and takes place in the finale of season 2 warnings: graphic violence, Vox
V TOWER, PRIDE RING, HELL
The veil is heavy.
Unnecessarily heavy.
It drapes over your hair and shoulders like a funeral shroud pretending to be couture, and the dress—pearlescent white with metallic embroidery—fits too tight around your ribs, as if it’s been designed specifically to keep you from breathing.
You stand in the middle of the Vees’ prep room, chains built into the floor discreetly hooked to your ankles beneath the hem. Industrial lights buzz overhead. Velvette’s discarded measuring tape lies at your feet. Valentino lounges in a corner chair, admiring you like a grotesque wedding planner with a nicotine addiction.
And Vox?
Vox is pacing in front of you, full of static, laughter, and smug self-satisfaction.
His screen-face flickers with a looping grin as he recounts his own genius for the sixth time. “And THEN—” His voice spikes into a delighted squeal. “AND THEN I told everyone—all of Hell, all the cameras, the entire goddamn broadcast—”
He throws his arms up with glee. “—that he doesn’t even have a tail.”
His laughter explodes through the room, sharp and digital, bouncing off the walls.
“HAHAHAHA! You should’ve SEEN his face! Completely glitching with embarrassment—like some kind of embarrassed woodland critter! Ohhhh, priceless. Absolutely PRICELESS!”
You stare at him through the veil, utterly deadpan.
Annoyed.
Done.
You blink exactly once.
Vox cackles harder. “Ohhh, look at you! Trying so HARD not to break down! The tragic bride!” He fans himself dramatically. “Awww. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I mean—actually, DO cry. Tears test the waterproof rating of the makeup. Velvette wants data.”
Velvette pops her gum and nods "sympathetically". “Mhm. Cry if you want. It’ll help me see if the eyeliner bleeds under LED heat.”
You don’t move.
Your expression is so blank it’s almost impressive.
“Darling,” Vox croons, stepping closer and lifting a gloved hand to flick your veil. “Cheer up! It’s a performance dress. Very high fashion. Very symbolic. Very—” he winks obnoxiously—“‘look who never got her happy ending.’”
Valentino snorts. “Cold as hell, papi. I respect it.”
You squint your eyes at him in a glare.
Just enough of a shift for Vox to notice and grin wider. “Oooh, struck a nerve, did I?” Vox leans close, voice low and taunting. “You know… seeing Alastor’s reaction when he realizes YOU’RE part of all this—? God, I might short-circuit from joy.”
He steps back dramatically, spreading his arms.
“He really thought he had secrets. He really thought he was untouchable. But I told him. I told him in front of EVERYONE. I humiliated him on live broadcast! And he couldn’t do a DAMN thing about it!”
You sigh. Loudly.
Vox gasps. “Are you… are you bored? Are you bored of my monologue?” He presses a hand to his chest. “That’s RUDE.”
You roll your eyes beneath the veil. Velvette cackles. “She’s not even scared anymore. She’s just OVER it.”
You are.
You are COMPLETELY over it.
Your feet hurt.
Your wrists ache.
You’ve been electrocuted four times today (yikes, he’s so jealous). You’re wearing what is basically a passive-aggressive mock wedding outfit.
And Vox is bragging about tail jokes.
He claps his hands once, theatrically. “Alright, dear! Showtime is soon. We need you radiant, or at least… not slouching like a depressed Victorian widow.”
You keep staring.
Not talking.
Not reacting.
Just aggressively done.
Vox beams. “Perfect! That’s the face. Despair with a touch of confusion. Cameras will LOVE you.”
He gestures to Valentino. “Get her ready for stage transport. And tighten the veil—she doesn’t need to see much anyway.”
As Valentino steps forward with the restraints, Vox turns away, humming triumphantly. “This is going to be spectacular.”
Your fingers twitch beneath the veil. Oh, you’re done.
But not defeated. Not yet. And certainly not forever.
————————————————————————
HAZBIN HOTEL, PRIDE RING, HELL
The lab in the hotel is dimly lit, wires snaking across the counters, screens flickering with static and data from various monitoring systems. Baxter is hunched over a console, muttering to himself as he toggles between channels, trying desperately to get a signal out.
A knock echoes from the doorway, and Cherri Bomb steps in, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“Bax,” she says, her tone sharp but tinged with worry, “did you manage to reach her yet? That lady… Y/N?”
Baxter doesn’t immediately answer. His eyes are glued to the screens, hands moving too quickly across the keys. A low hum of frustration escapes him.
“I… I tried. Multiple times,” he mutters finally, voice tight with tension. “But she’s…she’s off-grid. All attempts to contact her are being blocked or redirected. Vox isn’t making it easy.”
Cherri’s jaw tightens. “Figures. He doesn’t just let someone like her walk freely. Her voice… it’s the only chance we’ve got to break his hold on the city.”
Baxter finally turns, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “I know, I know. And I’m not giving up. But I need her to answer willingly—or at least not think it’s a trap. Otherwise… it’s useless. I can’t risk her getting hurt just to get the sinners back.”
Cherri exhales, pacing a little. “We don’t have much time. Every second Vox‘s out there, his influence spreads further. We need her. She’s… well, she’s the only one who can reach them without forcing it.”
Baxter nods grimly. “I understand. I just… I have to figure out a way to reach her safely. And I will. I promise. Y/N will be our key.”
Cherry glances at the flickering monitors, then back at Baxter. “Just… make it happen, Bax. We’re counting on you.”
Baxter’s jaw tightens. “I know. I won’t fail.”
They hear Vaggie‘s voice calling out for the both of them. It was now time to proceed their plan and Baxter took his belongings he needed for the hacking into Voxtek and live broadcast Sir Pentious from heaven.
————————————————————————
V TOWER, PRIDE RING , HELL
The room is silent.—silent in that suffocating, padded-cell kind of way that makes even your own breathing sound too loud.
The Vees are at the party Vox is throwing with the other sinners and Overlords, while you are stuck here for the moment.
The dress they forced on you is heavy, stiff in the skirt, the veil trailing behind you like a ghost you never invited. You sit on the edge of the sleek metal platform that passes for a bench, legs dangling, hands limp in your lap.
For a moment, you say nothing.
Then, because silence has never been a friend of yours, you inhale… and sing.
Soft at first. Then louder. Then petty.
Your voice echoes beautifully—because it always does—but the lyrics?
Absolutely not beautiful.
You hum a dramatic overture, then switch into mocking operetta:
“Oooooh, look at me,” you trill, overly vibrato, “kidnapped again, how luuuuuucky can a girl beeeee—”
Your tone shifts sharply into a lower, robotic drone as you imitate Vox.
“HELLO there, dear! Here to ruin your day with electroshock chaaaarm! Stay still, sweetheart! It’ll only stiiiiing—forever!”
You cough, roll your eyes, and switch into Velvette‘s nasal, perky pitch:
“Like, oh my gosh, babe, we’re giving you a total makeover! Aren’t you soooo grateful? You look so cute in your trauma bridal couture!”
You snort and flop back against the wall, veil spilling like a cheap waterfall. “Ugh. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”
You kick the skirt. It poofs angrily. Then, because you can’t stop, the mocking melody returns—this time sharper, bitter, confused.c
“All because of yoooou—”
You point a dramatic finger at the ceiling as if the universe itself is Alastor.
“My charming problem! My—god knows what you are now!”
You groan and rub your temple.
“Hell‘s sake. I didn‘t even know he was here. Did I even want to-"
You don’t finish, because the words knot up in your throat. Instead you shoot upright and start pacing, dress swishing like an irritated swan.
“Oh, but nooooo. Of course he’d be in Hell. Of course. Only I would have a past fiancé turn up as a notorious overlord while I’m stuck in a techno-torture wedding dress.”
You mimic Alastor’s chipper cadence in cruelly accurate pitch:
“My dear, do calm yourself! Surely being kidnapped in a garish costume is hardly the end of the world!” You wrinkle your nose, switching back to yourself. “Oh, shut up.”
You press your palm to your face, sighing deep into it. The room hums in response, techno and distant static bleeding through the walls. For a second, you’re quiet again—until the emotions crack and spill over.
“Truly, I’m living the hellish high liiiife…”
You stop. Blink.
“…I hate it here.”
Your voice echoes—sad, angry, exhausted, unraveling—and for the first time since they forced the veil over your head… you close your eyes and let the weight of everything crash down.
"I knew I forgot to take out the brownies from the oven…“ You mutter to yourself in memory and just trying to distract yourself - when a faint creak from behind catches your attention, Your eyes snap toward the door.
“What the—?”
Before you can even process it, the door splashes open like a hurricane, and a little sinner with pink hair in a maid outfit (Niffty) comes barreling through, her little arms outstretched.
“Come on! No time to explain!” she shouts, voice full of that frantic energy you’ve come to recognize.
Before you can protest, she lifts you up—literally—and darts down the hallway, boots clattering against the polished floor. Your veil tangles around your shoulders, your dress flaring in all directions, but Niffty is a blur of motion, weaving expertly through the empty corridors of VoxTek.
“Wait—what about the Vees?!” you call, your voice muffled as she hustles you forward.
“They‘re… distracted,” Niffty says over her shoulder, dodging a pair of security bots with a graceful spin. “Just—trust me!”
———
The stairwell appears, and she zips down it two steps at a time, the neon emergency lights casting jittery shadows on your frantic, messy reflection. You’re half-dizzy, half-panicking, but there’s a spark of exhilaration too—your heart pounding in your chest as if it knows something big is happening.
Finally, you’re deposited unceremoniously in front of Baxter, who’s crouched over his laptop amid a tangle of humming cables and blinking lights.
“You made it!” he exclaims, eyes scanning the room for any intrusions.
You stumble forward, adjusting your tangled veil and the long folds of your dress, and Baxter freezes mid-motion, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“…Uh,” he starts, tilting his head, eyes narrowing at your ensemble. “Why do you look like a runaway bride?”
You let out a humorless little laugh, tugging at the heavy fabric around your shoulders. “Oh, this? Just your typical day of being kidnapped and humiliated by a Screen. Thought I’d accessorize appropriately.”
Baxter blinks, clearly caught between horror, concern, and trying not to laugh. “Right… well, at least you’re… stylish while we try to save Hell?”
You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath, “Stylish. Sure. That’s what I was going for after they electrocuted me and forced me into this nightmare couture.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Alright. Enough commentary. We don’t have time for… fashion critiques. Let’s get you connected.”
As Baxter begins hooking up the cables, you can’t help but let out a dramatic sigh, adjusting your veil for effect. “I swear, if I survive this… you owe me a proper dress fitting. And maybe some champagne.”
Baxter just mutters, “You’re lucky you’re the only one who can fix this mess right now.”
"How so?" You ask confused because you have no idea what he is up to. Baxter hums before looking up at you again. "Easy. You stop Vox‘s hypnosis over the city with your hypnosis.“
"Are you certain that this will do as a solution?“ You ask nervously now because you, yourself, have no idea how strong your voice’s hypnosis is to stop an actual Overlord‘s hypnosis.
Baxter leans back slightly, letting out a small, almost amused sigh. “Honestly? You’re overthinking it. If you can handle ten sugar daddies at once without breaking a sweat, I’d say controlling the city’s sinners is… well, a minor inconvenience by comparison.”
You blink at him, incredulous. “Excuse me? Did you just—”
“Consider it a confidence boost,” he interrupts, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve already demonstrated you can bend demons, apparently—to your will. Vox doesn’t stand a chance… well, as long as you don’t faint mid-performance.”
You groan, tugging at the heavy veil again, feeling every inch of that ridiculous dress.
Baxter is typing at light-speed, wires sparking, screens flickering with VoxTek’s systems folding under his hack. There’s no time, no room for panic, only precision — and he expects you to keep up.
He pushes his glasses up with one knuckle and points sharply toward the exit.
“Alright— you.” He gestures at your dress, veil and all. “Runaway bride. Listen closely.”
You scowl. “Stop calling me that.”
“No promises,” he mutters. “Now— Shok.wav. Vox’s pet. You know— giant mechanical demon shark, red eyes, teeth like industrial sawblades, enough bite force to halve a bus? Yes? Great.”
You blink. “How is that relevant to me?”
“It’s relevant because you’re going to go to him.”
Your jaw drops so hard the veil nearly slides off. “I’M SORRY— I’M WHAT?”
Baxter makes a circular impatient gesture. “Pet him. Calm him. Siren mojo. Animal empathy. I don’t know what your powers do, but every creature born in a lab or a tank seems LOVE you. So go use that. Distract him before he notices you’re free.”
“Distract him… how?! Baxter, this is a shark.”
“A shark who listens to Vox like a child to a parent. If he catches you wandering around, he triggers an alert.”
He pauses… then points at you with a little more urgency. “So you distract him first.”
You stare at him, bewildered. “Right. Sure. Just charm the giant kill-shark. Easy.”
“Exactly!” Baxter beams, finally hearing what he wanted instead of what you actually said.
You deadpan. “And what am I supposed to do once he’s distracted?”
He waves you off like this is obvious. “Then you come back. I’ll finish hacking the broadcast matrix. Nifty will guard me. Husk and Cherri are grabbing Angel. YOU just keep that overgrown guppy from screaming bloody murder.”
You hesitate. “And if I fail?”
Baxter freezes. He blinks. “Then Vox will kill all of us. So don’t.” Niffty gives you a bright, bloody little smile. “Go on, sweetheart! You’ll do great!” You sigh, pick up your soaked, heavy veil, and head toward the shark tank corridor. “Fantastic,” you mutter. “Sent to flirt with a fucking sea monster.”
“Be careful!” Baxter calls after you. “And try not to get eaten! You’re the only demon with some hypnosis power— that’s VERY inconvenient!” You flip him off over your shoulder, bridal veil fluttering.
—————
"Say it Charlie. Look i to the camera and tell everyone out there that you lost! And I‘M the most powerful sinner in hell. Not Lilith, not Alastor, not the Vees, ME.“
Vox glares while floating in his wires in the air and all eyes on Charlie Morningstar.
"Never.“ Charlie responds determined, before they hear one familiar laughter behind the two of them. "Oh the drama! You know what? Maybe you should say it, Charlie. Stroke my friend‘s ego. He needs it.“
"What? Alastor? Why?“ Charlie is pretty shocked and confused at what Alastor is aiming to do now.
"Ah ah ah! Come on, Charlie. Do me this one. simple. favor.“ He hints at the deal they made back then when he already gave her the information on Carmilla Carmine killing an angel in exchange.
"Don‘t make me.“
But he did. "Go on tell everyone he‘s the strongest.“
And so she did. Right into the camera. All of Hell has now heard Charlie say thst Vox is the strongest sinner in hell. Vox rises up with his wires and just feels all this power rush of just hearing what Charlie just told everyone out there right now. What he does not know though is that was a great benefit for Alastor who just broke his deal he was in with Rosie this whole time.
"Oh, Charlie! You have no idea what you‘ve done for me. All I can say is thank you for sucking so much at everything you try to do! Just… thank you!“ he laughs and then his hands gripped onto her shoulders.
Just what Alastor needed. Alastor laughs out loud as he breaks the blue magic handcuffs around his wrists. "You absolute idiot!“
"Fuck is going on?! Get back in your chair!!“
"You swore not you land your hands on Charlie but you just could not help yourself could you? You fucking creep. You always doing that and I hate it!“ Alastor says while poking with his finger aggressively on Vox‘s face (screen?).
"What? THIS?? This- This doesn‘t even count, I didn‘t hurt her.“
"I didn‘t say not to hurt her, you moron! I said not.to.lay.your.hands.on her. And you did! You pathetic amateur!“ He exclaims all smug and just felt joy in how stupid Vox is.
But Vox did not have all that and is now glitching in fury and now threatens Alastor that he does not care if he is predictable, that it doesn‘t matter that he is free now and that he will just beat him up.
Alastor did not back down at all and so did the fight begin as he summoned his shadows at Vox. (it‘s 1 AM and am a bit lazy now forgive me).
So did the two old rivals finally get to conclude their shared history once and for all. In front of Pentagram city.
————
Back to you now.
The hallways get quieter the farther you go, lit only by the eerie glow of blue screens embedded in the floor. Then you hear it — the low, watery rumble of something massive shifting behind glass.
You step into Vox’s shark chamber. Your veil flutters in the cold ventilation. Your heels click once. And with an echoing boom of displaced water—
Shok.wav rises from the tank. Massive. Metallic. Eyes blazing red.
He sees you.
You freeze.
He opens his jaws. You internally scream. But then — he tilts his head.
Just slightly.
“Uh… hi?” you attempt, voice tiny.
Shok.wav growls, fins rising like knives. You instinctively lift both hands, palms out, voice soft and melodic despite your panic.
“There, there… big boy… I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just— very lost. And very overdressed.”
His growl lowers. He swims closer.
Closer.
Until his massive nose bumps your palm. You flinch — but he… leans into it?
You blink.
Baxter was right. He was ACTUALLY right.
“You like that?” you whisper, stroking the side of his metallic snout. His eyelids lower, red lights dimming, posture relaxing. He’s practically purring.
You sigh in relief and allow yourself one single moment of victory.
Then—
BLARING SIGNAL.
ALERT FLASHES RED ACROSS THE SCREENS ABOVE THE TANK.
Shok.wav‘s eyes instantly flicker red again. A call. From Vox.
You back up. “No no no — stay—”
But Shok.wav has already gone into full attack mode. He spins, slams himself against the tank wall, once — twice — and on the third—
BOOM.
The entire glass wall SHATTERS outward.
A tidal wave of water explodes across the hallway. You’re thrown back against a railing, soaked, the veil half ripped off, the dress dragging in gallons of shark-tank seawater.
Shok.wav rockets through the hole in the tower like a missile, bursting into the open air toward Vox’s battle with Alastor.
You lie there dripping for two seconds, blinking water out of your eyes.
“…well. That happened.”
But then — your shock melts into something else.
Water. Everywhere.
A slow grin curls across your lips. You inhale sharply as the water around your feet glows faintly — responding to you. Spiraling up, wrapping around your arms, coalescing into long, swirling tendrils of liquid like shimmering, translucent tentacles.
Finally.
Finally, you’re not useless.
Without wasting another second, you sprint back down the hall, soaked veil trailing behind you like some drowned bride seeking vengeance.
“BAXTER!” you shout, skidding into the broadcast chamber.
You stop.
Niffty and Velvette are already fighting — Velvette‘s witch magic flaring like purple rage, Nifty slicing through every attack like a rabid blender. Baxter stands behind them screaming encouragement, laptop open, cables everywhere.
He turns at the sound of you and immediately double-takes.
“What the— why are you drenched? Why do you look like a drowned runway bride? And why— WHY— do you have water tentacles?!”
“The shark broke out!” you yell, pointing wildly. “Shok.wav is GONE. He’s with Vox now!“
Baxter stares at you, then clutches his head.
“Oh GREAT. Perfect! WONDERFUL! The one time I needed the giant murder fish to SIT STILL!”
Velvette screeches and launches another attack. Niffty deflects it—barely.
And Baxter’s panic explodes into sudden, manic joy.
“Screw it-"
You blink. Niffty cheers. Velvette snarls. Baxter cackles like a mad scientist.
You take one step forward, water tentacles rising behind you like ghostly serpents.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you sigh mockingly, staring Velvette in the eyes, “I have been waiting ALL DAY to hit someone.”
And you launch yourself into the fight.
————
Baxter is in the corner, fingers flying over his laptop keys.
“Got her phone,” he yells, a manic grin spreading across his face. “Let’s see how she likes a little… explosion!”
A blinding spark erupts from Velvette‘s phone , all the screens she had with her power on were now visualizes the "You got hacked" screens by Baxter before sending a shockwave of electricity directly at her. The hair on her head fries in an instant; she screams, a high-pitched, panicked shriek as strands smoke and sizzle, leaving her bald and flailing like a porcelain doll gone rogue.
You and Nifty exchange a brief, victorious glance—no time to gloat. Using your water tentacles, you sling Nifty toward Velvette again, just as she attempts another attack. The momentum is perfect. Nifty lands a kick that sends Velvette skidding across the floor, shattering more glass as she collides with a wall.
The tower trembles around you. Water sprays everywhere as shards of glass fall like rain. You twist one tentacle around a hanging light fixture, yanking it toward Velvette and creating another distraction. She stumbles, slides, and finally teeters on the edge of the broken mezzanine before tumbling over the railing with a scream.
You land beside Nifty, panting, soaked to the bone, eyes scanning the ruined room. Niffty only waved at the dismembered body of Velvette on the ground "bye bye!“ and Baxter is typing on his laptop in the corner, clearly stressed out while trying to get the broadcast back and he suceeded!
"I got the broadcast back!“ he beams with joy.
As Baxter is about to start the broadcast, the angelic beam blows through V Tower and obliterates Baxter's laptop
You and Nifty share a glance, hearts hammering, as the shards of glass from the broken mezzanine glitter around your soaked feet. Baxter’s hands hover over his now-obliterated laptop, panic flashing across his face for the first time in what feels like ages.
“Well, shit. What do we do now?” Nifty mutters, voice tight, eyes flicking to the streaming water from Shok.wav‘s tank flooding the floor.
“I’m not sure,” Baxter admits, voice low, almost strangled with frustration. “Without the servers, I can’t receive the signal. Our only hope is that Pentious can rig something so overwhelmingly powerful that he can force it down here. Let’s just hope he’s as smart as you think he is.”
You press a hand to your forehead, water dripping from your hair, as the reality of the situation presses down on you. The Vees are scrambling, Vox is screaming commands somewhere down there, and that weapon—the Might of Lilith—is tearing through the city like a living nightmare.
Then, through the chaos, your mind flickers to him. Alastor. You can almost feel him somewhere in the storm of this battle, tangled in wires and shadows, fighting tooth and claw against Vox’s unholy power. Your chest tightens. You’re exhausted, angry, and still dripping, but something inside you surges—a need to see him, to make sure he’s alive, to finally…
“Baxter,” you say, voice steady but urgent, “I need to find him. I have to.”
He looks up at you, eyes wide but understanding. “I know. Just… be careful. You’re the only one who might reach him. With everything going on, he’s not… he’s not coming to you.”
You glance down at yourself, water-soaked tulle clinging to your legs, veil drooping over your damp hair, and can’t help but let out a huff.
Cautiously, you slip through the shattered window frame, letting the jagged glass scrape just a bit against your dress—but luckily not your skin. Below, the city roars with chaos: sparks fly from VoxTech’s exposed circuits, the massive beams of the Might of Lilith slice through the streets, and screams—of both sinners and technology—echo across the night. You see how Vox is moving the weapon‘s aim hastily and fast like a madman laughing on top of it. You also see Vaggie and Carmilla Carmine going to the weapon trying to dissolve it and stop Vox obviously. "You will not take this away from me!!“ Vox glitches and screams it out. He definetly has lost it.
Smoke and neon static flicker across the ruined platform as you skid to a stop, your soaked veil snapping in the wind. Above you, perched like a deranged god on the Might of Lilith, Vox is laughing—wild, jagged, flickering with broken pixels. His screen-face distorts, glitching violently as he jerks the cannon’s aim toward the city, toward Vaggie and Carmilla scrambling to stop him, toward—
Toward Alastor.
Your pulse spikes. “Vox!” you shout, voice echoing through the chaos.
He freezes.
His head twists toward you with a sick mechanical creak, glitching from one expression to another before settling on a warped smile. Sparks burst from his joints as he leaps down from the cannon, landing in front of you with eerie grace.
“Well, well, well…” he purrs, his voice fragmenting into static. “Look who crawled back.”
You force yourself to stand tall, water dripping from your dress. “This ends now.”
He laughs sharply—too loud, too broken. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sneers, stepping closer, “nothing ends until I say it does.”
His wires slide across the ground like snakes, circling you.
“You know what’s funny?” he continues, leaning down so his pixelated grin fills your vision. “I always wondered…why he never made the effort to look for you?“
You flinch. Vox sees it. And he loves it.
“Oh, does that sting? Good.” His screen flickers into a red static haze.
“Tell me—what was it like? Being his little pet project? His charity case?”
Your breath stutters, but you hold his gaze.
He leans in closer, voice dropping into a venom-soaked whisper. “Did you really think he cared for you? The mighty Radio Demon, protector of nothing but his own ego?”
You clench your jaw, refusing to look away.
“Oh, don’t play tough with me.”
He circles you like a shark, wires dragging over the floor.
“You want to know what I realized? Why he never looked for you? Why he never even tried?”
You freeze.
Vox smiles wider. Because he has you. He can feel it.
“Because you,” he says softly—mockingly—“were never a real bride.”
Your chest constricts.
He tilts your chin up with a wire.
“A costume. A placeholder. A distraction he tossed aside the moment your heart stopped beating.”
Your eyes sting.
“Aw,” Vox coos, “what’s wrong? Does the dead little bride miss her groom?”
You push his wire away—but your voice cracks. “You don’t know anything—”
“Oh, but I do.” His laugh is a glitching scream. His voice deepens, dripping with unstable hatred. “And the idea that you—you pathetic, starry-eyed, lovesick little relic—had ANY piece of him back then?”
He snarls.
“It makes me SICK.”
A wire snaps around your wrist. Another around your waist.
You struggle, but they yank you off your feet, pulling you against Vox as he rises off the ground, holding you suspended.
“You’re the reason he’s like this, you know,” he whispers.
“The reason he’s twisted. The reason he’s cruel. The reason he’s broken.”
“That—” you choke out, “—that doesn’t make sense—”
“DOESN’T IT?!” Vox screams, screen flashing blood-red.
“He wanted you, and he failed. And failure—”
he pulls you closer, “—made him a monster.” Your breath catches.
“Can a heart still break,” you whisper, voice trembling, “once it stopped beating…?” (yes I stole it from corpse bride, what are u gonna do abt it?)
Tears finally spill—not from fear. From pain.
For a moment—for a fraction of a second—Vox’s screen glitches like he didn’t expect that.
But then—
Then he grins. Cruelly. Triumphant.
“How poetic,” he mocks. “Too bad nobody cares.”
Your jaw tightens, fury rising—but Vox’s wires tighten brutally, cutting off your movement.
“Now,” Vox says quietly, turning back toward the cannon,
“let’s end this little love story.”
He locks the targeting system. You follow the red laser with your eyes—
Straight onto Alastor.
“NO—!” you scream, struggling so hard the wires cut into you.
Vox laughs, voice fractured and giddy. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart.”
He cups your face with a cold mechanical hand. “You’ll get a front-row seat to watch him die.”
You thrash—desperate, helpless—as the cannon hums to life.
The beam charges. The city shakes.
Vox spreads his arms wide, wires tightening around you until you can barely breathe.
“And then,” he whispers lovingly, like a promise, “you’re next.”
Vox’s whole frame convulses as he forces the Might of Lilith to charge again, screens flickering violently across his faceplate.
“You will NOT take this from me!”
The weapon whines, building to a blistering crescendo as he slams both hands onto its core. The blast fires—wild, unstable—obliterating another tower in the distance. Sinners scream. Emily dives, wings blazing, catching one by the wrist before they plummet.
You barely have time to react before Vox’s glitching head jerks sharply—locking onto a new target.
Alastor.
Still sprinting across the battlefield with Shok.wav snapping at his arm with his mouth.
“Stupid CURSED— get this fucking fish away from me!” he snarls and then he sees the weapon ained at him directly.
Charlie’s scream rips across the city. “ALASTOR, NO!”
Vox fires.
The beam lances downward—Emily intercepts it, grabbing Alastor just in time—but the angel is caught in the blast. One of her wings disintegrates in a burst of angelic embers. She crashes to the ground with a cry you feel in your bones. (My shayla)
Vox doesn’t even stop to register it.
He sees them—Alastor, Charlie, Emily—clustered in front of the cannon’s barrel.
————
Smoke and light ripple across the battlefield as the Might of Lilith finishes its blast, the sound ringing through your bones. Vox’s wires slip from your body the moment he fires—his rage so total, so frenzied, he forgets to hold you. You hit the ground hard, rolling, veil tangling around you like a net of ghosts, but nothing truly hurts except everything else.
Your ears ring. Your chest heaves. And then you see him.
Down below, through the settling dust and the ruin of cracked street lamps, you see three shapes sprawled in the crater—Charlie struggling to breathe, Emily clutching her scorched wing—
—and him.
Alastor.
Your heart lurches so violently it feels like your ribs might crack around it.
You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You don’t check if Vox is looking. Your body just moves.
You run—dress soaked, veil torn, feet slipping on marble dust—down the ruined slope of V Tower’s shattered glass wall. You half-slide the last several feet, catching yourself with your hands, ignoring the sting, ignoring everything except him.
He’s pushing himself onto his elbows, shaking off rubble, radio static crackling faintly off his skin from the weapon’s divine impact. His chest rises sharply when he sees you.
He freezes.
You freeze.
A hundred years of silence collapse into the space between your gazes. “…You…” you breathe, the word trembling out of you like it’s learned to walk for the first time.
“…You,” he echoes, but it’s not an answer.
A plea.
A miracle spoken aloud for the first time in a century.
He reaches up—slowly, disbelieving—and his fingers touch the edge of your veil.
Gently, reverently, he lifts it.
Your face is revealed to him in full for the first time since 1926.
His breath shatters.
You see everything in his eyes at once—joy so fierce it looks like agony, grief so old it’s fossilized into him, disbelief, awe, and something deeper, something raw, something unspoken that he never dared show in hell.
Your throat closes. Your vision blurs. You don’t speak. You can’t. Neither can he.
Your names die on your tongues.
The reunion you both never dared to imagine trembles between your shaking hands, your trembling breath—
—until the ground beneath you HUMS.
A high-pitched whine. Building. Growing. Screaming. The Might of Lilith powering up again.
“ENOUGH!” Vox’s distorted shriek rips through the world like a serrated blade.
The fragile warmth of your reunion shatters into raw chaos. The ground trembles. The Might of Lilith hums violently behind him, brightening with a murderous glow.
Your fingers remain tangled with Alastor’s, knuckles white, both of you clutching as if the slightest loosening would tear you apart again.
His eyes—those familiar, impossible eyes—hold yours for a single trembling heartbeat.
A heartbeat that says everything.
You’re here.
You came back.
But then the weapon screams, and he yanks you violently against his chest just as a bolt of its energy tears through the air where your head was a second ago. Your breath leaves you, and your heart stutters, but your eyes never once leave his face.
Then—
“OH-HO-HO.”
That warped, glitching voice slides over your spine like cold steel.
You and Alastor turn at once.
Vox stands atop the weapon, wires twitching and sparking wildly around him, his screen-face cracked, flashing unstable colors. He looks rabid—half-machine, half something feral.
And when his gaze lands on you both—together—it twists into pure, manic hatred. “Oh-ho-ho,” he repeats, deranged delight rising. “Four for the price of one.”
He slams both hands onto the controls of the Might of Lilith and swivels its titanic barrel toward Charlie, Emily, you… and Alastor.
“You’ve just been FUCKING CANCELLED.” Your breath stops in your chest.
Carmilla Carmine sprints toward him, eyes wide with horror.
“Vox, STOP! Firing anymore will overload the weapon!”
“Then I better make THIS SHOT COUNT!” he bellows, glitching through three pitches at once.
“You idiot!” Carmilla shouts. “If it overloads, it will blow—taking YOU, US, and half of the Pentagram with it!”
But Vox isn’t listening anymore.
He isn’t thinking. He isn’t sane. And when he speaks again, his voice sounds broken—like a man sobbing through static.
“You know what?” He begins giggling. Then laughing. Then screaming laughter.
“FUCK HELL, FUCK HEAVEN, AND FUCK ALL OF YOU! As long as I wipe that smile off Alastor’s FUCKING FACE—”
His single, warped eye flicks to you and burns with something sharp and deeply personal.
“—I don’t care what happens.”
Your chest tightens. Because for one agonizing second, you understand. You glance at his face who just has an eye spilling tears.
This isn’t about power. This isn’t about control. This isn’t even about the weapon. This is about Alastor.
About a wound in him that no amount of violence could cauterize. And now—he wants to end all of Hell just to hurt him specifically. The weapon begins to scream with overcharge, light bleeding out of its seams.
Alastor instinctively moves in front of you, jaw clenched, eyes blazing red, teeth bared in a snarl more feral than anything you’ve ever seen him wear.
You grab his sleeve, breath shaking.
“Alastor—” you whisper. He doesn’t look back.
But his fingers curl around yours again. Just as the world prepares to explode.
Then, chaos explodes into motion. Vox cackles as the weapon fires up, the barrel spitting arcs of energy that scorch the ground near you. Velvette bursts onto the scene, kicking him off the weapon with ferocity, while Valentino lunges, grabbing Vox by the torso.
“FUCK!” Vox screams, twisting and flailing.
“You, are NOT FUCKING KILLING US OVER THAT STUPID DEER!” Valentino roars, holding him tight.
“It’s over! Ya dumb FUCK!” Velvette yells, glaring daggers at him.
Vox thrashes violently, shouting, “FUCK THAT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! MY FUCKING DESTINY! I’M A FUCKING GOD!!!”
Your heart stops as Valentino, in one brutal, fluid motion, rips Vox’s head clean from his body. The metallic screech of detachment reverberates, and a horrifying silence settles for just a second. Valentino tries to flee, but his wings, scorched from the energy, flap weakly, faltering.
“Fuck. Oh, shit,” he mutters, realizing his escape is compromised.
Charlie shouts, panic in her voice, “Oh no, we have to get people to safety—we-we need to—”
Vox’s detached head, carried by Velvette and Valentino, glares back at you from where it’s being taken, a silent reminder of the chaos he unleashed. Carmilla Carmine curses, “It’s no use, we won’t get their clear in time.”
You take a shaky breath, water dripping from your dress, veil clinging wetly to your face, and your eyes to find Alastor once more— but suddenly he is gone again.
————————————————————————
HAZBIN HOTEL, PRIDE RING, HELL
The chaos finally subsides as Emily and Charlie combine their powers to stop the Might of Lilith, with the help of the hotel residents and even some Overlords. The weapon is destroyed, ending Vox’s destructive spree and his attempts to dominate Hell and Heaven alike.
In the aftermath, alliances shift and balances are restored. Alastor fully breaks his deal with Rosie, regaining his powers and freedom. Zestial returns after seeing Carmilla come to her senses, while Velvette and Valentino intervene—whether to save themselves or spite Vox remains unclear. Vox, meanwhile, loses his influence, his company crumbles, and Valentino becomes the new face of VoxTek. Hell begins to heal: the Hotel’s reputation is restored, sinners genuinely seek redemption, and Heaven opens its doors to repentant souls. Angel Dust, guilt-ridden for spying, chooses to stay away to protect his friends, while Lute still holds a grudge against Charlie and Vaggie.
(sry needed to rush a bit, it‘s rn 2 AM😭)
The hotel balcony is quiet except for the soft rustle of wind and the distant hum of a city slowly recovering from chaos. Alastor leans against the railing, posture rigid, fingers drumming a rhythmic, almost nervous pattern on the polished wood. His eyes, sharp and calculating as ever, flick to you—but they are guarded, wary, as though seeing you again after a century might shatter something he’s spent lifetimes building. You two stay silent. You, yourself, just don‘t know what to say.
“You’re… still here,” he murmurs finally, voice a mix of curiosity and clipped reserve, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips but not reaching his eyes.
“I am,” you reply, voice tight, chest taut. “And I’m not leaving because your pride can’t handle a century of absence.” You step closer, damp hair clinging to your cheeks, casual dress clinging lightly from earlier chaos. You just go straight into business honestly. You‘ve had enough. “Don’t pretend you are not familiar with me.”
Alastor’s gaze hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “I am not. I know of you. That is sufficient.” His words are clipped, ego-driven, his way of deflecting the storm of memories, the ache of loss.
“Know of me?” you snap, anger flaring despite the trembling ache in your chest. “I was your fiancé! You think I’m some stranger plucked from the ether? I’ve been through what you’ve been through, Alastor!”
His expression tightens, a hand raising to tug at the collar of his coat nervously, almost unconsciously. “It just would be unwise though“
You bite back a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Unwise? You think we’re in a position to worry about being wise? Do not pretend this isn’t personal, because it is.”
Alastor’s hand twitches at his side. His lips press into a thin line, ego battling heart. "No, you misunderstand“
“I understand perfectly,” you cut him off, stepping closer until the space between you is almost intolerable. “You do not want to admit that you missed me. That my existence—my presence—matters. And fine. If that’s your choice, I’ll leave. I won’t stay in a room where I’m unwelcome.”
You pivot, motioning to step away, but the faintest hitch in his breath stops you mid-motion. “Wait. It is a bad idea.“
You glance back at him, incredulous. “Bad idea? You suggested it?”
A fleeting softness crosses his features, a crack in the dam of his ego. "Just stay for now.“
A bitter smile curls across your lips, tempered with exhaustion and relief. “Fine. I’ll stay.“
Alastor’s eyes meet yours again, unblinking, unreadable. The silence that follows is heavy, filled with the weight of a century’s worth of absence, hurt, and unspoken words. A hundred years of longing, of missed opportunities, of hearts held captive by pride and circumstance, hangs between you.
For a long moment, neither of you speak.
The battle is over. The weapon is gone. The screams and chaos outside have faded into distant echoes.
Up here on the balcony, it’s just you and him — finally, after a century of silence, grief, and ghosts between you.
Your hands hang at your sides, trembling. His are clasped neatly behind his back, posture pristine, eyes focused on you with an intensity that feels like it could cut the world open.
You breathe in.
He breathes out.
Then—
Alastor moves first.
But it’s not grand, not dramatic, not showy like him at all. He simply uncurls one hand from behind his back and lets it fall gently at his side… palm open.
An invitation. A risk. Your breath catches.
Slowly — painfully slowly — you lift your hand and let your fingertips brush his. At the first touch, he jolts.
It’s so slight you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him like he was the only real thing in the world.
For a heartbeat, he hesitates.
A hundred years of habit — of walls, masks, distance — flicker across his eyes.
Then he exhales a soft, almost shaky laugh.
“…Heh… still warm,” he murmurs, voice low, as though he can’t believe the reality of you.
You slide your hand into his fully.
He closes his fingers around yours — carefully, as if you might shatter, or worse, disappear.
Your eyes sting.
“Don’t… let go,” you whisper.
Alastor leans in, forehead nearly touching yours, the smallest smile tugging at his lips — not sharp or devious, but soft, reverent, trembling in a way he’d never admit.
“…My dear,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand with a tenderness that borders on sacred,
“…I’ve spent a century doing anything but letting go.” He lifts your joined hands, almost in disbelief.
“Just this once…” His voice drops to something quiet, almost human. “…allow me to hold on.”
Your breath hitches. The tears finally spill.
And Alastor — the Radio Demon, the monster, the myth, the man who never allows himself to be truly known —
lets go of the last inch of distance between you and pulls you gently, carefully, into him.
His forehead rests against yours. His hand clasps yours like a vow.
You close your eyes, breathe him in, and whisper: “…It’s really you.”
He answers, soft as a confession, “…It’s really us.”
Your fingers hover near his, ghosting over the space between you, and Alastor watches that tiny distance like it’s the most dangerous thing he’s faced all night.
He exhales, a soft, almost reluctant defeat in the sound.
“…It seems,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, “that I’ve run out of excuses to avoid this.”
You let out the smallest, broken sound in your throat, and that’s what unravels him.
Alastor steps closer, tugging your hand gently, drawing you into the shadow of his frame. The smile he gives you isn’t wicked or sharp or showy—it’s soft, fragile in a way he would never allow anyone else to see.
“…You have no idea,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do something properly.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“Then—then just do it,” you breathe.
His smirk deepens—light, teasing, but full of something he’s held down for too damn long.
“Oh? Giving me orders now?” he purrs, leaning in until his nose brushes yours. “Bold.”
You swallow hard. “Alastor—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His free hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a delicacy that borders on reverence—
—and he pulls you in.
The kiss is slow. Not rushed like battle, not fueled by panic or fear.
Soft. Intentional. Warm in a way that burns straight through the century of silence between you.
Alastor kisses you like he’s rediscovering a language he thought forgotten—because it was yours, and his, before hell, before grief, before everything shattered. Your hand tightens in his.
His grip matches yours. And when he finally pulls back—just far enough to breathe—you feel his breath ghost against your lips. Your voice is quiet. Unsteady, even.
“…I hate you,” you murmur with a soft, breathless laugh. "Love you for it, though.“
A beat He kisses you again before you can say something again —as if he’s afraid the moment will slip away if he doesn’t anchor it to your lips.
Alastor exhales a soft, shaky laugh—so quiet it’s almost not there, but you feel it more than hear it. His nose brushes yours. “Ma chère… you are infuriating.”
“You started it,” you whisper back, smiling through the last of your tears.
His eyes flicker—warmth, guilt, relief, something heartbreakingly human threading through the red. “And yet you’ve returned to me regardless.” His voice dips, unsteady. “What a foolish, wonderful creature you are.”
You nudge him lightly with your forehead.
“And you’re stuck with me. Congratulations.” Another laugh—this one real. Soft. Honest.
He steals one more kiss, slower than the last, drawn-out, like he wants to memorize the shape of you after a hundred years of forgetting.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go of your hand. Fingers entwined, knuckles brushing, a silent promise threaded between them.
Below, the hotel murmurs with recovery—distant voices, clattering dishes, the faint sound of someone arguing about cleaning supplies. Life resuming.
Up here, the two of you stand in a rare pocket of stillness.
Alastor turns his head slightly, listening to the noise below. “It seems,” he says, tone wry but gentle, “that Hell persists in its chaos.”
You lean your shoulder into his. “Guess we do too.” His grip tightens—not possessive, but anchored.
Grateful.
Steady.
“And perhaps…” His smile softens, losing its razor edges. “…this time, we persist together.”
You rest your head lightly against him. “I’d like that.” He hums—a low, warm sound that vibrates through your bones. “Then it is settled.”
For the first time in a century, the quiet doesn’t hurt. It wraps around the both of you—tender, fragile, earned.
Two souls, reunited. Two hearts, still learning how to beat again. And for now—just for tonight—that is enough.
————————————————————————
I will be doing some one shots as a sequel but for now I want to thank y‘all for loving this story. I rlly had a lot of fun writing this! Taglist: @1abi, @Inqr @actuallyshard , @th3-lady @oviilish @royallywovenmanifesto @kimkat1822 @phoenix666stuff @w1rele55 @cassielovw @manjirosanoswifey @undertale-anomaly20 @worldussysblog @kyomiforest @sarlaccussy @chezze-its @doodle-with-rhy @im-treez @vampire-oc-lover @goatdoo02 @enchantingyouthbluebird @rickydickydoodahgrimes73 @otakusimp1 @serapinaxx @livsh20 @yarafic @berriblissful @midnightsan101 @sparklybasementcherryblossom @rbpszy @bladeismine @sassy-persona @22carolina08 @sallymoon135 @call-me-nyxx @sugar-and-spite13 @aiywns @cutiebimbo @yourslashersfinalgirl @introvertreader20 @marinebiology-offical @ccoristu @dark-mark @mackythoughts @fries11 @jselyon @artistadistrada2002 @just1cefor4ll @reader3 @izouizouletdownyourhair @devilchicc @misdollface @qardasngan @hawke1917 @fifiyaps @shiranai-atsune @heheitsmekarly @awawage @mmik3yy @littlefrogtings @xmx-zz @grayvenna @mmari-07 @alicee-carter @sp1derst0rrr @shewntsrvenge @hoforfictionalmen-andwomen (love that user name btw) @wonderlandangelsposts @siochandess @demonsvessel @3litts @theylovethesky @ran-rindouhaitanis-wife916 @genderlessdude92 @dead-set-on-sirius @atashiboba @luna-kait @jannesyjane @a-midwinter-night-dream-86 @primojelly @angel-san-77 @nagitoseyebrows @psycholigiqal-horror @carmenfrost-blog@imjustagirlwholovesfictionalmen @ohdeerfully @mushy-mushroom04 @j1tterbugaboo @kitty-kei @siouxsioux2001 @stardream14 @adorabluesposts @pinkladybugs-posts@a-lovers-card @randomgirl-scrollinghere @kinzo0418 @rindouhaitanisgf680 @actuallyshard @mimiu3usoft @aspiring-bookworm @izkayfleks @albusrat @zoleea-exultant @thesimppotato11@pinkladybugs-posts @zedd88 @cultven @whatdoesthesenpai @that-b-word-lol @lodicat @njajd8kss @porcelainfawnn @iamchll @qc0rminix @ilovemymomscooking @whyareallthenamestakenguhh @cherry-4200 @izkayfleks @reiiv @ren-ren23 @nightmarewasheree @angel-san-77
