Bag-of-rice

18 I like stuff Hazbin brain rot is taking over

65 posts

[songbird-is-crying]

dude i was gonna say that the close release of iron lung and project hail mary should be studied in future film history classes to show the american populus's general consensus on the disfatisfaction of the war draft and a distrust in the government ... but then i saw ironmary/bloodymary shippers out there and said NO this is why it should be studied

[upmost-rylan]

Do you think Kinger and Lucifer would get along? I think so

"I miss my wife" Duo

[a-small-lemon]

Imagine being Vox’s first and most loyal follower when he was Vincent Whittman to the point you spawned in Hell right next to him and never left his side.

He gives you all the boring aspects of being CEO to work on, and honestly, he has faith in you. Hell, you even stabbed Alastor after he made Vox cry. And while he’s loathe to admit it, Vox is somewhat protective of you. Not enough for him to totally care about your safety, but enough for him to want to know where you are at all times. Though maybe he’s just paranoid despite the fact you haven’t been more than a two minute walk away from him since the day you died.

Until he tries to destroy Heaven. When he’s screaming like a maniac, that’s when you see why everyone told you in your human life to stay away. He doesn’t care. Or maybe he does and your love is simply not enough. That’s fine. Something in your heart hardens and you find yourself pulling Valentino to the side and telling him the best way to disable Vox is to rip his head off.

A few days later, Vox is in his office, propping himself up on pillows. Val hasn’t talked to him since everything, and Vox is bored.

“Y/N?” He waits. That’s odd. He can’t hear you. Maybe having his screen ripped off affected his hearing. “Y/N?” Vox innocently glances around the room before using his cameras to see into the corridor. Where are you? You’re definitely not sick because he’s never given you a sick day in your life. You’ve never asked for one.

So where are you?

Vox waits a full twenty seconds before spamming the other Vees that it’s an emergency. You must’ve been kidnapped by someone! You must’ve- What’s that on his desk?

A resignation letter. He recognises the style of it. What. The Fuck. No! No, you’re not allowed to leave! You’ve never left him! Where would you even go? No one at VoxTek likes you because you’re his informant and occasional lover when he has nothing better to do than fuck.

You can’t - you can’t just go. Not after so long! Vox doesn’t know how to do things without you! Who can he pawn his work off to now so many people have quit?

And… why does he miss you so much? It’s not like you mattered to him - right? Everything meant nothing. It had to. Because if it meant what Vox thinks it might, that means he’s too late.

No. He has to find you. Where could you be if no one here wanted you?

The record player next to you plays a soft jazz song as you stand in the middle of the cottage, awkwardly holding one of your bags.

“It’s a tempting offer, my dear,” the Radio Demon says. “Truly, it is. But tell me, why would you willingly sign your soul away to me when you’ve kept it for so long?”

You swallow. “Because I want him to hurt.“

Alastor laughs at that. “A simple motivation. And an honest one too. Hm, I can’t say I expected any other reason.” He extends his hand. “So we have an agreement?”

For a moment your mind flashes to every moment with Vincent, in life and Hell. The praise, the joy, the stalking, the sex… and the betrayal.

And you shake Alastor’s hand with a firmness so certain that he’s surprised.

Of course, Alastor can’t be anything but happy. He’s had his eye on you for quite a while now, ever since you stabbed him. With the right support, you could truly become something. Perhaps that something could even be his.

He debates for a second whether to keep this a secret. You’re a useful ally. But Alastor wants more than to own you. So for every time he felt sparks of anger Vox only treated you as a plaything, he makes a choice.

“Why, to celebrate, let’s do a broadcast together this evening! A grand one, for everyone in Hell to see.” And Alastor means everyone.

Besides, the stars look so pretty when there’s a power cut and everything is plunged into darkness.

[dreamsinmoonlight]

Words and Actions

(I present to you my dears my first Vox x reader fic! This took a while to do and honestly it was a roller coaster, and it's long I apologize, but hopefully it's good enough that you will like it nevertheless

I apologize for any OOC-ness or anything too annoying. This was just for fun and amusement.

Reader is powerful but not quite Overlord level

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Characters: Vox, sinner!Reader, Velvette, Valentino

Pairing: Vox x Reader

Genre: Romantic (in the way an idiot can be)

Warnings: Violence, stupidity on Vox's part, stubbornness on yours, semi-slowburn, slightly yandere!Vox, also slightly masochistic!Vox, jealousy

Word count: 4,055

Summary: Time passes in V Tower in a number of ways: Velvette's favorite is when she gets to watch Vox fumble about like a fool over the one thing he really wants but can't get himself to take. You.)

Velvette and Valentino could tell time in V Tower in a number of ways: the average amount of time it took a new star to go from twinkling to dud, how long it took Angel Dust to finally beg to be done for the shoot he was on, the number of people running around the tower at any given point and of course the number of those people fed to the sharks. But their favorite, or at least Velvette's favorite, was when you were set to come to the tower for the monthly meeting, if only because Vox was always hilarious.

You were not an associate of the Vees, not in the traditional sense. IE someone they could easily exploit and use and then throw away. For one your soul technically belonged to another, the mysterious and dangerous Overlord known only as Libris though the exact history between you, the nature of the connection, everything in fact was shrouded in almost as much mystery as Libris themselves. What was known as that you were their chosen representative, the one sinner that they trusted to act on their behalf and speak for them, and you took your responsibility seriously indeed. Overlord meetings, dealing with those who in some way or another found themselves drawing Libris' attention, day-to-day events, it was you who were there; Zestial and Carmilla were perhaps the only ones aware more than most of the truth and both treated you as if you were Libris themselves at the meetings. The one thing that was known about your master was that their area of expertise was knowledge, more related to books and printed word, and thus more than a few more foolish and ambitious demons had tried to make use of you to gain Libris' favor.

Velvette wished she could say Vox had not on that list. But Vox had definitely been on that list. Priding himself on being the “Media Overlord”, king of information, king of news, king of whatever, he strived to control everything that he could connected to such and so he had tried to get Libris' attention for a partnership. Which is how the two of you had first met, and why you ended up coming to the tower every month; at first he had send an invite, a request for a face to face. Something that of course never happened; instead you came and the first time had been best described as a disaster, though one Velvette had found great amusement out of and Valentino still fanned himself over occasionally even to this day. Vox had not expected nor been happy about a representative arriving instead, unaware at that time of the extent of your own abilities despite not being an Overlord yourself. Putting on the charm as he often did he had made one nearly fatal mistake that only someone like him would do: he placed his hands on your shoulders, one of his particular sorts of habits. By the time the other two Vees had come running after hearing his screams, they found Vox tied up much like a shark caught by a fisherman, flailing and half transformed out of some darker emotion. And you standing there with narrowed eyes, brushing off your shoulders as you had threatened to 'gut him like the fish he was' if he ever did that again. Cutting him down took a minute; the negotiations, with your utter cold calm and Vox watching you carefully, had taken the better part of an hour. That's how though he'd gotten the rights to the newspapers.

The subsequent meetings were supposed to be about reports on how the papers were running, about the flow of knowledge, about business. But Velvette couldn't help a snicker as she heard swearing from Vox's office right before the demon himself came running out, looking half panicked and half annoyed.

“It's that time of month again,” Velvette half purred and started typing away at her phone, sending Valentino the news: you were coming to the tower again, this was going to be fun.

Fun for them of course. For Vox, it was stress incarnate. With everything else going on at Voxtek, with the products and the news and the entertainment and the schemes and the hotel, it had somehow slipped his mind that you were set to show up until it was the day of and he had nothing prepared. This wouldn't do, not at all, not one bit; you'd be there any minute, probably right then if his shitty luck had anything to say about it, and what did he have to show for it? Multiple documents showing what information he had gathered to trade as “payment” for the deal? The statistics on how his stock as the Media Overlord and the stock of Voxtek and the Vees in general had risen further? What about fucking flowers?!

Okay yes, Vox might just a little bit have a thing for you, though it was not like he'd ever admit it aloud. Maybe it was seeing you repeatedly over the span of the partnership, every month like clockwork; your first meeting had been, in his own opinion, maybe a little rough but he'd gathered himself and learned a lot from that so he could do better. Mainly figure out that as long as he treated you with respect you were pretty amicable for the most part. And there was something about you, whether the fact you so willfully threatened him with violence (and called him a fish which a shark was and that made him feel seen) or because of your intellect able to negotiate and keep up with him in conversation to a degree not everyone he came across could or something else, that kept drawing his attention and made it hard to look away. At some point while the meetings had started out annoying, a surveillance on him he felt unnecessary, he had come to first almost look forward to them and eventually plot around. Nothing was supposed to ruin the one day you came to see him willingly, hell knew he had tried to reverse uno you and spy on you instead but you were slippery and clever and always able to disappear from sight right when his eye caught you through the near endless collection of screens throughout the city. Libris' privacy extended to you it seemed and once he'd lost you because you had punched the TV sitting in a cafe window he'd been watching you through. That hurt and he was pretty sure you were behind the demon crow that showed up the next day and tried to ruin all his equipment in his office by cutting through the cords with it's beak. Lesson learned: next time don't spy too closely or so obviously.

Point was he had feelings he was not entirely comfortable with discussing or truly able to understand the reasoning behind and those feelings were driving him insane at the moment. Why didn't anyone warn him beforehand? Someone would get fired and maybe he could offer their body as tribute to you? Would you even like that? Possibly not now that he thought about it for more than three microseconds, rushing downstairs in a mad race. He could ask Ethan to get the flowers, read as demand, and then blame him for them being late but the dumb fuck wasn't even nearby to do that to and he was already out of his office and nearly to the ground floor so damned if he didn't have to do everything himself. Goes to show that the only person he could trust to ensure perfection was himself.

His mad race to do something ended abruptly as he reached the ground floor and almost immediately ran directly into you. You looked perfect, put together, organized; he, well, he looked like he had run a mile and forgotten to change. Eyes widened on his screen and static erupted as his brain rushed to catch up with the rest of him; it was as you regarded him with a curious expression, eyebrow raised, that the realization you were indeed there right now caused the power in the whole tower to flicker and nearly go completely out. It was a miracle that it didn't but it did nothing to save him from this situation.

“You look terrible, Vox,” you stated and he straightened up immediately, doing a quick move to smooth out his clothes, towering over you as he could, and gathered as much of his composure up off the ground to try to at least pretend he was okay.

“Same to you.” The moment the words left him he regretted them and a flicker of a twitch happened on his face that he hoped that no one, least of all you, noticed. It was automatic he swore, he didn't actually mean it!

Luckily you were quite used to his attitude and instead of getting annoyed or angry with him you sighed, running a hand through your hair and tilting your head to look at him. “Well, let's go; we have a meeting to attend I believe.”

You moved past him with ease and he stared after you, thanking whoever was watching that his slip up didn't actually seem to affect you. Not that he would have minded getting roughed up by you again as long as it was out of annoyance, anger, something like that but some part of him felt worried about actually hurting you and that was what confused him the most. Vox shook the thought away and moved to follow after you, as nonchalant as he could manage, entering back into the elevator only a step behind you.

“You're lucky,” he said once it was just the two of you going up, up, up to his office; he smiled in his confident way and you looking over at him with mild curiosity, “We've been quite busy around here, as I'm sure you're aware, what with the expansion of our influence and the increase in power. I'm quite the busy and powerful Overlord around here after all but I can still squeeze you in for a few minutes.”

“Is that so?” You sounded unimpressed, mainly because you were. It took more than a hypnotic gaze and a charismatic voice to be powerful in your opinion and while you were not dumb enough to discount what Vox and the other Vees were capable of, you were not about to feed into his ego more. Hell knew that he had a big enough of one as far as you could tell and you had no interest in playing into whatever game he was trying to play with you.

Overlords loved their games, this you knew well. Power was their drug of choice and lesser sinners were their favorite ways to get that. You weren't so much lesser as not quite but still others saw you and erroneously thought you were a pawn. No, you were Libris' precious page and any who thought less than that were to be corrected immediately. Vox did his best from your perspective to at least pretend to show you due respect but he was an Overlord and an egotistical, troublesome one at that; you had no doubt that if you showed an ounce of weakness, deigned to play his games that he would take that as leave to try to push for more, take more, and that was something you simply could not allow. His occasional bumbling, the strange ways he would glitch and sometimes look at you, his attempts at stalking and his bluster, all of it was surely to the effect of trying to gain an upper hand. Manipulation of other sinners was after all something he especially seemed to not only excel at but revel in so you kept on your toes and you showed him nothing past what you felt was necessary as the representative of Libris.

Even if you could not resist the small smile that crossed your lips as you watched him seem taken off guard by your lack of gratitude for being allowed into his busy schedule. There was something endearing, maybe even cute, about the way his digital lip quivered and he had to take a second to recollect himself.

“Yes, it is,” he said once he had and straightened out his coat once more, his claws lingering on his lapels perhaps a second longer than they needed to; there was mild static again, “This is important though so I make the time.”

“Libris certainly will be pleased to hear we rank so highly in your consideration,” you said and there was a slight ding before the elevator stopped; had the trip really already gone by? You swore the thing moved faster and faster each time you came.

Vox held out a hand to gesture for you to enter first and you examined him first, trying to figure his game. There was a mild shake to his hand and a light twitch to his smile but other than that nothing much different. You stepped forward, into the familiar surroundings of his office high atop V Tower, the glow of monitors and lit wall to wall aquariums giving you an eerie appearance. Vox thought it was divine, you always felt like a ghost walking in a world you didn't always feel like you belonged. Somewhere in the waters demon sharks swam and you caught sight of one as you walked to your usual seat across his wide desk, settling down once more. He moved to take his on the other side and you did catch the way he seemed to not take so much a confident posture as a curious one; he leaned forward, hands ringing together, a spark of electricity flickering off his bent antenna.

“Shall we?” you started feeling curious but refusing to fall for what you figured was a trap.

“Yes,” he said and brow furrowed temporarily before he cleared his throat, “But first, it has been a while; how are you?”

That felt even more like a trap and you shifted in your chair, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“What, we've known each other for a while now right? You come by every month, not matter what else might be going on; I would think by now we'd at least be something along the lines of cordial.” He wanted to say friendly. Well actually what he really wanted wasn't anything close to being considered friendly but you were looking at him and now he couldn't even find the parts of his brain that made him usually have such a silver tongue.

You considered that, and thought about what his angle might be, but you decided he was right to a degree. You shrugged. “It has been fine; the failed extermination has caused a ruckus, information is going haywire and we are working hard to parse truth from fiction, no thanks to someone we know.”

Vox let out a nervous chuckle. You allowed yourself another small smile. “But nothing we can't handle I assure you. The more annoying thing is probably the idiot who has been following me around.”

“What?” At first a part of him wondered if you meant him but no, he hadn't been able to try to stalk you since before the attack on the Hazbin Hotel, too busy trying to spin the news however he could. So that meant someone else was following you and that made his smile falter for a moment, his voice crackling with betrayed emotion.

You didn't notice the reaction and let out an annoyed sigh. “Yeah, some newbie fool, fresh from death. He seems to have taken a liking to me after seeing me out on errands and now has it in his head that if he follows me around all the time I'd give him the time of day. As if; I have better things to do than give creeps and idiots my attention but it's honestly a little annoying.”

“I see. Well if you wanted I could do something about that.” Hell even if you didn't want he would do something about it; how dare anyone else have their eye on you? Of course he could commend them for their fine taste in violent beautiful sinners but you were not on the table, you were not up for anyone to take. You were his, if he could get to the point of making it clear that's what he wanted. Fuck, he really needed flowers, girls liked flowers right? Or chocolates. Or dead bodies. He'd have to ask Valentino or Velvette, later, after he figured out who was stalking you who wasn't him and how he should kill them. Oh maybe that would be a good way to show his affection.

You frowned. “No, absolutely not, Vox.”

He froze and his screen glitched for a second before he spoke, “What?”

“Look, we might be cordial but I am not about to fall for that. I am not making a deal with you just to get rid of some pesky nobody I could kill myself.” Deal? Who said anything about a deal?

Vox looked startled and his screen flickered more before he shook his head and stood up. “I never-”

“Let's drop it; I shouldn't have said anything. I'm here on business, let's talk business.”

“Hey, just wait a minute-”

“Vox.” Your voice was cold and harsh and for a second he thought about how it felt to be tied up, the way it made his dead heart jolt when you'd subdued him so quickly and effortlessly. It made him gulp and his face flush but he then thought of the sinner who had bothered you enough for you to bring it up and his blood boiled at it once again. And he remembered you were dangerous but he was Vox, Media Overlord. And you, you were a representative, not an Overlord yourself.

Vox made his way around the desk and there was something purposeful in his movements, a grace that made you very nearly feel like prey before an apex predator. You readied yourself for his eye to widen, for the hypnotic gaze you expected from him, his favorite trick; it had never worked on you, a thousand rhymes and riddles running through your head to keep you focused from experience from a hundred others who thought they could try the same. But it didn't come. His body got closer and closer until he was towering before you and he leaned over you, hovering so close you could practically feel the buzz of electricity coming off him. His hand grabbed your chin and you startled at the touch, moving to try to get free, to strike him but the other hand grabbed your wrist before it could make contact and sharp claws dug lightly into your skin.

His voice came out in hypnotic tones but the eye never turned to swirl; you saw darkness in his expression as he spoke, “Wait. One. Minute. And listen to me.”

“Let go of me,” you said in a low voice and he did not obey.

“I wasn't proposing a deal, you psychotic bitch, I was trying to offer to help you.”

“Bullshit. Why would an Overlord like you offer anything without asking for something in return?”

Endless answers. Because the fool coveted what wasn't his. Because you actually willingly told him something that bothered you. Because business. Because pleasure. Because Vox wanted to give you something you'd appreciate but his stupid fucking mind couldn't think of a damned thing that could make you happy. Because he wasn't being altrustic or wanting nothing in return. He wanted you, he'd wanted you for what felt like an agonizing eternity. And there you were, in front of him, rejecting his offer, rejecting him, and asking why, denying him what he wanted to do for you and for someone so smart, the chosen of one who put such value on knowledge, you didn't know and could be so stupid it seemed.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Oh fuck it.

He moved quickly and captured your mouth with his, aggressive, sudden, passionate. How did a TV kiss like this? Your cheeks flushed and you couldn't pull away, couldn't turn away, because he held your chin still in a tight grip and even the chance to protest was suppressed by a hot tongue forcing it's way in. His eye never swirled but you felt your head spinning nevertheless; how was this even possible? Why was he doing this? A sound somewhere between moan and whine left you and something about that seemed to spur him on, pressing further into you, claws digging tight enough to draw blood that trickled down your wrist and neck. Blood in the water for an electric shark and he managed by some miracle to deepen the kiss further, allowing you to feel those sharp teeth so close to you. You didn't understand this, you felt taken off guard and some part of you hated that. Another wanted to pull the demon down and show him you weren't going to just sit there passive.

The winner was violence; Vox could not resist doing something stupid. His hand released your wrist only to find it's way to your thigh, moving between your legs only for a second before something snapped back into position and by something akin to instinct, your leg moved, kicking him and hard between his. The demon broke the kiss with a gasp and a flickering screen that showed a error for a moment before stumbling back. You were free and panting for air, eyes narrowed in what could be mistaken for anger but it wasn't; you were confused and you hated being confused. You hated not knowing what was going on, and why, and what to do, and you hated that some part of you afterwards felt bad for the way he whined in pain and for the loss of whatever that had been.

Faced with these conflicting feelings you did the only thing that made sense: you got up and quickly made your exit from the office, escaping to the elevator. Vox watched you leave and groaned; fuck.

~~~

Valentino and Velvette meanwhile were laughing as they watched from Velvette's room. They always watched the meetings from there, having clocked far faster than Vox what the idiot's actual feelings were for you.

“Shit he actually did it,” Valentino said snickering, “The idiot actually kissed her!”

“And then he had to go and ruin it, classic,” Velvette said wiping away a tear.

“We were so close to getting something good,” the pimp Overlord said pouting, “Those two have been edging us for months with their stupid will-they-or-won't-they.”

“Come on, this is Vox we're talking about; he couldn't be direct with his feelings if you put a gun to his head and threatened to shoot him.”

“Yes true. And the little one isn't much better; even I can see the way she looks at him when he does something stupid. I can understand of course; ah dios mio, that man is so fucking adorable when he acts like a fool.”

Velvette regarded Valentino with an amused smirk. “Vox is always acting like a fool.”

“True. Anyway shall we go comfort him? I certainly think he could use it.”

“You just want to suck his dick.” Valentino snickered again, not at all a denial. Velvette shut off the video, after of course making sure the whole thing recorded and was loaded up onto her personal servers for her own amusement. She stretched. “Yeah, we probably should. He'll want to rant and rave and pretend like he didn't just get kicked in the nads by his crush, crushing his poor pathetic heart.”

It would likely feel like rejection to him but Velvette was good at reading people even through the screen. Especially through a screen. And both her and Valentino knew far better. After all you hadn't broken the kiss, you only acted reflexively.

[goldenthena]

❝#track 1! Manchild — vox.❞

pairing — vox × fem!sinner!reader

warning — starting a little short to get you all in! we've got no smut, only a manchild and an annoyed you, pathetic!vox

note — taglist / please be kind to reblog or comment as it keeps your fav writers motivated! The next fics will be longer! around 4k (though the goal is 5k lol)

summary — he was known as one of the smartest overlords in hell...so why did he start acting like the dumbest man on earth? He forgot about your date, can't remember a single one of your interests and yet seeks you out every day – the worst part? you like him all in incompet.

With a startled gasp you jolted awake through your bedroom door creaking open and a loud person stumbling in. Scarcely looking around you could see the TV screen of Vox glimmering in the doorframe, your pulse calmed down but your mood did not.

He held himself up, wobbly at that. Even from afar, wrapped in blankets and safety you could smell him, reeking of alcohol. If it weren't for your tired state, you would've snapped at him instead of trying to ignore his presence.

For that Vox didn't care, he stripped himself of his clothes and almost fell to the ground while slipping out of his pants. “Baby? I'm missed you,” he muttered, grammatically incorrect, mismatching his words with a cracking voice. The night out with Val leaving its traces.

Still half dressed he flung himself against you, wanting to fall asleep in your soft embrace. Vox mumbled incoherent words, if you catched one that sounded similar, it was debunked the next second with something that didn’t fit your logic. It sounded like sweet words directed to you, then complained about Valentino and Angel Dust until you reached Alastor.

You wanted to push him out of bed, badly. Despite his body having fans to keep him cool, he was as hot as a heater and it radiated off on you. Add to that his smell, cheap perfume and whisky mixed with all the stereotypes this man could fulfil.

Feeling his limps wrap around you, you tried to even out your breathing and not scrunch up your nose in disgust. The demon nuzzled his head – as good as possible – into your neck, inhaling your scent as his screen dimmed and eyes closed, drifting into deep slumber while you stayed awake with tired eyes and slowly realised what time it was, what he had done and that tomorrow he would have no recollection of this incident.

Carefully you slipped from his grasp, replacing your upper body with a pillow and even that he didn't notice. Taking your blanket and another pillow, you decided on sleeping on the couch as with Vox's extreme odor you would have a migraine in no time. It cut you deep, heart beating a little faster at the thought of leaving him to wake up alone but it wasn't like you had a choice.

You waited all night for him, telling yourself he was held up at work and would be there any minute, but he never came. Instead the evening dragged on and on, like a bad dream you wish to wake up from. It all came crashing down when Velvette sent you a video of Vox and Valentino drinking each other under the table, you wanted to scream or throw something.

In your good nature you decided against it, telling yourself he wasn’t worth your tears and anger. You chose yourself over him and made your dinner alone, ate alone and enjoyed your time alone.

If it weren’t for the state he had arrived in, you would’ve held him accountable but tomorrow seemed like a better choice.

Morning came with eerie light flooding Vox penthouse and with a pained groan he awoke, clutching his head in agony. “Who would’ve a hangover was this bad for a TV,” he muttered to himself as he stretched his limps out, a satisfying pop of his bones echoing along the walls.

As he became aware of his surroundings, he noticed your absence – were you already in the kitchen? You made it a habit to wake up with him, why would you break it now. Slowly he rose from his bed, noticed his worn dress pants covered in wrinkles then stripped them without hesitation.

Truthfully he didn’t need to look for you as he noticed you on his couch, sleeping soundly and wrapped into a fluffy blue blanket. With confusion written over his screen, processors almost overheating in thought he nudged your shoulder, successfully waking you up. “Yes, Vox?” you grumbled, shielding your eyes from the brightness with your fingers.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” He questioned dumbfounded, did you flee from him? “Because you came home with drunk as fuck,” you stated the obvious, looking up him, trying to hide your growing annoyance.

“And? Like did that disturb you so much or what?” he continued asking, observing you intensely even as you stood up and threw the blanket away. “Yes, it did, otherwise I wouldn’t have left,” you told him clipped, moving towards the bathroom but having no luck and Vox following you like a lost puppy.

“You always wake up with me,” he argued, but it didn’t have any foundation because it was factually incorrect. He woke up at dawn, before anyone else even thought about waking up and he was loud enough to wake you up too. If you could decide, you would continue sleeping for another hour or two, maybe longer, well and if he was shit faced? You would definitely not wake up earlier just to please him.

Instead of indulging into his fight, you told him; “there is a first time for everything.” He didn’t like that either, but who were you to care? You turned on the shower, testing the temperature of the water and freeing yourself of your bra and panties.

Vox watched you before his brain sprung into action, clumsily putting his boxer shorts off to join you but you held up a hand just before he could enter. “You come home drunk and don’t even apologize for forgetting?” “I forgot to tell you I was going out? Sorry my phone wasn't charged!” Your eyes must’ve been comically wide as you heard those words from him, you knew he was serious and sometimes you wished you didn’t.

“Is your brain even there?” you tapped the glass of his face. If he was able to communicate with Shok.wav then he was able to tell you he was running late, however if he forgot and was embarrassed about it then it wasn't a wonder he claimed his phone was dead.

Speechless Vox took a step back, scowling slightly at you. He would never forget anything, he was the smartest overlord in hell. Meaning it was a prosperous assumption to say he had no brain, let alone have something slip his mind. “Well, you try running an empire! Then you'd forget some stuff too,” he exclaimed, gesturing widely at all of your surroundings as if they helped his case.

You shook your head, reminding yourself you were above his petty bullshit even though he made it hard not to get provoked. Because after all he still hadn't remembered what exactly he forgot and just like a fish swimming in a circle his mind went blank when thinking about the previous evening.

Annoyed, he stomped out of the bathroom, muttering curses along the way as if they would fix his mistake. Oh, you would have a field trip telling Velvette about this. Despite your lack of motivation you showered and dressed yourself nice enough to leave Vox behind – at least in his home.

As you stepped out, you noticed he had cleaned himself up and sat on the couch with spread thighs nursing another drink. He was swiping through holograms, updating himself on any work he had missed or scandals he could use to his gain.

Fuck, why was that sexy? You asked yourself, watching him closely. He had no intention of moving even though he heard you, keeping his eyes trained on the sight before him, “gonna stand there all day?” He teased, a light smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and you knew he knew how attractive you found him just now. Only Lucifer himself could make you admit that to him now.

“No, I'm meeting Velvette. She has new clothes she wanted me to try on,” you explained, keeping your voice monotone. Vox raised an eyebrow, “I thought you hated playing dress up with her?” For a moment you considered throwing a vase at him, you loved trying on Vel's clothes and furthermore make fun of her models with her.

“I always liked it,” you snapped, stepping closer to him. It wouldn't be the first time he forgot one of your interests. One time you told him about a book you would love to read and the next day he brought you a completely different one, a genre you hated.

Just last week you talked about picking up an old hobby you had on earth and as you bought he asked what you were doing, acting as if you had never told him about this. You told him three times. As he swore on not knowing, you pondered if it was actually you who forgot – until Val of all people mentioned how interested he was in seeing what you came up with. Even fucking Valentino knew of your hobby.

“Sure you did,” he huffed, ignoring your fiery gaze as he sipped his whiskey. Banging the door loudly close, you left the penthouse, having the intention of calming down though it was nearly impossible with Vox.

———

In your pure hate – not that's too strong, madness? Too crazy…stubbornness, yes that's it – stubbornness, you decided on sleeping in your own flat for a while. It wasn't like you could actually stay away from Vox, because you didn't know why he always chose you instead of letting you be.

You did know though that he had been blowing up your phone for days, wishing you would come back and saying how much he missed you. Funny, how you never told him he couldn't come to yours but he also didn't use that brain of his often. All you did was put on pajamas and dance around your bedroom as one thing was sure, that TV would not taint your good mood.

“And I like my men all incompetent, and I swear they choose me,” you sang along into your hairbrush used as an imaginary microphone. Jumping to the beat of the music, you didn't hear the door opening and only a faint shadow.

Once you turned around you screamed, startled at the sight of Vox leaning against your wall, bow tie undone, no jacket and dress shirt half unbuttoned. He looked distraught and pathetic, what had he done to himself? It was like a train ran him over multiple times and then asked him to apologize, Satan you enjoyed this way too much.

“I'm sorry baby, I didn't want to scare you…I just missed you,” he whined, stepping closer to you and holding out his arms, a desperate ask to wrap himself around you. Rolling your eyes, you backined him to get on the bed with you and like the touch starved man he was, he wrapped his arms around you like an octopus.

“I didn't even see you yesterday, or the day before and I didn’t even know what happened!” he complained against your chest, but you knew exactly he was capable enough to remember but too incompetent to do it on his own, “of course you Manchild,” you whispered. Pressing him tighter against you, admittedly you enjoyed him like it.

He was a huge idiot, whining when something didn't go his way and complaining if you forgot about his favourite shark movie but then couldn't remember your favourite flowers and how important date night to you was.

But he was yours, despite his relations to the other Vee's you were the only one he came back to, even if it was like this and that was something you really didn't want to trade – no matter how red those flags were waving in front of you, you ignored them knowing it was your own fault for choosing a manchild.

taglist / please be kind to reblog or comment as it keeps your fav writers motivated!

vox; @thegirlnextdoorssister @yybrzzs1 @sugarydollita @madamedesalaunier @nak0me1usine @scootlerdoodler @writersblocker9 @justgiulia @eis1kitsune @ghostpix1 @yofshiw @voxs-bow-tie @deadgirl-walking1989 @sallymoon135 @ashtomicdumbness

man's best friend; @art3mis989 @starssbythepocketful @florist-of-the-valley @angrystrawhat @helluva-loss @ashtomicdumbness @erensslut @shealizxx @okamikasaiakuma

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Soft Landing

Summary: After walking and walking, eventually you walk into a new reality where everything is different. Where everything is Red. Now that you've landed in Hell, it was time to learn to stand and find your place in this strange, red new world.

CW: Self harm behaviors, mental break down, suggested/implied suicide

AN: This is it folks, the launce of the MisD2 one shots. We've got one more fic, a week off after and then we launce the series itself!

The world came to you in a sudden blur, filtered through cracked eyes. Red. Red skies. Red light. Red lit up the sky, as if a forest fire burned too close to be safe. Your eyes fluttered closed again, long lashes brushing your cheeks as you let the water continue to caress your skin.

The sun must be setting over the bayou, you thought. That and the glow of a nearby fire on smokey skies would explain the red.

So much red.

There was so much blood.

It was just a matter of time before darkness would claim you for the last time and you could be free from the red. From the blood. Washed clean by the water, baptized by the bayou.

“You good?” A sharp stick jabbed into your ribs harshly, pulling your sluggish mind up from the depths of sleep slowly at first.

“I’m fine,” you said, words slurred slightly as if you forgot how to work your mouth, relearning how to shape the sounds. A second later, your eyes snapped open as your mind cleared suddenly.

There shouldn’t be anyone here. There wasn’t a whole lot of anything this deep into the bayou. You’d been walking for hours, until your shoes hurt your feet more than the ground underfoot did.

After taking them off, you kept walking. Twigs, bushes and branches snagged your stockings and the airy fabric of your dress, ripping holes that you paid no mind to. It wasn’t like there was anyone to see them.

No one would ever get to see the way you dressed for your wedding with Alastor. No one would see the way you painted your face. There was no one to see the way tears ran down your cheeks.

You were alone from the moment you walked out of what was supposed to be your marital home. There shouldn’t be anyone here.

You walked until the sun was high in the sky, filtering through the branches and sparkling on the water. Bugs retreated to the shadows as birds hopped from tree to tree, snatching them out of the air. Warmth touched your skin as the day grew warmer and then the pressing humidity followed.

One foot in front of the other. You kept walking and the sun kept traveling through the sky. Your legs ached and your dress floated in the water as you crossed the streams of water, keeping your path straight even as the environment and trails around you failed to do so.

You walked, stumbling more and more as your body grew tired and the sun lowered in the sky. The warm, humid day began to cool. A shiver ran down your spine and gooseflesh broke out along your arms but you kept walking.

Water splashed as you tripped over a submerged root, soaking the fabric clinging to your abdomen. Pain shot through your ankle but you kept walking, stumbling up the other side of the bank until your legs finally gave out. You sat in the water as the full moon rose above you, just over the trees.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, captured by the sight as you sat in water that reached around your waist.

Alastor had gotten you an apple tree. It would die if it’s not planted soon…

There was a splash behind you and then…

It couldn’t be the sunset because it was already the deep of night. The sun couldn’t be rising because if you’d fallen asleep you would have fallen over and drown.

“What happened?”

“You’re scaring the fish. Get out of the damn water!” the voice yelled again, jabbing the point of the stick into your ribs again.

“Sorry,” you said out of reflex, sitting up.

Mud, moss and whatever other greenery was hidden under the water squelched between your fingers. It was a struggle to stand in the water, the silty bottom sucking your limbs until you reached more stable ground.

Your body didn’t quite feel your own as you stumbled out of the water. The ground was too far away and each time you moved, it felt wrong. Different.

It would have helped if you were paying attention to your steps and less to the foreign surroundings.

“Where am I?” Your eyes focused on the man, sitting at the edge of the swamp like water.

Blue ropes hung down his back, extending out from below a large hat. Under his matching brown vest was what looked like a skin tight, bright blue shirt with a scale pattern on it. What a weird style of dress.

“You’re in Hell,” the man said, turning to look up at you with bright amber eyes that seemed to glow from within.

A scream ripped out of your throat as you jerked back, staggering and splashing to put distance between you and the blue scaled man. His bright yellow eyes rolled, reflecting the dim light as he did so. The black slit pupils widened before contracting again.

“Fresh kills,” the man grumbled as you splashed out of the water, running up the banks, tripping over limbs that were too long.

Your wet feet slipped over the grass, sending you to your hands and knees. It was just as well. Your stomach cramped and hitched as your mind replayed what the… thing-man said.

You’re in Hell.

You’d died.

Hell was nothing like you imagined. The streets were busy, full of monsters of every shape and size. They paid no attention to you as you stumbled into the city. Heat beat down around you, radiating from everywhere. It was oppressive and suffocating.

Not a single person you saw looked human, though some were far more frightening than others.

“Excuse me?” Every single person that you approached, at least those you could stomach approaching, brushed you off.

Your heart beat faster in your chest, but something about it felt off. It felt like the pressure was building, that the veins were not giving to the increased heart rate the way they should. The pressure was uncomfortable, building. It only drove more panic and more pressure.

With how hot it was in hell, it was amazing how dampness continued to cling to your skin and hair. Water dripped off the ends of your hair. If anything, more water was dripping from your finger tips than when you climbed out of water.

“That doesn’t make sense?” Talking to yourself was quickly becoming a hobby in the last few weeks. Death didn’t put a stop to it.

Looking down at your hands, they looked nothing like what you knew. Your nails, once kept neatly trimmed and rounded into soft almonds, chipped but painted in half moons as was popular in preparation of your wedding were anything but. Long, black nails extended out from your pale, green tinted fingers.

The surface of your nails was shinny, as if coated with water. They ended in points that made you fear stabbing yourself with them. If anything, your nails looked far closer to claws than they did fingernails.

“What?”

You turned your hand over. On the underside of your wrist was brown lines where you expected bluish purple to trace paths along your wrists.

Stumbling slightly, you made your way over to the large plate window, the curtains inside still drawn against the early morning. Was it morning? It didn’t feel like morning with how many people were on the streets…

Reflected back to you in the glass was a woman you didn’t know. Pale, empty eyes looked back out from where your face should have been. Your skin was pale sickly green all over. The curves you hated were draped in a black dress decorated with black and gold glass beads.

Long, dark hair floated lightly behind you, almost as if it was suspended in water. It looked like your skin was wet, as if you’d just stepped out of a pool not more than a few minutes ago. Drops of water seemed to materialize out of nowhere, running down your skin before dripping onto the cement.

Atop your head were two horns that looked more like twisted branches. They were short enough to not weigh your head down but large enough that there were a few small leafs near the base and small white flowers.

Apple blossoms. They were apple blossoms.

Those same brown lines you saw under the skin of your wrist traced your body, traveling along your arms. They were faded under the softer skin of your chest but you could still see them. They ran, just hardly visible up your neck.

“What am I?”

The woman in glass did not answer you.

She only gave you back the tilt of her head, and you watched the blossoms trembled faintly as if stirred by a breeze you couldn’t feel as she did. As you did. Your breath fogged nothing. The city behind you hummed on, uncaring.

You lowered your hands.

Red velvet slid against itself with a soft, obscene whisper, along with the unmistakable jingle of a bell that has heard far too much.

“Well, That explains it.” The voice that carried easily in the humid air was smooth and light. Amused in a realm that seemed devoid of true amusement. She sounded entirely unalarmed to see you standing there, as if you belonged right in that spot. As if she expected you to be there, waiting for her.

You turned, heart lurching out of habit more than necessity. It had been years since you had reason to fear someone sneaking up on you but that didn’t change the way it made you feel when it happened.

She stood just outside the doorway, framed by shadow and dressed like she belonged to a much kinder world that lost its way. You could feel her eyes sweep over you without shame or apology, cataloging everything from the curve of your horns to the way your fingers keep brushing at your own wrists, though you couldn’t see anything of her eyes beyond the inky black wells where they should have been.

She wore her interest with a polite smile that curved up her perfectly painted black lips. Her face was pale but still somehow soft and kind. In so many ways she reminded you of an aunt you’d known in life, but never was lucky enough to have the time to grow close to.

“You’re new here,” she continued conversationally. “New enough to still look like a frightened little doe.”

You swallowed, feeling the hairs at the back of your neck rise without knowing what it was about the woman that caused that reaction.

“Is this-” Your voice caught, rougher than it should have been. You cleared your throat, though you don’t feel the need to breathe, it felt like somehow there was sludge caught in your voice from the bayou. “Is this Hell?”

She hummed, stepping closer. Her heels clicked once against the pavement, decisive and final. Somehow the sound seemed to echo in the street.

“Yes, dear.” The tall, elegant woman stopped beside you, looking at your reflection in the glass with her black voids. “You’ve gotten quite the makeover.”

You turned your attention back to your image, now standing next to the tall pale woman with black pools where eyes should have existed.

“I look like a monster.”

“Don’t be offended.” She laughed behind a delicate hand, long slender fingers ending with perfectly manicured black painted nails. “We all are monsters here. That’s why we’re here. You and I, we’re some of the less dramatic, more flattering makeovers.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a touch, as she studied the blossoms at the base of your horns in the reflection. How you knew what she was looking at, you couldn’t say. It was like you could feel her gaze rather than see it.

“Your arrival is going to cause quite the stir,” she added lightly. “The sort of stir that ripples outward.”

Your chest tightened at that, something aching and familiar blooming beneath the strange calm of your body. “I don’t mean to,” you said. “I can’t imagine how, I just got here.”

She lifted a finger, gentle but final. “Oh, I know.” The soft smile on her face sharpened knowingly. “You aren’t the sort that means to do much of anything, are you?”

The words stung with their truth. “I don’t-”

“Come along,” she said warmly. When you hesitated she reached out and swept an arm behind your back. “I’m Rosie, dear. We’ve best get you out of the open before you draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“Why should I trust you?” You stepped away only for her to loop am arm around yours and pull you back to her.

“Oh, come now!” She laughed. “You don’t exactly have anyone here to help keep you safe right now. And besides,” her gaze met yours, keen and sharp, “and someone’s been reacting rather strongly to your presence.”

“What?”

She ignored you, guiding you along. “He doesn’t know why, yet. But he will.”

You sat stiffly in the armchair, steaming cup of tea clutched in your hands. It had been a few minutes since Rosie presented it but you hadn’t braved taking a sip.

It was the proper thing but…

“Oh, don’t worry dear,” Rosie said, sitting down across from you. “It’s perfectly safe. You’ll find things are not so bad here, once you get used to how things work. Don’t you worry though, you’ve got Auntie Rosie to help you see.”

“And how do things work?”

“Drink up, dear.” Rosie tilted her up at you before lifting it to her lips and taking a delicate sip. She waited to speak again until you copied her, letting the malty liquid was over your tongue. It almost tasted like the tea you knew.

Almost.

“We have a system of government here,” Rosie started. “Overlords hold territory and establish the rules within them. We work together, some better than others, at times. We fight at times for territory.”

“I see,” you said, feeling just the hint of understanding. “And you’re one of these overlords? As a woman?”

“I am,” Rosie said, pride clear on her pale face. “Women can amass power here. We are not inherently weaker here. We have the same potential.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll get used to things here in no time, dear. You’ll find as the years pass, you’ll forget those you left behind.”

“I didn’t…” You took a deep breath that rattled through your chest. “I didn’t really leave anyone behind. A few friends, my parents but…”

“I see,” Rosie said, smiling. “Well, I don’t think you’ll be alone for long at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t imagine it’ll take him much longer to get here,” Rosie smiled, setting her delicate teacup on the table.

“I’m sorry?” You copied her action, the bone china clinking softly. “I don’t understand.”

“Why, Alastor, my dear!” Rosie’s voice grew warmer, brighter as she stood at the sound of the bell tinkling over the door. “How good of you to join us!”

“Rosie!” His voice washed over your ears, cackling as if coming to you through the speakers of the radio. “The strangest thing happened. I was settling in for the evening and a rush washed over me! A high like I’ve not felt yet.”

“I know,” Rosie said, smiling warmly at the tall form stepping through the door. “The rest of you has arrived.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” You stood, beads clattering together slightly as you did so. Your attention bounced from the tall man clad in red and Rosie. “My Alastor was a good man. He didn’t… He wouldn’t be here.”

“Cher?” The tall man with Alastor’s voice stepped forward.

“I’ll give the two of you the room,” Rosie said, clasping your shoulder before stepping up to Alastor. She rested her hand on his shoulder and leaned into him slightly. Though she kept her voice soft, you could still make out the words when she told him: “She still owns her soul. I got to her in time.”

“Thank you, Rosie dear!” Alastor smiled at her before directing his attention to you. Once the door clicked shut, he stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between you and him. “My dear, why are you here? And so soon?”

“Alastor?” You knew it was him. There was a draw to him, something that felt magnetic but undefined in life felt oh so very real in this real. “Is it truly you?”

“It is,” Alastor said simply, reaching out with a black hand tipped with red claws.

Your heart hammered in your chest as his long claws slipped into your hear. His palm, strong and warm, rested against your cheek. You looked up at him, eyebrows knit together.

“It’s been a long five weeks without you,” you whisper the words, eyes darting over his pale, washed out skin. His eyes were red, stained with the blood you once saw run into them.

“It should have been longer. You shouldn’t be here yet. What happened?”

“I couldn’t go on without you. I tried, I did. But I couldn’t…”

“So you followed me?” Alastor asked, wide smile on his face.

“I couldn’t outlast the grief,” you said, looking into his smile. It was sharp, dangerous and though you’d never seen it like this before, in your heart you knew you’d seen glimpses of it.

“I will see to it that you’re kept safe,” Alastor promised, thumb brushing the soft, pale skin of your cheek. His eyes traveled your face, taking in what hell had made you into. “And if you wish it, by my side.”

“Alastor…”

“We have much to talk about,” he spoke over you. “I’m sure. But first, let us get you home.”

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers! Want an exclusive sneak peek at my works? Join the Kofi membership for as little as $2 a month today! You'll see at least the first page of the next release and a peek at upcoming fics!

[r0man1cal-0]

[6esiree]

𝐀 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐂𝐖: Dry-humping, Tongue kissing, Electro-shocking, Age Gap, Friends to Lovers (Sorta, kinda), GN! Reader, Touch-Starved! Vox, Vox cums in his pants, Vox has abandonment issues, This is a combination of angst, fluff, and smut

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: The deal you decide to make with Vox — a few kisses in exchange for seeing him in his CRT-TV head — it’s unprofessional. As a hired-gun, your duty is to look after the infamous Media Overlord. But there you sit on his lap, your palms sliding up the sides of his neck, making him all sorts of flustered. You can’t help it, his associates had practically forced you into becoming a social pariah alongside Vox, thus spurring you to entertain him.

What the two of you were doing, it very much violated the professional boundaries listed in your contract in big, bold letters: NO RELATIONS. However, you couldn’t just break a deal, and the man underneath you was utterly lonely, touch-starved, large, clawed-hands gripping your waist, round eyes pleadingly staring into yours.

You couldn’t blame him, not even as he shed his cool facade and devolved into something soft and pathetic, your palms wandering up his chest.

After the whole war-on-heaven fiasco, there was nobody else to keep him company.

His associates completely shut him out, but they still cared enough to approach you, a known hired-gun, to make sure he remained safe and unscathed.

Vox had made a lot of enemies in his ambitious pursuit to ascend to Godliness. And though several months had passed since he threatened to wipe out all of Hell with an angelic-fueled nuclear weapon over an unreciprocated crush, most had yet to forgive or forget his actions, his low approval rating serving as a testament of that.

While your hatred for him had mostly dissipated, you had yet to forgive him. The laser beam had cut clean through your apartment complex, which was a big deal. Being homeless in Hell was not easy. Pentagram City was already densely populated, and finding a new place to call home without getting into a turf war was virtually impossible.

It’s safe to say that the last thing you expected was to get saved by the Vees. In fact, it was strange being summoned by them at all. They were fully capable of taking care of their own dirty business, but they’d told you if you agreed to protect Vox, you’d gain a fixed salary and a ritzy new condo in the downtown area of the Entertainment district.

You couldn’t find it in you to decline them, just like you couldn’t find it in you to decline Vox, especially not when he had rushed to put on his old CRT-TV head for you. It was old, outdated, and yet something about it made him more visually appealing, your palms sliding up the sides of his neck, making him all sorts of flustered.

“Come onnn, I went through the hassle of putting this old piece of crap on for you,” Vox huffed, screen slightly flickering, sparks of electricity bursting from his antennas. “It shouldn’t be such a fucking challenge to give me a kiss.”

“Are you sure?” You hummed, the corners of your lips tugging upwards in a grin, flashing your canines to him. “Last I checked, you’re the most hated man in Pentagram City.”

“Oh, please, I’m painfully aware of that,” Vox grumbled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Val already takes the time out of his day to remind me that I’m a failure. I mean, he literally only swings by to flip me off with all four hands.”

You still disliked him, but with how you got paid to spend every waking moment with him, he became the closest thing you could have to a friend in Hell. It was totally unexpected. You always strived to exercise a certain level of professionalism, refusing to allow your sentiments to motivate your behavior, despite the violent nature of your job.

However, it was boring, having to spend 10 hours a day looking after a full grown man. The Vees had accidentally forced you into becoming a social pariah alongside Vox, thus spurring you both to quell your respective bouts of loneliness with each other, talking, drinking, playing board games, and watching shows and movies together.

Oh, and as of tonight, kissing, too, because you’d also grown a bit touch-starved, making a deal with him that involved you giving him a few kisses in exchange for him putting on his old box-head.

Not that you had scrambled to find an excuse to kiss him. No, not at all. In fact, he was the one who broached you with the offer after you passively expressed your curiosity.

Vox had a futon in his room, a flat screen TV positioned right across from it; but as you straddled his lap, you obscured his view. He didn’t give a damn, though. The two of you had lost the plot of the movie at least half an hour ago, and right now, the only thing he could focus on was you, your lips, and how nice it felt to hold you.

“Aw, poor baby,” You crooned, leaning in, his eyes widening in a mixture of annoyance and anticipation. “You had it all, but you flew too close to the sun and got burnt, how tragic!”

The tip of your nose bumped where his would be, static pricking you, lips hovering just above his.

Large, clawed-hands slid down your waist, finding the swell of your ass, squeezing as your hot breath fogged up his screen.

The cold, sharp ends of his fingertips threatened to puncture the skin there, desperate, needy.

“Draw blood and I’ll charge you a 20% damage fee,” You warned him, even though the thought of him doing just that admittedly made your pulse quicken. “You got that?”

Vox would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of your threat, but as you refused to close the tiny gap in between you, waiting, anticipating his response, he found himself groaning a ‘Yes.’ It was embarrassing, being told what to do, however, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you so bad, craving the intimacy he’d long been denied.

“Good boy,” You sweetly whispered, one hand cradling the dull edge of his box-head, the other sliding up to caress his crooked antenna.

If you hadn’t immediately descended on his mouth, lips finally capturing his own in a kiss, he would have lashed out at you. He was a grown man. He had died in his mid-40s and had spent 70 years in Hell thus far. But his body betrayed him, electric currents rippling through his arms, his hands, and lightly shocking you.

He mentally cursed himself, the static emanating from his screen growing stronger, flustered and embarrassed.

“You ass!” You gasped against his lips.

Your body surged forward, crotch accidentally bumping his, pulling a pleasured groan from him.

“Don’t fucking say that, then,” Vox hissed.

The fabric of his pajamas wasn’t thick, cock stirring to life, but he didn’t chase after the sensation, no matter how much he yearned for it.

He had to go through the hassle of switching his flat screen-TV head for his CRT one, and the process was neither quick nor effortless. But he managed it, and he had no intention of wasting this opportunity you’d granted him, despite his high libido. After he lost Alastor, Heaven, and then Valentino, well, he finally realized patience was key.

As much as he hated playing the long game, he knew by rutting into you, he would ruin the only good thing he had going for him.

So, he kept his hips still and forced himself to apologize to you.

“I’m sorry,” Vox spoke into the kiss, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, alright? It just sort of… happened. Yeah. Sorry.”

You acknowledged his words with a hum, both of your hands sliding down.

He slightly bristled at the lack of thanks, but as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and parted your lips, the sentiment instantly vanished.

Something warm and wet brushed the seam of his lips. Your tongue. Vox’s screen glowed a bright, fuzzy cyan, and his box-head emitted soft pops and crackles, his mouth immediately falling open to grant you entry. The tent in his pajamas consequently grew, erection slotting perfectly against your crotch, but he still made no move.

Not even as you further pressed your face into his to deepen the kiss, nose pushing back, wrapping your tongue around his.

The sound of lips smacking and saliva being exchanged resonated throughout his room, including your sighs and mewls and his grunts and groans, concocting a sinful symphony. The indistinct chatter from the movie you’d long abandoned continued to play in the background, too, but Vox had no intention of shutting the TV off.

In fact, he pulled a hand away from you, only to blindly feel around for the remote.

His palm frantically patted the cushions, searching aimlessly as saliva cascaded down his screen.

His fingers curled around something solid, his heart lurching in his chest, victorious, relieved.

Vox couldn’t bear to hear the sounds. Feeling the heat of your clothed crotch move against his erection with every movement of your lips and tongue was torture enough, cooling fans whirring, a familiar pressure coiling in his gut. Months of no intimacy had him twitching and jolting against you like some inexperienced teenager.

It was mortifying, reacting to a bit of rutting and tongue-kissing in such a sensitive manner.

That’s why as Vox went to raise the volume, he smashed the button with his thumb, quickly drowning out the sinful symphony of your kisses.

And at the perfect time, too, because you suddenly decided to fall sideways and take him with you.

The remote clattered to the ground, his back meeting the futon, forcing him underneath you. You remained fully-seated on Vox’s lap, crotch shifting against his, mouths still glued together. He didn’t think a few kisses would evolve into a full-blown makeout session, his palms landing on your thighs, but he refused to utter a single syllable in protest.

And so did you, lost in the feeling of him, enjoying how it felt to kiss him even though a small voice in your head screamed at you to stop.

However, the faint buzzing of his antennas, the soft pops and crackles of his screen, and the whirring of his cooling fans drowned it out.

It made it easier for you to be unprofessional, to be sucked into the profoundly delicious experience of making out with the infamous Media overlord.

He had a TV for a head, for Satan’s sake. You should have felt annoyed by the combination of all those things, or at least a bit inconvenienced. However, you could only feel waves of arousal ripple through your body, your hands sliding underneath Vox’s t-shirt as you sucked his tongue into your mouth, palms smoothing over hot, navy-blue skin.

The muscles in his abdomen flexed, your fingertips grazing the vents adorning his ribs, a sensitive area for him. The cooling fans in his head worked harder, faster, his body growing uncomfortably hot. If he allowed himself to reach an abnormal temperature, he would short-circuit, but he couldn’t find the willpower to push you off.

Months worth of using a meager hand to pleasure himself had taken a toll on him, drowning in your lips, your wandering hands.

“Mmff… mmff… fuck,” Vox gasped.

Sharp claws clutched at your thighs, and though they didn’t pierce you, it still stung.

“Shit, ow, ow!” You pulled back with a yelp.

He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing anymore, a string of saliva falling down his chin, his eyes falling shut as the coil in his gut snapped.

You stared down at him, eyes wild, lips swollen, chest heaving, the rhythmic throbbing of his cock against you snapping you back to reality. The crotch area of your pants was damp with his pleasure, — but Vox? Oh, Vox was an absolute mess, his screen glitching and buffering, the expression of raw bliss on his face barely visible.

It took him a while to recover, and throughout the entire affair, you just sat back on his lap.

You didn’t know what to do, admittedly.

It wasn’t supposed to get this far. The kiss. The strange dynamic you had going with Vox.

Developing any sort of personal connection with a client was both foolish and reckless. Satan knows how long the Vees would need you to look after Vox, and in your line of work, a mere conflict of interest could compromise your performance. Your reputation. You had to draw the line between duty and self-interest. You had to, and you didn’t.

“You idiot, what have you done?” You cursed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose, annoyed. “You screwed up everything.”

Those words were meant for yourself, of course. Any advances made by the clientele didn’t matter. It was completely up to you to nip them in the bud early on, or stop dealing with them altogether. There was no room for feelings or carnality in your profession. Apparently, though, Vox thought it was for him, jolting up to a sitting position.

His claws retracted, and a string of glitchy apologies proceeded to tumble haphazardly from his lips, sounding sincere, unlike earlier.

Vox couldn’t help himself. As pathetic as it made him look, the thought of losing the only person that tolerated him enough to kiss him, to touch him, to entertain him at all kickstarted him into a panicked frenzy. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. Not again. He knew it would take more time for Velvette and Valentino to trust him.

And, devastatingly of all, to forgive him for his actions, his large hands encapsulating yours, pulling a surprised gasp from you.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, I sw-swear, I didn’t mean it,” Vox stammered out, his chest heaving, screen flushed cyan. “Please, don’t le-leave, I’m fucking tired of being alone. Ah-ha-ha, I’m go-going crazy!”

You stared at him, slowly pulling your hands out of his, exacerbating his panic.

“Excuse me?” You asked, confused.

Instead of taking them back, though, he reached up to claw at the dull edges of his box-head.

“I’ll keep th-this piece of crap on. I’ll do anything you want, okay?” Vox continued, especially as your brows furrowed together. “Just do-don’t leave. Don’t leave. I can’t go another day —”

You smacked a hand over his mouth, making him flinch. You didn’t mean to be so rough, but you were caught off-guard by his little tirade.

Vox wasn’t the type to beg, or at least you never knew he was. As you leaned in and shushed him, features contorting into one of sympathy, you couldn’t recall an occasion where he had voiced his feelings out loud like now. Feelings that didn’t involve being angry or upset with being forced out of his own company by his associates.

“Before I tell you anything, are you done?” You asked him, hand still clamped over his mouth, eyes expectantly regarding him.

He blinked, brows scrunching together.

“I… yes,” Vox slowly said. “I hope you know you can’t silence me with your hand, though. I have a TV for a head, so you need a —”

You rolled your eyes, but at least he had calmed down, pulling your hand away.

“I know, I know. You have a mute button. I saw it play out live, you dolt. Everybody did,” You drawled. “But I’m asking, is it safe for me to speak?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” Vox mumbled.

“I don’t plan on leaving. The pay is too good, but that tone? Hmm, maybe I just might —”

“No! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, okay?”

“Good. Okay. I’ll stay, then.”

“Okay… okay. That’s fucking relieving.”

“I still dislike you, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never made a grown man cum in his pants and then beg me not to leave them. It’s flattering.”

“Hey! I wasn’t begging, I was just expressing —”

“You were most definitely begging.”

“No I was not! I don’t fucking beg!”

“When you say the word ‘please’ more than once, it definitely constitutes begging.”

“Okay, and if it does, who cares?” Vox huffed.

“Hey, certainly not me,” You raised your hands in front of you in a gesture of surrender. “In fact, I’m content with forgetting this ever happened.”

He dropped his hands from his head, palms falling flat against the futon.

“Good choice,” Vox cleared his throat, trying to appear cool. “Otherwise, I probably would have hypnotized you into doing so.”

You gave his chest a light, backhanded slap.

“Oh, if you ever use your hypnosis on me and I somehow find out,” You hissed. “I’ll tell all of Hell you go to sleep cuddling shark plushies.”

You proceeded to go back and forth with each other, bickering; and as irritating as it was, it admittedly helped ease the tension of the intimate moment that had just unfolded between the two of you. A small part of you didn’t want to brush it off, or to excuse it as a momentary lapse in judgement, but you knew it was best to simply forget.

For now, you could accept that your relationship with Vox was the closest thing you could have to a friend in Hell, even if it wasn’t professional of you.

“I still have access to angelic weapons, you know,” Vox threatened you, sparks of electricity bursting from his box-head. “So don’t you da—are —”

You snorted, reaching up and flicking his crooked antenna out of place, cutting off his reception.

“Ohhh, I’m so scared,” You giggled, especially as he cursed you out, scrambling to fix his antenna back into place. “I kill people for a living, doofus.”

Forcing yourself to recognize that you had violated your own contract by accepting you were friends with the infamous Media overlord was infinitely better than realizing that maybe, just maybe, you had developed something beyond that. Not love, or any sort of affection that would send your heart aflutter, but a certain level of fondness.

“This is the last time I make a deal with you, the last time! I fucking hate this stupid piece of crap. It’s so heavy and bulky and old.”

“Maybe, but I think it looks better on you than the flat-screen. The one you’re wearing now is, like, the closest you can have to an actual head.”

His clawed-hands came to a complete halt, complaints dying on his tongue.

A snowy, black-and-white screen stared at you.

You had to suck the inside of your cheeks in between your molars to take him seriously.

“You actually like how it looks on me?” Vox slowly asked, clearly caught off-guard. “Weren’t you born in the early 2000s?”

“Yeah, but Vintage is back in style,” You released your cheeks to say, reaching out to caress the edge of his screen with a singular finger.

Vox didn’t offer you anything of substance after that. He merely shrugged his shoulders with an ‘Okay,’ clawed-hands moving once more. It took him a bit to fix his antenna back into place, about a minute or two, give or take. But when his reception returned, face popping up, he made sure to shoot you the nastiest glare he could possibly muster.

[m1soku]

I don't need you Chapter 22 I Vox x Reader I Hazbin Hotel I

Note: He killed her once — and still can’t let her go. In Hell, love is a weapon — and Vox has never learned that. A dark romance. For some of the Plots you are a succubus. No character is fully innocent. That is the point.

Please take care while reading 🖤🎞️

CW: blood & injuries, implied sexual tension

Word Count: ~2.8k

Tabel of content | Chapter 21 I Chapter 22 I Chapter 23 -> up coming

𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ

𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ

POV: Y/N

Vox called a limo after we had finally pulled apart.

I stood there, smeared in blood and exhausted. The wound in my shoulder throbbed with every damn heartbeat. It burned, tore, and hurt unbearably.

Between the corpses, I erased Daito’s memories, frame by frame, until nothing remained but pure, raw fear.

There was a tension between us that was electric, dangerous, and deadly. And that wasn’t only because of our abilities.

We stood in front of the warehouse, a destroyed, blood-smeared lost place — a monument to our violence.

My clothes were torn and soaked in blood, my own and that of others. I wore only Vox’s jacket, underneath nothing but shredded underwear and wounds.

Without the jacket, he looked damn sharp, dangerous and deadly. Muscles shifted under his skin while electricity still danced across his body.

I bit my lower lip and thought of Vincent, of last night. Of his hands on my skin, his body on mine, in me.

Fuck. Get out of my head!

Vox draped his arm over my shoulders and pulled me harshly closer. His warmth seeped through the jacket and burned against my skin. He looked down at me, scanning every inch and making sure I wasn’t showing too much. Possessive, demanding, his.

“I’m going to keep going anyway,” I muttered in a rough, broken voice.

Grinning, Vox looked at me, dark and dangerous. “I certainly hope so.”

His claws gripped firmly and demandingly under my chin, guiding my head up and forcing me to look at him.

“These lips — I want to feel them on mine again and again,” he said in a deep, rough, possessive voice.

Goosebumps exploded across my body, every nerve waking up.

The limo pulled up. “Took damn long enough,” Vox grumbled and stepped away from me. Immediately, I felt the cold.

He opened the door for me like a gentleman — a murderous, blood-splattered gentleman.

I looked at the warehouse and wanted to burn it down, destroy it, erase it. But Daito was still inside. So I sighed and got in.

Vox followed and the door closed.

The moment I touched the fabric of the seats, exhaustion hit me like an overwhelming, brutal wave. Every wound burned, throbbed, and ached. The shoulder worst of all, too deep. Blood was still seeping through the bandage and staining the jacket.

“What time is it actually?” I asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, searching for his warmth.

“You were in his possession for too long.”

That was all he said, and his voice sounded broken, different, rough.

His arm wrapped around me and pulled me almost desperately closer, as if he was afraid I would disappear.

We started driving, the city passing by, and I dozed off as exhaustion overwhelmed me.

────୨ৎ────

I opened my eyes again. Vox’s arm was tightly, protectively and possessively around me, while his claws had slightly dug into my arm, as if he had held onto me even in his sleep.

We got out. Velvette was already waiting, her gaze sliding over me and lingering on the blood, the wounds, the shredded clothing.

“Ugh, you’re always running around naked.”

She conjured an outfit for me that covered my wounds and blood, but I could still feel them, every single one.

“Sorry,” I said, weakly and tiredly raising my hands.

Vox and Velvette exchanged long, meaningful looks and communicated without words, as always.

I walked into the building along my usual paths, every step hurting and my shoulder burning.

Vox followed me closely, too closely. I could feel his presence, his electricity, his obsession.

“I’ll take you to your daughter,” he suddenly said in a gentle, almost tender voice.

I only nodded, too exhausted for words.

We walked through the corridors, not to my penthouse, but to his office.

The door opened and I froze.

Alva was sitting on the floor, Balduin beside her. She looked different, her eyes red and swollen as if she had cried for hours. Balduin had his paw comfortingly and protectively on her shoulder.

“Mom!” Alva jumped up, her voice breaking, and she almost slipped, stumbling.

I automatically opened my arms, instinctively. She ran and crashed into me.

The impact made me stagger backward. My wings flared out to keep me upright while the wound in my shoulder exploded with pain. I clenched my teeth hard until I tasted blood and let nothing show. Nothing at all.

Alva buried her face in the crook of my neck and trembled all over.

“Mom,” she whispered in such a small, frightened voice.

I stroked through her hair and tried to calm her while my heart broke at the sight of her.

Then she looked at me with those red eyes, so wide and so scared.

“Who was that? How did this happen? Aren’t you Dead—”

I placed my finger on her lips. “Shh, baby.”

My voice trembled only slightly, but she heard it.

“Your mother got out of there. Even without help, I would have come back to you sooner or later, like always.”

Gently, I kept stroking through her black hair.

Alva stared at me, her eyes growing even wider. She saw the wound on my shoulder. Blood seeped through the new outfit and stained it dark.

“Mom… please not again.”

Her voice broke completely. She buried her face again, the pressure of our embrace tightening. Pain exploded through my body, every wound screaming. I ignored it, pushed through, and only held her tighter.

“No. That won’t happen again. Just an old acquaintance,” I lied, and the lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

Balduin stood behind her, his ears flattened and his tail tucked. His eyes met mine, full of worry and fear.

I smiled through my sharp vampire teeth and tried to calm him. He relaxed only minimally, barely noticeable.

Something moved behind me. The aquarium. Shock.wav swam up to the glass, the shark pressing against it and staring at Alva. She had spent time with him, for hours, while waiting for me, while thinking I was dead.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Alva suddenly said in a firmer, determined voice. No discussion.

Behind me, Vox’s systems twitched, I could feel it, feel his hesitation.

“Here with me?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes drilled into mine, pleading.

My heart tightened.

“Do that,” I said and smiled weakly and tiredly.

My stomach growled loudly and broke the moment.

“Let’s get something to eat.”

We slowly and carefully separated, every movement hurting and burning.

“That won’t be a problem. What do you want to eat?” Vox asked in an overly controlled voice.

I turned to him and looked at him. One look, nothing more. He understood immediately, as always.

“Good.” He clapped his hands.

We left his office while Shock.wav swam along with us on the other side of the glass, accompanying Alva protectively through the corridors.

We walked into the dining room, the meeting room, whatever.

Vox sat at the head, in his seat. I wanted to sit in my usual spot when his hand shot forward, grabbed my wrist hard, and pulled me directly into Valentino’s seat, next to him.

I looked at him, confused and questioning. He said nothing, only that look — possessive and demanding. That was his statement — I was sitting here now, at his side.

Alva sat next to me and watched us, analyzing. Balduin stood watchful and protective by the door.

A robot came and brought drinks. Whiskey for Vox, tea for me, energy drink for Alva.

I stared into my cup and saw my reflection in it, smeared with blood and broken.

Silence settled heavily and oppressively over us.

Alva felt the tension, the electricity between Vox and me.

“Mom, what are our next plans?” she asked, and her voice broke the silence.

I gratefully grabbed the lifeline.

“Next, we should make sure the buildings are put up, get all the souls accommodated.”

I pulled up the data on a golden smoke screen, my fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion and pain.

“School, sleeping quarters, a park, community stuff. So far everything’s going great.”

Alva stared. “Wow. You’re really taking everything from him.”

Silence.

Fuck.

Vox choked on his drink, coughed, and his screen glitched. I sharply inhaled, my body stiffening.

The food arrived just in time. The topic changed quickly.

We ate in silence, only the clinking of cutlery audible. The tension remained, lurking and waiting.

────୨ৎ────

After eating, I stood up.

“I’ll bring Alva to bed,” I muttered.

Vox only nodded and looked at me with that intense, hungry look.

Alva and I left, Balduin following us back to my penthouse through the quiet corridors.

I prepared her side of the bed, my hands trembling while doing so. Every movement hurt, the shoulder worst of all.

She picked something from my wardrobe to sleep in.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” I said, grabbing my basket and moving toward the door.

“Mom?” Alva’s voice stopped me.

I turned around.

“Take care of yourself. Please.”

Her gaze was so vulnerable, so afraid.

“Always,” I lied.

Then I left the penthouse.

With my basket, I slowly walked toward Vox’s area, every step agony. I opened the bathroom door with my tail — and froze.

Vox stood in the middle of the bathroom. Thick, suffocating steam filled the air. In his hands were bandages, medical supplies, and disinfectant. In front of him, an entire first-aid kit was laid out and organized.

“Hey,” I muttered, confused and uncertain.

“Hey,” he said without looking up, focused on his work.

His hands trembled almost imperceptibly, but it was there. Strange.

“You do know there’s also a bathtub here, right?” he asked in that different, rough, broken voice.

“No. How would I?”

A cable moved slowly and deliberately. At the push of a button, a bathtub rose from the floor.

“And here I thought you bathed with the sharks,” I giggled, trying to smile.

He gave me a side-eye, but no grin. Nothing.

I waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

Instead, he stayed, standing there and preparing everything.

I leaned against the sink with crossed arms and watched him. Every movement of his was precise, controlled, almost compulsive.

Meticulously and perfectly, he prepared everything for my wound care. Disinfectant, bandages, needle and thread, painkillers. Everything laid out, ready.

Then he went to the bathtub and let hot water run. The steam grew thicker and filled the room.

He took my things from the shower — shampoo, soap, everything — and carefully placed them at the edge of the tub.

His movements were vulnerable, unsure, almost fearful. He was weak, broken. Why?

He took out towels, the soft ones, laid them out, and folded them. Then he hesitated.

His hands hovered over the fabric and now trembled more strongly.

I stared at his back, the tension in it, the desperation.

Then he turned around and looked at me. His screen glitched slightly, his eyes empty and frightened. He bit his lip hard — too hard.

“Just close your eyes for a moment,” he asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Goosebumps exploded over my body.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, and his voice broke.

He slowly and carefully untied his bow tie. The red fabric slid softly and silkily through his fingers.

He stepped closer and stood directly in front of me. He placed the bow tie over my nose and eyes. It smelled like him. Wonderful.

I heard movements, steps, sounds. He walked back and forth, arranging and preparing things.

Nervously, I scratched my nails over my skin and left red streaks. A little blood surfaced. One more wound or less didn’t matter right now.

Then I felt him close. Too close. His warmth, his electricity, his desperation.

His arms slowly and carefully moved past my head. The bow tie loosened and slid from my face.

I opened my eyes — and froze.

The bathroom was dark, only candles everywhere, hundreds on every surface. Their light danced and cast shadows, making everything soft and intimate.

The bubble bath was ready, steaming and smelling like lavender. The temperature was perfect. The amount was perfect. Everything perfect. Loving.

“What is this?” I asked in a hoarse, shaky voice.

“Just enjoy it,” he said and gently pushed me toward the tub, his trembling hands on my shoulders.

Then he abruptly turned away, stiff, standing with his back to me and waiting.

I trembled all over and slowly, carefully undressed. Every movement pulled at my wounds and made them bleed.

The clothes fell to the floor, blood-smeared and torn.

I stood there, naked, wounded, vulnerable, and cautiously touched the water with my toe. Perfect. Exactly how I liked it.

He had remembered everything. Every detail. Every preference. My heart tightened and became soft — dangerously soft.

I slowly slid into the tub. The foam covered and wrapped around my body and my wounds. It burned — then relief came.

My tail dipped under with a quiet plop. My wings folded and fit perfectly inside.

Vox slowly, almost fearfully turned toward me, crouched beside the tub, sank to his knees, and leaned his head against the ceramic like a penitent.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently, worried.

Silence, only the soft splashing of water.

I let my wet, dripping arm sink toward him while foam slid over my skin.

He carefully took it as if I were made of glass and slowly, reverently kissed my hand, his lips lingering and trembling.

A tingling spread from the spot through my entire body.

“Vox?” I asked, curious and anxious.

Silence.

I leaned closer over the edge. Too close.

“Please tell me, or I’ll read your emotions,” I threatened flatly, without real threat.

He flinched, his entire body tensing.

“I don’t want to lose you,” the words came out strained and broken.

I froze.

“I regret killing you every damn day.” His voice broke. “And now I’m obsessed with you. Completely. Hopelessly.”

He didn’t look at me, only at my hand in his.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even real, if I haven’t already gone insane.”

His grip tightened almost painfully.

“Even though you proved it to me last night. With your body. With your warmth.”

He swallowed hard.

“And today? One nightmare after another. I see you dying again and again.”

Tears stood in his eyes. Real tears. My heart broke.

I gently pulled my hand free and stroked over his face, over where his cheeks should be.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered with a trembling voice.

I played with one of his antennas and stroked over it. Electricity flickered between them and through my body. I controlled it, absorbed it, and guided it back to Vox. A cycle. The two of us, connected.

“I’m staying with you. That’s what our deal says.”

The words tasted wrong. Empty.

He suddenly turned to me, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw it there — the desperation, the pain, the fear. It hit me like a punch to the face.

“I don’t want you to say you’re staying because of the deal!” he shouted, his voice echoing desperate, broken, and angry through the room.

“But because of me! That you’re staying with me because of me!”

His hands clenched into fists, claws digging into his palms, blood dripping to the floor.

He stood up abruptly and unsteadily, wanting to leave, to flee, to hide.

Panic exploded inside me. My film strips shot forward without thinking, wrapped around his wrist and arm, holding him tight and pulling him back hard.

“Stay,” I whispered desperately and pleadingly.

He looked at me with clenched teeth while tears now streamed openly from his eyes. Real tears.

“Stay with me,” I softened and pulled him closer. “You saved me, you protected Alva, you did everything.”

A confession to myself, to him.

“I should be nicer to you.”

He almost tore himself free, wanted to — then stopped and instead walked back to me. He sank down beside the tub onto his knees again.

“Yes, you should,” he said in a rough, broken, hopeful voice.

He leaned close, too close over me.

I grinned, couldn’t help it, grabbed him, seized his wrist and pulled him hard into the tub.

He fell in overwhelmed, surprised, and soaked. Water splashed, sloshed over, flooding the floor.

“Y/N!” he complained — but it wasn’t anger. It was relief.

“You deserve a warm bath too,” I said and stuck my tongue out.

I crawled closer through the water, through the foam. His hat floated beside us and drifted away.

He looked annoyed, but his gaze was different. Warm. Alive. Real.

I slowly unbuttoned his top, button by button, exposing his chest, his skin, his heart. Then his shirt — less fabric, more skin.

He watched me intensely, hungrily, desperately, as if memorizing every moment as though it were the last.

When everything was open, he undressed himself and tossed the wet clothes out of the tub onto the floor.

Heat rose into my face, hot and burning, my gaze slipping downward to his waistband.

“Scared?” he asked with a sly, challenging look.

My ego was caught and ignited.

I grabbed his waistband firmly and demandingly and slowly — agonizingly slowly — unbuttoned it.

He helped, his hands over mine, until only the wet, transparent boxers remained.

“Better keep those on,” I stopped him quickly — too quickly — and held his hands, mine over his.

“Why?” he asked in a deeper, rougher voice.

The redness was everywhere — my face, my neck, my chest.

“Otherwise… accidents happen,” the words came out halting and unsure.

I quickly looked away, unable to endure his dangerous, hungry, demanding bedroom gaze.

If he knew about the accident from back then. He must never find out. Never.

He reacted, looked away, and respected it for me. He stopped.

Instead, he slowly and deliberately sank deeper into the tub and pulled me with his arms.

I lay warm, cozy, and safe on him. My body fit perfectly against his. My tail wrapped tightly and possessively around his leg, my wings spreading slightly and enveloping both of us.

His hand gently and tenderly cupped my cheek and pulled my face close to his, only centimeters apart. His breath was warm and electric on my skin.

We looked into each other’s eyes intensely. No words were needed.

“I love you,” he whispered in a broken, vulnerable, real voice. So damn real.

And in that moment — in that one moment — I believed him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ 𓆩❤︎𓆪 ᯤ

Autor's Note:

Aww! I love it!

Tell me, what do you think about Vox beeing a little softy in this story?

More Vox:

Overview Page

Tabel of content | Chapter 21 I Chapter 22 I Chapter 23-> up coming

[bagofrice]

OMG I LOVE THIS CHAPTERRR, YEARNING VOX FOR LIFEEE

[9kaytor7-deactivated20260322]

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 7. 𝖰𝗎𝗂𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗈 𝖰𝗎𝗈

✶ SUMMARY: Quid pro quo a Latin phrase meaning “this for that” describing a exchange where one benefit is given return for another. (im lazy to make a better summary)

✶ WARNINGS/TAGS: Blood and Injury (nothing too graphic) Panic attacks, Musical number...

✶ WORDCOUNT: 14,8𝗄

✶ NOTE: I'm changing my style of writing a bit. Trying to be less perfect and have more dialouge. Love the Regent x Vox moments in this one AHHHH (Atp we gonna make a damn ship name give ideas, mines: Crownstatic?)

✶ PROOFREAD BY: none for this chapter <3

MASTERLIST ✶ PLAYLIST ✶ AO3

Avoiding one member of your family had once felt like a childish act of protest; avoiding two while knowing the third had turned away from you first - felt like slow self-inflicted exile.

You couldn’t look at Charlie, not because you didn’t want to but because something inside you seized every time you tried, a tight, invisible band cinching around your ribs until breathing itself became a careful, measured task.

Nights offered no mercy. Sleep came in shallow fragments, your body twisting through tangled sheets while your mind replayed the same blood-soaked memory with cruel precision: you slicing her arm, over and over.

Like a cracked gramophone needle grinding into a ruined record, the shrill repetition making your temples throb and your eyes burn long before tears ever had the decency to fall.

So you worked.

You worked the way wounded animals hide - by motion, by noise, by never allowing stillness the chance to catch up.

Noxbert tried, at first, to keep your schedule humane, leaving that familiar hour of empty space between obligations, a quiet pocket he always insisted you needed to unwind, but you cut through those gaps without hesitation, instructing him to fill them, then fill the edges, then the margins too.

Petty matters you once dismissed with a wave of your hand suddenly demanded personal oversight. Minor reports that could have waited days - all of it became urgent, necessary, immediate.

Paperwork stacked like barricades. Meetings blurred into one another until time stopped feeling linear and instead became a long, continuous stretch of obligation, measured only by the dull ache behind your eyes and the stiffness settling into your shoulders.

It helped, in the blunt, numbing way of pressing ice to a bruise. If you were working, you weren’t thinking; if you were surrounded by tasks, you weren’t alone with memory.

More importantly, you didn’t see them.

Days passed, more than a few, fewer than you wanted to count; marked only by the growing disarray of your room and the way your reflection looked incrementally more worn each time you caught it in passing glass.

The hotel became a place you moved through like a ghost with an agenda, present in body but absent in every other sense.

And so the days folded into each other, indistinct and heavy, until nearly two weeks had slipped past, measured only by the deepening hollows beneath your eyes and the growing pile of unattended feelings.

There were evenings, if they could still be called, that in a place where time bent strangely when you returned from yet another failed attempt to negotiate your way back into the castle, pride swallowed and hope worn thin.

Satan had been immovable, almost amused in his refusal, insisting you were “more useful where you are,” as though exile were a management strategy and not a sentence. Those walks back always felt longer than they were, your steps heavy, thoughts grinding in tired circles.

You would enter through the hotel doors already half-turned toward the staircase, intent on disappearing before anyone could stop you, but Husk was persistent in the quiet, unspoken way of bartenders who have seen too much.

He’d already be watching, a glass in hand, posture casual but eyes sharp, and without a word he’d offer a drink like it was simply the next logical step in a routine neither of you had officially agreed to.

Every time, you meant to refuse. Every time, you didn’t. You would veer toward the bar instead, trading the promise of sleep for the burn of something amber and unforgiving sliding down your throat.

Sometimes Angel drifted over in a blur of perfume and forced brightness, laughter spilling too loudly, gestures too animated, the performance just a shade too polished to be real, and Cherri followed like a spark, all color and motion and restless energy; yet even together they never quite crossed the invisible boundary around you.

Their conversations bent away at the last second, curling around your space instead of entering it, like water diverting around a stone lodged stubbornly in the middle of a stream.

And sometimes he would join too.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the slow warmth sitting low in your stomach and softening the hard edges of the day. The stale layering of nicotine in your lungs. The sheer exhaustion that made everything feel a second too slow, a shade too heavy, like the world had dipped underwater and sound had to travel further to reach you.

Paperwork still clung to your mind in ghostly columns and signatures, Satan’s voice echoed in the back of your skull with that infuriatingly composed cadence, and some ridiculous Goetic rumor replayed in fragments… but all of it felt distant compared to the presence at your side.

Husk’s voice drifted in and out of focus across the bar, low and gravel-edged as he rambled about alcohol like it was an old friend he both respected and resented, polishing a glass with the kind of absent precision that came from years of repetition. You nodded at the right moments without really hearing him, because your intoxicated attention kept circling back, helpless and unashamed, to him.

Trying to define him felt like trying to pin down a live wire with bare hands; he was noise wrapped in polish, ego given sentience.

During the day, your interactions with him had always been a collision course, sharp words traded with surgical precision, each of you instinctively zeroing in on the other’s weakest seams just to watch the reaction spark.

But here… in the low amber glow of the bar, he seemed… like a version of himself running on an alternate setting, as if someone had reached behind the glass of his grin and flipped a hidden switch, or cut a cable that powered the louder, crueler parts of him.

The arrogance was still there, the self-importance threaded through every movement, but it was muted, redirected into something almost – dangerously - neighboring to consideration.

It didn’t make him less of a bastard; it just made him a different flavor of one. And that near-gentleness appearing, unsettled you more than the shouting ever had.

Your head rested on your folded arms against the bar, posture loose with fatigue, which left you with the perfect angle to look up through your lashes without moving anything else.

It was a quiet, indulgent vantage point, one that made observation feel almost secret, even though you were only inches away.

You tracked the subtle shifts in his posture when he leaned back, the way his shoulders rolled in a stretch, the faint flicker of expression across his screen when Husk said something dry enough to earn it.

Every detail felt amplified, like your senses had narrowed their focus down to just this - him, the smoke, the heat of the bar, the slow pulse in your own veins.

You should look away.

You knew that in the same detached, logical part of your mind that handled schedules and politics.

But your gaze lingered anyway, dipping, climbing, tracing, curiosity sliding into something heavier, warmer, a pull that had nothing to do with scheme and everything to do with the way proximity made your skin feel a size too small. There was something dangerous about how still you stayed, how openly you watched, like you were daring him to notice, to call you out – to snap.

Instead, you just breathed him in again, slow and quiet, letting the haze of smoke and heat and exhaustion blur the line between caution and want, aware on some instinctive level that you were inching closer to something that could burn - and not moving back in the slightest.

It felt like standing at the edge of something you knew had teeth and leaning forward regardless, compelled by the simple, fatal urge to understand what might happen if you reached out just a little further - because curiosity, as the saying went:

Killed the cat.

As much as you would have given to be anywhere but sunk into the living room sofa, you didn’t have a real alternative, and that helplessness sat heavier than your own body.

Noxbert had made an honest attempt to dig up some errand, some diplomatic nuisance, some meaningless stack of obligations that could justify your absence from the hotel, but the day had come up empty, and you had nothing resembling a hobby to serve as an excuse to wander off on your own. The other ways you might have distracted yourself… were off the table for now, leaving you stranded in the worst presence possible:

Charlie’s.

Her voice carried through the room, bright and animated as she stood near the center, gesturing with open hands like she was trying to physically shape hope out of the air, and you didn’t dare look at her for longer than a fraction of a second.

The scar was healed, technically - regeneration had done its job - but it remained etched across her like a memory that refused to fade, pale and unmistakable, and every time your gaze so much as brushed it, something in your chest seized.

It felt like thorns had taken root behind your ribs, twisting tighter - nausea rolled low in your stomach, sharp and humiliating, as though your body itself rejected the sight.

So you kept your head down and focused on your hands, on the small, controllable damage there.

The skin around your nails was raw and uneven, chewed and torn into tender crescents that stung in the open air, and you worried at them without thinking, picking and pulling until a fresh sting flared and a bead of red welled up.

The sight of it grounded you in a way nothing else in the room did, your pupils narrowing as your attention tunneled down to that single point of color, that simple, understandable pain. You brought your finger to your mouth on instinct, tasting iron as you sucked the spot clean, wincing at the metallic sharpness that should have been familiar by now but still made your jaw tighten.

The cycle repeated, quiet and compulsive, your world shrinking to skin and breath and the faint hum in your ears, until Charlie’s voice cut through the fog much closer than before.

“Are you listening to me?”

You startled hard enough that your shoulders jerked, your head snapping up before you could stop yourself, and there she was: head tilted, concern softening her expression as she said your name like it might break if she handled it wrong.

Your eyes betrayed you for a split second, flicking to the scar before you yanked them away, latching onto a crooked pattern in the rug as if it were suddenly fascinating.

You nodded quickly, a small, strained sound slipping from your throat in place of actual words, the gesture automatic, desperate to smooth over the moment, to make it seem like you were present, like you weren’t quietly unraveling just a few feet away.

“Might need to install some new ears for this one, ha!” Alastor chimed, his voice bright and syrup-smooth as ever, the joke tossed into the room like a coin he fully expected someone to scramble for.

No one did.

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic or shocked; it was the tired, collective quiet of people who had simply chosen not to engage, and that, more than any insult, seemed to needle him. The corners of his smile stretched a touch wider, too polished to be natural, as his gaze slid sideways and landed on Vox.

From the moment Vox had stepped into the room at Charlie’s request: gathering, as she called it.

Alastor had been circling him conversationally, prodding, poking, laying out little verbal traps disguised as pleasantries.

Yet the banter had been entirely one-sided, a performance without a partner. Vox hadn’t so much as glanced at him, hadn’t crackled with static or flashed a single barbed retort, which was strange enough to feel like a glitch in reality.

He stood there with his usual sharp posture, screen-face dimmer than normal, attention seemingly elsewhere, as though Alastor were nothing more than background noise. No sparks of irritation, no smug electrical twitch…

Nothing.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed into thin red slits, ears angling back just slightly as his smile held, brittle at the edges.

Something had shifted in Vox, and he could smell it the way a predator scented a change in the wind.

Before he could dig his claws in further, Charlie clapped her hands together in the middle of the room, the sound bright.

Everyone flinched anyway. It wasn’t surprise so much as the universal, reflexive response of ‘Oh Satan, what now…’

“Thank you everybody for coming!” she beamed, rocking slightly on her heels with barely contained excitement. “I’m so excited for this idea that Vaggi and Dad helped me put together. It’s going to be a really fun way for us to spend more time together!”

A low, theatrical groan slipped from somewhere near the couches, Angel, most likely, while Husk muttered into his drink, “Last time she said that, I ended up in a trust fall with a guy who has eight knives.”

Vaggi stepped forward and handed Charlie a box that looked like it had lost a fight with a craft store. It was wrapped in festival colors, glitter catching the light, little cutout butterflies and aggressively cheerful notes glued to every available surface. Something about it radiated forced bonding.

Charlie took it with reverence and gave it an eager shake, the sound of folded paper rattling inside drawing everyone’s attention whether they wanted it or not. “I’ll come to you, you will reach inside the box and pull out a piece of paper. Read the name that’s written for yourself.”

Charlie’s instruction lingered in the air and for a moment the only sound in the room was the faint rustle of paper being unfolded, the soft drag of claws, fingers, and talons creasing delicate slips.

Vox looked down first, ever efficient, the motion precise and economical as he opened his paper with two fingers like he was reviewing a contract rather than participating in a bonding exercise. The glow of his screen dimmed a notch as the name registered. His shoulders rolling back as if he’d just adjusted an invisible tie. When he looked up again, his expression was curated neutrality.

A few steps away, Alastor unfolded his slip with theatrical delicacy, grin already in place, but the moment his eyes scanned the name, something sharp and electric snapped behind them. One eye twitched - not enough to break the smile, but enough to strain it - his pupils narrowing into pinpricks.

Lucifer, by contrast, had been slouched in easy indifference, slip dangling between his fingers, until he actually bothered to read it. Then, almost unconsciously, he straightened. Subtle correction of posture, like a king reminded of a responsibility he couldn’t afford to treat like a joke.

And then there was you.

The paper felt wrong in your hand from the moment you unfolded it, the edges too sharp, the weight disproportionate to its size, as if the name written there carried gravity all its own.

When your eyes landed on it, your breath caught - not loud, not dramatic, just a small, stolen hitch that tightened your chest. Heat crawled up your neck as if someone had whispered a secret directly against your skin, and suddenly you were acutely aware of the room, of where he stood, of the faint ozone tang that always seemed to follow him like a signature.

Your fingers curled slightly around the slip, crinkling it before you forced them to loosen, smoothing the paper like you could smooth your expression along with it. Your pulse had picked up, an uneven rhythm that thudded behind your ribs, and you hated how your gaze tried to drift in his direction on instinct, like a compass needle pulled to magnetic north. You kept your head down a fraction too long, pretending to reread the name, committing every letter to memory even though it had already carved itself somewhere much deeper.

Across the room, blissfully unaware Charlie beamed at all of you, convinced this was working exactly as planned, while tension threaded through the group.

Vox spoke first, voice dry, edged with his usual electronic distortion. “And now what?”

Before Charlie could answer, Alastor leaned slightly into the space between them, grin stretched wide enough to show teeth. “Oh, don’t tell me the illustrious Vox requires further instruction. Should we fetch a diagram? Perhaps a tutorial program?” His tone was honeyed mockery, every word placed with surgical precision.

Vox didn’t even turn his head. No spark, no retort, not even the courtesy of eye contact; just a deliberate, infuriating lack of reaction, like Alastor had spoken into dead air.

Alastor’s smile twitched at the corner.

Lucifer, watching the exchange with open amusement, let out a soft chuckle and tilted his head toward Alastor. “Careful, Radio,” he drawled, voice smooth with lazy delight, “you keep trying that hard and someone might mistake it for effort.”

Alastor’s gaze slid to him, grin sharpening. “Perish the thought, Your Majesty. I would never compete with your natural talent for being effortlessly insufferable.”

Charlie clapped her hands once, the sound bright and sharp, slicing through the brewing tension. “Okay! So! That name you just read?” She held up her own slip like a prize. “That is the person you’ll be giving a Secret Satan to!”

You blinked, the words taking a second to land through the haze in your head. “Secret… Satan?” you echoed, the name feeling strange in your mouth.

Angel leaned sideways in his seat, four arms gesturing at once. “Is that, like, Christmas but make it trauma?”

“A what now?” Alastor repeated smoothly, though the glint in his eyes said he absolutely didn’t intend to enjoy whatever this turned into.

“It’s like Secret Santa! But, y’know- us. You’ll do something nice for that person. A gift, a gesture, something thoughtful.” She rocked slightly on her heels, then added with bright finality, “During the week we’ll have some group or team exercises to build up bonding and get to know each other more. I’ll make sure everybody will be available for it.”

Silence.

It fell so immediate and so complete it almost rang, the kind that didn’t mean agreement but the exact opposite; like the second after a bomb landed but before the sound caught up.

Husk was the one who broke.

He dragged a claw down his face, ears twitching in tired resignation, the paper already crumpling slightly between his fingers. “Fine,” he muttered, “I’ll do it. Don’t expect glitter and a damn musical number outta me, though.”

Angel perked up instantly, pointing at him. “Aww, c’mon, Whiskers, you’d look cute covered in glitter-”

“Finish that sentence,” Husk warned flatly. (a/n: I told you we needed more glitter.)

Vox adjusted the line of his sleeve with deliberate precision, screen casting a soft, “Of course I’ll participate,” he said smoothly, tone almost pleasantly neutral. “If the Princess believes it will improve morale, who am I to stand in the way of progress?” The faintest curl of something smug touched his mouth, polished cooperation wrapped so neatly it almost passed for sincerity. Charlie beamed at his enthusiasm.

Across the room, Lucifer watched with open amusement, while you could feel the tension humming like static along the edges of the space, everyone speaking over each other now.

Alastor didn’t raise his voice.

He simply laughed, soft and bright, a sound that didn’t match the way his eyes had gone sharp. “Oh, my dear,” he said, tipping his head toward Charlie with theatrical fondness, “I do adore enthusiasm. It’s such a charming substitute for feasibility.” His smile never faltered, but there was iron underneath it now. “However, I do believe I’ll abstain.”

Charlie blinked. “W-what? But it’s for-”

“-bonding, yes, yes, absolutely delightful,” he cut in, already turning on his heel, coat swaying with the motion. “Do enjoy your forced camaraderie. I’ll be cheering from a very comfortable distance.”

“Yeah, walk away Bambi!” Lucifer added, Alastor gritted his teeth even more.

“Alastor-!” Charlie called after him, but he was already walking, unhurried, cane tapping once against the floor as he exited, the door clicking shut behind him with a final, polite sound that somehow felt more defiant than a slam.

Charlie inhaled.

“Okay!” she chirped, clapping once, the sound a little too bright in the wake of that exit. “So, as I said… during the week we’re going to have some group and team exercises to build up more bonding and actually get to know each other. I’ll make sure everybody will be available for it.”

You shifted your weight, fingers curling slightly at your sides as you cleared your throat, already reaching for the safest shield you had. “Uh- I might have meetings and things, so-”

“You won’t,” Charlie said gently, almost apologetically, “I had it all sorted out.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Your head lifted, eyes narrowing a fraction. “What?”

She held your gaze, “I made sure you wouldn’t be able to keep avoiding me. Or… us. In general.”

It didn’t feel like an accusation. That almost made it worse.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the instinct to bolt. For a moment it looked like you might argue, might push back out of reflex alone - but the fight drained before it could fully form. Your shoulders sagged a fraction.

“You know what,” you muttered, a breath of air leaving you in something that almost resembled a humorless laugh, “fair play.” You tilted your head slightly, gaze dropping to the slip of paper still in your hand before lifting again. “I’ll indulge in this. For work reasons. To do my job.”

Your tone was flat, rehearsed.

“No other reason.”

But your eyes betrayed you.

They flickered, brief, involuntary; across the room to where Vox stood, posture composed as ever, screen glowing in that steady, unreadable way of his. The glance lasted less than a second, but it was enough to feel like you’d exposed something fragile, something you didn’t even have a name for.

“Great!” she said, brightness returning full force as she clapped her hands again, reclaiming the room inch by inch. “This is going to be good. You’ll see!”

By the time the first week bled into the second, Charlie’s “bonding exercises” had stopped sounding like a suggestion and started feeling like a scheduled inevitability, each evening carved out with the same relentless cheer that made refusal feel like kicking a puppy. One attempt after another unfolded in the lounge, all of them supposedly designed to help everyone “connect,” to find some scrap of common ground sturdy enough to build a thoughtful Secret Satan gift on, though in practice it felt more like controlled detonation in a velvet-lined room.

Monopoly night was where the illusion of control died completely.

The coffee table had been dragged to the center, the board spread out like a battlefield map, its cheerful colors a violent contrast to the personalities hunched around it. The overhead lights reflected off polished tokens and glossy cards, little plastic houses standing in neat rows that would not stay neat for long.

Charlie had insisted on teams at first; that lasted all of three minutes before territorial instincts overrode cooperation and everyone defaulted to personal battles.

Alastor, who had loudly declared he had “better ways to spend an evening than simulating capitalism,” had still somehow ended up seated at the table, cane hooked over the back of his chair, smile stretched just a little too wide.

The only reason he was there at all was because Lucifer had taken the empty seat beside him with a look of pointed innocence, and the competitive glint that sparked in Alastor’s eyes had been impossible to resist. If he was going to suffer, he was at least going to make it entertaining.

Vox, for his part, treated the game like a corporate acquisition.

Within the first circuit of the board, properties had begun disappearing under his control with quiet, methodical efficiency, hotels rising in ruthless little clusters while everyone else was still arguing about railroads.

You, meanwhile, had been handed the role of banker. Charlie’s attempt at “neutral responsibility”. Which in practice meant you were buried in pastel paper money, fingers thumbing through fake bills while real arguments detonated inches from your face. The irony of being the financial authority in a game built on fictional currency was not lost on you, but it did give you something to focus on besides the rising volume.

Husk had been sent to jail so many times it stopped being misfortune and started feeling personal, his token barely making it halfway around the board before getting slammed back behind bars.

Angel had promptly declared the jail square “not so bad, actually,” and made a theatrical show of joining him there whenever possible, draping himself across the edge of the board with exaggerated boredom and commentary that only made Husk grumble harder.

Cherri, true to form, had lost interest almost immediately and was sprawled sideways on the couch, chin in her hand, watching the chaos with the lazy amusement of someone attending a live-action soap opera.

At the center of the storm, Charlie and Vaggi hovered like overworked referees, sorting Chance and Community Chest cards with tight smiles, stepping in whenever voices rose too sharply or hands started gesturing a little too aggressively over the board. They weren’t preventing conflict so much as keeping it from turning physical.

Lucifer leaned forward in his chair, wings tense at his back, one gloved hand braced flat on the table as though physically grounding himself in reality. His other hand hovered over the board, finger stabbing toward a square with sharp, incredulous emphasis.

“I didn’t stand on your property!”

Alastor looked like he was having the time of his life.

“I beg to differ, my king,” he said smoothly, voice syrup-thick with false politeness. One clawed finger hovered just above the board, circling the space without touching it. “You are very clearly sitting on the Radio Demon’s spot.”

Lucifer stared at him, jaw tightening. “That is not your property.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Oh, but it is. Bought and paid for. Receipts available upon request.”

“You moved the token,” Lucifer shot back, wings giving a sharp, irritated twitch. “You absolutely moved it when I wasn’t looking.”

Alastor placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Sir, I am wounded. Accused of cheating at a wholesome family activity.”

“You are so fucking infuriating and to think I- ugh!” Lucifer dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose like he was physically restraining himself from flipping the board.

Meanwhile, Alastor’s grin only widened, eyes bright with predatory amusement as he tapped the edge of the disputed square with one claw.

“Rent, your highness,” he said pleasantly. “Or shall we discuss foreclosure?”

The argument on the other side of the table had risen to such a sustained, grating pitch that it no longer sounded like individual voices but a single, continuous wall of noise.

Vox sat beside you, posture unusually stiff, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before he stopped himself, the screen of his face flickering faintly with visual static that betrayed his thinning patience. His gaze stayed fixed forward, but his expression furrowing in a way that made it clear he was one more accusation away from short-circuiting.

“I wish I had earmuffs to drone this out,” he muttered, voice pitched low enough to be for you alone, though the irritation in it buzzed like a live wire.

You didn’t look away from the board, absently straightening a stack of pastel bills in front of you. “Can’t you, like, deafen?”

Vox turned his head a fraction, one brow lifting. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be able to play the game and know when it’s my turn.”

You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Can’t you put on, like, subtitles or some shit?”

His screen-face angled toward you fully now, disbelief flattening his tone. “Do I look like a telenovela to you?”

Your mouth twitched. “I mean, you look like the tele part.”

A quiet, surprised chuckle slipped out of him before he could stop it, the sound low and brief, like it had escaped through a crack in his usual composure.

You nudged the dice a little closer to your side of the table. “I’ll tell you when it is, and you can undeafen.”

He studied you for a second, then gave a small, conceding tilt of his head, like this was a business arrangement he could live with. “Alright…” A beat passed, his fingers tapping once against the table again close to yours. “Can I… ask for a loan?”

“No.”

The next attempt at “bonding” came with cheap canvases, and the faint chemical smell of paint clinging to the air, as Charlie announced that everyone would be painting each other’s portraits based on another round of blindly drawn names. Easels have been placed and jars of cloudy water set out beside mismatched palettes.

You sat hunched over your canvas, brush hovering midair as you squinted across the room at a very specific, infuriatingly distinctive deer-shaped silhouette. Translating Alastor’s sharp, theatrical angles and perpetual grin into something that didn’t look like a crime against anatomy was proving impossible; the longer you stared, the worse it got, until the figure on your canvas devolved into a vaguely antlered, aggressively red blob with an expression that looked less charmingly sinister and more like it had crawled out of a child’s nightmare.

Your tongue caught at the corner of your mouth in deep concentration as your gaze flicked from your subject to the canvas and back again. “I’m not the best at this…” you murmured under your breath, voice low and distracted, as if admitting it too loudly might make the painting worse out of spite.

“Hm. That looks fine to me.”

Vox had leaned in from the stool beside you, close enough that you could feel the faint, static-tinged hum of him at your side, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he angled his screen toward your canvas. One eye narrowed while the other widened, the expression oddly clinical, like he was running a visual scan to determine whether your abstract horror qualified as a recognizable likeness.

Your eyes widened slightly at his verdict, pupils dilating in surprise as you looked up at him. “Is… that a compliment?” The tentative smile that pulled at your mouth carried more disbelief than hope, as though you were testing the idea out loud.

Vox’s screen snapped toward you a second too late, as if only just realizing how close he’d drifted. He cleared his throat, a small, artificial sound then straightened abruptly on his stool, turning back to his own canvas with exaggerated focus. “No,” he said, the word slipping out through his teeth. “I said it was fine. Didn’t say it was nice.”

He dipped his brush into his palette with more force than necessary, dragging a few sharp strokes across his painting before his gaze flicked sideways again, catching you still watching him. The glow of his screen shifted, tinting a faint, telltale lighter blue.

“Just meant,” he added, voice lower now, almost defensive, “it captures the radio-headed slut perfectly.”

You leaned back on the stool until it balanced on two legs, tail curling loosely around the stool’s legs, your posture deceptively relaxed while your attention remained fixed across the room.

Lucifer and Alastor had migrated far from the painting stations, their “artistic differences” having devolved into open warfare near the far wall, bright smears of color marking the battlefield around them.

Your head tilted as you watched them, eyes narrowing in analytical curiosity rather than concern. “Why do you two carry enough tension to rupture tectonic plates,” you muttered, “Feels like I missed a chapter.”

A wet splat echoed faintly from across the room, followed by Lucifer’s indignant snarl and Alastor’s delighted, static-laced laughter. You didn’t look away, just grimaced slightly when a streak of violent yellow joined the red already matting into the Radio Demon’s hair.

“Guess you missed a part in your notes where it said about 70 years of rivalry.” Vox simply uttered.

“Not in my files,” you added, almost absently. “Hell’s.”

Beside you, Vox’s brush stopped moving.

“Hells?” he repeated, tone sharpening.

You finally shifted, one arm lifting as you gestured vaguely through the air, and a holographic book shimmered into existence between you.

“Everything that happens here gets logged,” you explained, voice casual, almost bored with the enormity of it. “Deals, wars, alliances, personal histories while you’re active. Hell keeps receipts.”

“When a sinner’s gone for good,” You snapped your fingers, the book shuddered, then burst apart in a silent flare of light, fragments dissolving into nothing. “their record goes with them.”

The room still sounded like a paint-based homicide in progress, but Vox had gone completely motionless beside you. His screen glow dimmed, then sharpened, attention locked squarely on you.

“You can access all of that…” he said quietly.

“I can access everything. Comes with the crown.”

His gaze dipped, unfocused for a second, in his hand replacing the brush was the unmistakable outline of a crown forming. His pupils widened, light intensifying, hunger bleeding through the polished surface he usually wore so well. A low, electronic chuckle slipped from his vents, distorted at the edges, threaded with something old and ambitious.

‘And when I look into your future,’A distant smoothing voice, something almost intimate, in Vox’s mind whispered, ‘…it’s the crown that I see!’

He lingered on the image, indulging the fantasy of weight in his hands, of metal and authority fitting where it always should have been, until your voice cut clean through it.

“Let me see yours.”

The crown shattered back into reality; brush, palette, canvas, just as your hand entered his field of vision.

Vox turned sharply, nearly knocking his stool off balance as he caught your wrist mid-motion, stopping you from rotating the easel toward yourself. His grip was firm, fingers cool and smooth against your warmer skin, and a faint flicker of static snapped between you on contact.

“No.” he said, flat and immediate.

Your eyelids lowered to a half-lidded, unimpressed stare. “Oh, come on. I won’t laugh-”

He arched a brow.

“-you probably have more artistic talent than me.”

“What makes you think that?” His tone was dry, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Instead of pulling away, you leaned in further, stubbornness settling into your posture as your fingers tried to tip the canvas anyway. “Don’t know. Gut feeling. Now let me see!”

“No.” His hand tightened just enough to be a warning, the word firmer this time.

You held his gaze, a silent standoff passing between you, tension coiling tight and quiet. Then the corner of your mouth lifted.

Vox’s eyes widened.

From the floor beside his stool, a thorned vine burst upward without a sound, coiling around the base of the easel and wrenching it sideways in one smooth, decisive motion, turning the canvas toward you before he could react.

“WAIT-”

The protest tore out of him too late.

You faced the painting, eyes widening as recognition hit, while Vox released your hand as though the contact had suddenly burned. He twisted his screen away, angling himself sharply, but not before you felt the faint heat radiating from his vents brush your skin.

The portrait was you.

Color softened every edge, bleeding gentle light into your features in a way reality never did. You looked almost celestial, something you decidedly were not.

The brushwork wasn’t perfect, some strokes hesitant, others uneven, colors blending where they shouldn’t; but the overall effect was unbearably tender. Your profile, caught mid-focus, eyes trained on your own canvas, lips parted just enough for the tip of your tongue to press against the corner in concentration.

So thats was why he had been looking at you.

He had captured the slight scrunch of your nose when you focused or unconsciously did after taking a swig of burning alchohol, the curve of your lashes from the side when you fell asleep at the bar, the quiet intensity you never noticed yourself wearing.

It was intimate in a way that felt accidental and deeply intentional all at once.

Like he’d seen something you never meant to show.

You didn’t speak at first. The room noise dulled, voices turning to a distant hum under the rush in your ears. The corner of your lip twitched.

“Is that me?”

Vox’s gaze shifted back a fraction, cautious, braced for mockery, but what he found stalled him.

Your gaze was already angled towards his.

Your eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide, something heated and unmistakably sinful pooling there, raw and unfiltered.

Sin lived in that look, bold and unapologetic, but it wasn’t empty hunger.

Beneath it, threading through the heat, was something disarming - softness, almost wonder, like you were seeing yourself through his eyes and didn’t know what to do with the gentleness of it.

Your smirk curved slow and dangerous, all sharp edges and promise, while the outer corners of your eyes creased with something quieter, warmer. It was contradiction made flesh; temptation and tenderness occupying the same breath, predator and something almost fragile sharing the same gaze.

For a brief, stuttering second, Vox’s screen flickered, systems straining to categorize the look and failing. Whatever passed across your face wasn’t loud enough to name, only felt… like the promise of something that could be gentle or ruinous, and no clear line between the two.

He found his gills gasping for air underneath his shirt.

Oh, what a sinful sight you were.

Your sudden laugh snapped the tension like a wire pulled too tight.

“Pfft- why is my nose like that?” you burst out, pointing at the canvas, shoulders shaking with bright, unrestrained amusement.

Vox blinked. His display held that faint, tinted light blue, the color deepening unevenly across the glass. “You said you wouldn’t laugh…”

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, still grinning, voice softening as your gaze dragged back over the painting. “You definitely have a secret talent…” Each word left your mouth slow, lips shaping the syllables with absentminded care. His eyes locked onto the movement, unblinking, while warm air pulsed from his vents against your side in uneven bursts.

You finally turned your head toward him. He went still.

“You should keep it hidden.”

The sentence landed gently, but it hit like a stone through glass. His thoughts seemed to fracture behind his screen, attention snagging on the curve of your smile: mischief laced through something almost fond.

You kept giggling under your breath, studying the portrait again like you’d stumbled on a secret you planned to pocket.

“You-” he started, voice tightening.

You only laughed harder.

A blur of motion- his hand shot out, seizing the blue paint tube he’d set down moments ago. Before you could react, he squeezed, flinging a bold streak of color across your canvas. Blue swallowed the image in one violent splash, droplets freckling your cheek.

Your smile dropped. You stared at the ruined painting, the faint outline of the red, cat-like caricature still barely visible beneath the smear.

“THE FUCK?!-”

You spun toward him. He held the paint tube aloft like a trophy, sharp grin splitting wide across his screen.

“Payback.”

“Oh, is it now?!”

Your hand moved just as fast, fingers dipping into a thick pool of red on your palette. In one smooth motion, you pressed your paint-slick palm right against his screen.

The print stamped there; bold, dripping, unmistakable.

His eyes blinked once behind the glass, momentarily obscured by the translucent smear, static crackling faintly at the edges as he processed the contact.

“You got some screen wipers?” you giggled, tilting your head, the corners of your lips twitching with mischief.

“Oh, it’s on,” he declared, voice low and confident, the faint static of his vents threading through the words like a warning.

From that moment on, there were no gentle strokes, no careful detailing. Your canvases remained untouched in any traditional sense.

Because why bother, when throwing paint at each other was far more satisfying?

Swipes of red, streaks of blue, splatters catching on skin and cheeks, laughter bouncing off the walls and mixing with the occasional sinister snicker. Behind your easels, the two of you were untouchable, a chaotic private world shielded from the others’ eyes.

By the time the circle formed to present everyone’s “masterpieces,” it was obvious neither of you had a single completed painting. You stood with your canvas tilted slightly, smirk tugging across your lips, blue paint smeared in your hair.

Vox, trapped in red streaks from your handprints along his body glared daggers back at you, his screen flickering in irritation.

Charlie’s latest team‑building masterpiece had been “Movie night.”

The living room had settled into an unfamiliar quiet. Lights dimmed, bodies draped over couches and armchairs, the glow of the television washing everything in cool blue. It should’ve been relaxing.

If the movie didn’t make you want to claw your eyes out.

You were slouched deep into the couch, legs stretched out, one arm hooked under your head as a makeshift pillow. Your gaze stayed fixed on the screen, but your expression had long since curdled into a grimace. Blue light flickered across your face, reflecting in your eyes as two brightly colored animated sharks confessed their feelings in voices so saccharine it made your teeth hurt.

“This movie is stupid,” you muttered flatly.

“You are stupid.”

Your eyes slid sideways without moving your head, the look sharp enough to cut.

Vox sat pressed into the cushion beside you. He had somehow acquired a full shark onesie, hood pulled up so the plush fin flopped over the back of his head, framing his screen. In his arms, he clutched a mechanical shark plush like it was a priceless heirloom.

You scoffed, turning your head just enough to glare at him properly. “You look like a children’s aquarium gift shop exploded on you.”

“And yet,” he said smoothly, hugging the plush a little tighter, “I’m not the one losing a fight to a cartoon.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, then leaned a fraction closer, shoulder angling toward him. The room was too calm to break with raised voices, and annoyingly you didn’t want to be the one who ruined it. Your voice dropped to a whisper, low and venom-laced, meant only for him.

“It’s a love story about two animated sharks,” you hissed, eyes flicking back to the screen where the couple slow‑swam through glowing coral. “Charlie picked it because she can’t handle anything that isn’t animated like a damn fairy tale. She’s so fucking childish.”

Vox’s screen brightened a shade, amusement glitching at the edges. He leaned in just as subtly, your shoulders nearly touching now, his voice a quiet murmur threaded with static.

“And yet here you are,” he said. “Watching it. Quietly. Like a well‑behaved little royal.”

Your jaw tightened, “Still fucking stupid.”

“Okay, first of all, don’t insult sharks like that,” Vox said, turning his screen toward you so abruptly the flare of light made you squint. A laugh crackled through his speakers as he dimmed it back down. “And as much as I hate Charlie’s glittery enthusiasm and aggressively romantic movie picks, I actually approve of this one. The motif is inspirational.”

He gestured vaguely at the television, where the animated ocean shimmered in oversaturated blues.

Vox launched into a low, earnest ramble about migratory symbolism, partnership arcs, and “apex predator representation in media,” hands moving just enough to nearly drop the plush tucked under his arm.

You blinked at him, trying to decide if this was a bit.

“You really like sharks, huh?”

He looked at you with a flat, unblinking seriousness that stripped the sarcasm clean away. “Yes.”

Then he turned back to the screen, posture shifting as he settled in fully. The glow of the movie played across his display, and every time a shark filled the frame, his pupils widened a fraction, brightness ticking up like a system response he wasn’t bothering to hide.

You rested your head back into your palm again.

You had no idea what happened in the film for the next ten minutes. Dialogue passed, music swelled, some emotional turning point probably occurred but your attention stayed snagged on the subtle changes in his screen. The way his focus sharpened. The faint lift in his posture.

Each time his pupils dilated, you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

It was… weirdly endearing. In a pathetic way of course….

He reminded you of someone else.

The gentle banter… the rambling of their hyperfixations. The thought surfaced before you could stop it, tugging at something beneath your ribs. For a second, your chest gave a dull, unfamiliar throb.

You didn’t examine it. Just let a small smile press into your palm, gaze still fixed on him instead of the movie.

“Good to know,” you murmured under your breath, quiet enough that even he didn’t catch it.

Sinmas was creeping closer, and the relief you felt about that was almost suspicious.

It was strange.

Letting yourself feel anything at all. Your routine had loosened, the constant phantom ache in your throat gone, the invisible hand that used to squeeze your heart nowhere to be found. Even the nightmares had stopped. Stopped so completely you’d gone an entire day without remembering you’d ever had them.

That scared you more than the dreams ever did.

Because something in you - small, sharp, and patient - kept whispering that this was temporary. That when all of this ended, the quiet, the ease, the almost-happiness, everything would snap back like a stretched rubber band. That part of you dreaded it.

Another part of you couldn’t wait for things to go back.

So you settled in the middle, where you always did. Letting yourself indulge just a little longer. Just until it inevitably fell apart.

Tonight’s distraction was another “team bonding,” which in Hell translated to: competitive baking with emotional casualties.

Two long tables had been shoved together in the hotel kitchen. Ingredients covered every surface: flour already dusting the counters like fresh snow, bowls clanging, ovens preheating with low, ominous hums.

You stood at the head of your team’s table, a familiar cookbook hovering open beside you; the one the castle imps used whenever you wanted something sweet enough to rot teeth and mood alike.

Your team: Lucifer, Alastor, Husk, and Niffty.

Across the room, Vox’s team was already loud: Charlie, Cherri, Angel, Baxter… and Vox, of course, acting like this was a televised competition and he was both host and sponsor.

Vaggi had stationed herself as a judge, opting to just observe and manage the chaos from the side.

“Okay,” you said, eyes skimming the hovering recipe as the pages turned with a soft, papery whisper. “Niffty, I need stiff peaks on the egg whites. Husk, you’re on dry ingredients with her.”

Niffty snapped into a salute so sharp it looked painful. “On it, your highness! Hehehehe!” She snatched the bowl and whisk and zipped toward the fridge in a blur of pigtails and unhinged enthusiasm.

Husk didn’t bother looking up. He just gave a tired thumbs-up and reached for the flour like a man who had long ago accepted that Hell had a very specific sense of humor and he was the punchline.

You leaned closer to the book, scanning measurements, steps, timing. The filling. That was the heart of it- the part that would make or break everything. Your grip tightened slightly on the book’s spine.

“Alright, I’ll need someone on the filling…” you murmured, still reading. “Dad?”

Lucifer lit up instantly. “Yes?” The word came out hopeful, eager, a little too quick.

You froze.

It was small, barely a second, but your hands stilled on the book, a faint tremor running through your fingers before you forced them steady again. You didn’t look at him when you spoke next.

“Alastor. make the filling.”

Alastor appeared at your side like he’d been waiting for the cue, smile widening just a fraction. He leaned in, one gloved hand settling on your shoulder in a light, possessive pat, approval wrapped in politeness. The air around him crackled faintly.

“Why, of course, your highness,” he said smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”

Lucifer’s hands fumbled together in front of him, enthusiasm collapsing into uncertainty. “And- uh- well- what do I do?”

You turned a page. “What you’re best at.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

“Nothing.”

Lucifer winced but rallied with forced cheer. “Ah- well-- I could, perhaps, melt the chocolate? I’m quite good with- controlled heat.”

You gave a small shrug, still not meeting his eyes. “See if Alastor needs help.”

Lucifer hesitated, rubbing his arm where your almost-word still seemed to echo, then nodded too fast. “A-Alright.”

He moved toward Alastor’s station carefully, like someone stepping into a room where they weren’t sure they were welcome, while Alastor didn’t look up from the ingredients, only his smile sharpening as the bowl slid a little closer to his side of the counter.

You drifted to the other end of the long prep table, closer to the opposing team’s chaos, and set your bowl down with controlled precision, the metal cool beneath your palms as you began folding the batter in slow, steady turns.

The rhythmic motion should have grounded you, but your thoughts snagged elsewhere, circling that slip of the tongue from moments ago, the word you hadn’t meant to let out, the way it had almost felt natural. You scolded yourself in silence, jaw tight, eyes unfocused as the mixture thickened.

A soft whump broke your concentration.

Then another.

A pale cloud drifted down into your bowl like fresh snowfall.

You stilled, staring at the fine dust now coating the glossy surface of your batter, the smooth texture ruined by a scatter of dry clumps. For a second you just blinked, processing, before turning your head.

Vox stood at the station beside yours, sleeves metaphorically rolled, kneading dough against the floured counter with unnecessary force, every push sending another small explosion of white powder into the air. He didn’t look at you, but a sly, pixel-sharp smile curved across his screen.

“Could you possibly choose a different square meter of space to wage your flour war?” your voice low and controlled that was more threatening than shouting. You lifted the bowl slightly, showing him the damage. “You just wrecked my batter.”

He kept kneading the dough with exaggerated flair, elbows lifting high, (a/n: feeling like a Victorian man seeing ankles rn), shoulders rolling like he was performing for a camera crew only he could see

“Huh,” he said lightly, voice smooth with artificial innocence, tilting his screen just enough to acknowledge you without actually looking. “Weird. Must be interference, because all I’m detecting is loser commentary.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose. “Loser talk? Please. You’re just an egotistical prick with access to flour and an audience of imaginary fans.”

You turned back to your bowl, but the irritation didn’t dissolve, it settled low - simmering. The batter swirled thickly as you mixed, glossy and smooth… until your gaze flicked to the open flour bag by your elbow, then back to the pristine blue of his outfit.

The idea came fast.

Your fingers dipped into the bag.

The toss was almost lazy.

Flour burst against his chest and shoulders in a soft white bloom. It clung to the dark fabric of his clothes, outlined the edges of his frame, dusted his screen in a pale veil like fresh static.

His movements stalled.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head toward you.

You were already looking away, lips pressed together, shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter.

The pause stretched - then his expression shifted, surprise glitching into something sharp and delighted. He reached into the flour bag without breaking eye contact, fingers scooping deep.

You saw the motion from the corner of your eye and your stomach dropped. “Wait- wait, truce, okay? I was joking-”

You shut your eyes, one arm flying up to shield your face as your other hand lost the bowl. It slipped, hit the tile with a hollow clack, and rolled away.

…Nothing hit you.

Silence.

You cracked one eye open.

He was still standing there, arm raised, flour ready but unmoving. His grin had widened, sharp and smug, drinking in the way you’d flinched, the way your shoulders were still hunched in defense.

He hadn’t planned to throw it.

He wanted to sabotage you.

Your arm lowered slowly. You inhaled through your nose, slow and measured, flour-scented air filling your lungs, then exhaled just as controlled. “Yep,” you said evenly. “That’s it.”

His brow lifted. “That’s wh-”

A wet splat cut him off as whipped cream hit dead center on his display, sliding down in a slow, obscene drip.

You blinked.

Vox blinked, now partially frosted.

Both of you turned in eerie synchronization.

Charlie stood there, empty can in hand, shoulders bouncing with delighted giggles, eyes bright with the exact expression of someone who had just pressed a very large, very red button.

Everything unraveled after that, not in a sharp break but in a glorious, inevitable collapse - as if the night had simply been waiting for permission to lose its mind.

If anyone had scored the moment, it would’ve been something grand and absurdly elegant, strings swelling, violins liftin; Waltz of the Flowers drifting through the air while Hell’s most dysfunctional gathering descended into slow-motion culinary warfare.

Flour burst upward in soft white plumes, hanging in the light like snowfall. Eggs arced across the room in fragile, spinning trajectories, each one a doomed little planet. Milk sloshed in glossy waves over tile already slick with batter, butter skating off counters.

Alastor moved with eerie grace through the chaos, coat tails swaying as he ducked an egg Angel launched with wicked precision. The shell exploded against the wall behind him in a wet splatter. Lucifer, with all the confidence of a man who had not thought a single step ahead, dove sideways with a heroic gasp. “I’ll save you-!”

Tap.

Alastor’s cane clipped his shins with clinical efficiency.

Lucifer yelped and crumpled, clutching his leg. “I was helping!”

“How touching,” Alastor replied sweetly, already sidestepping another projectile. “Do try helping further away.”

Across the room, Cherri had both hands on a carton of milk, cackling as she dumped it straight over Husk’s head. It soaked into his fur, dripping from his ears and whiskers in miserable streams.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered, blinking through it while she howled with laughter.

You barely had time to process any of it because Charlie had decided you were her chosen target. She stood on the other side of a prep table, arm cocked back with terrifying athletic confidence, launching whipped cream in perfect, spiraling shots.

“HOW are you this accurate?!” you shouted, ducking as one sailed past your ear and detonated against a cabinet.

“Team spirit!” she called, already loading another handful.

Vox, apparently deciding this was a battle worth joining, made the critical mistake of stepping forward at speed!=

Right onto the milk-slick tile.

His foot shot out, balance gone in a split second, and he hit the floor face-first with a sharp smack, sliding a few inches through a tragic mix of dairy and flour.

There was a beat.

Then you and Charlie burst out laughing.

In the background, Niffty was shrieking at a pitch only dogs and the damned could hear, while Vaggi tried, and failed, to restore order over the sound of splattering ingredients and shouted profanity.

 Baxter, wisely and decisively, had evacuated the moment the first egg took flight. Survival instinct: impeccable.

The room filled with noise: mock outrage, cursing, breathless laughter, the wet slap of projectiles finding targets. Flour kept drifting down, soft and constant, until it really did feel like it was snowing indoors.

You broke into a sprint around the tables, shoes skidding slightly on the mess but never quite losing balance, laughter tearing out of you unchecked. Charlie chased immediately, just as breathless, just as bright, whipped cream still in her hand like a weapon of joy.

For a strange, fragile stretch of seconds, everything else fell away. The weight you usually carried, the sharp edges inside your chest, the things that waited in the quiet - went distant.

You weren’t a ruler, or a symbol, or a problem waiting to explode.

You were just running. You were having fun.

You were a kid again.

“Can’t catch me!” you yelled over your shoulder, voice rough with laughter, throwing a middle finger behind you without even looking.

“Oh yeah?!” Charlie shot back, pure delight in her voice.

You cut around the edge of another stainless-steel table, your momentum carrying you through the turn on instinct alone, soles skidding over tile glossed with spilled milk. Your hand skimmed the counter’s cold surface, fingers splaying for balance, and somehow you stayed upright, breathless laughter tearing out of you as adrenaline buzzed hot under your skin.

Behind you, Charlie followed without hesitation, bright and breathless, her laughter ringing higher than all the chaos that had filled the room minutes ago. Flour still dusted her hair like fresh snow, whipped cream streaked across her sleeve, and her smile - wide, unguarded, impossibly young - made something in your chest twist.

Her foot landed where yours had.

But you had shifted your weight.

She hadn’t.

The slip happened too fast to warn her.

Her heel slid. Her balance vanished. The sound of her hitting the floor landed a second late - loud, solid, sickening in a way no crash of dishes or thrown bowls had been. It cracked through the air and split the room clean in two.

Laughter died mid-breath. Ingredients stopped mid-flight. Even the music in your head cut to silence.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then she groaned.

You turned slowly, like the world had thickened into syrup around you. The metallic scent reached you before the sight did, sharp and unmistakable, slicing through sugar and dairy. Your eyes dropped to her as she pushed herself upright, palm slipping on the tile, the other hand brushing her forehead.

Red.

A thin line at first, then a slow trail slipping past her brow, down along her temple, catching in her lashes before falling.

Your vision tunneled.

The kitchen blurred at the edges, sound muffling into a distant, underwater hum. You didn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment she was across the room, the next your hands were on her. One at her forearm, one braced at her back, pulling her up with more force than you meant to.

“I’m okay-” she started, breathless and surprised.

You were already moving.

Your grip stayed locked around her arms as you steered her out, steps fast, purposeful, almost rough. Voices called her name behind you they felt miles away. The door to the smaller kitchen swung inward and shut behind you, muting the world to a dull, distant roar.

You sat her on a stool, hands hovering a second too long, as if letting go might make her collapse. Your eyes tracked the blood, the slow line of it, and something cold coiled under your ribs:

Fix it. Now.

You turned sharply, cabinets flying open one after another, doors slamming against tile. Your claws scraped metal handles as you tore through shelves with jerky, frantic movements. Your breath came too fast, too loud in the small space, shoulders tight enough to ache.

“Hey,” Charlie said gently behind you.

You didn’t hear her.

Another cabinet. Nothing.

You knew it was here, somewhere.

Another-

“Hey.”

Still nothing.

Then- there!

The med kit.

You yanked it down and dropped it on the counter with a hard crack, plastic bouncing once before you tore it open. Gauze ripped free under your shaking fingers, antiseptic already halfway uncapped-

“Stop.”

Your name followed, firmer. Grounding.

You froze mid-motion, shoulders locking, breath caught sharp in your chest. Slowly, like surfacing from deep water, you looked at her- not the wound.

Her.

She was watching you, not panicked, not scared- concerned. For you. As if she wasn’t the one bleeding.

“Sit down,” she said softly, but with a steadiness that left no room for argument.

Your body obeyed before your mind did. You sank down in front of her, knees hitting tile, gaze still snagging back to the blood like it might spread if you blinked.

Her hand reached out, warm and steady, wrapping around your wrist. Your skin felt cold under her touch. She squeezed gently, thumb brushing over the tremor you hadn’t noticed.

“First,” she murmured, voice low and calm in the quiet kitchen, “you need to slow down. Breathe in with me.”

Your inhale hitched, uneven, but you followed her.

“Out.”

Air left your lungs in a shaky rush.

“You always do this,” Charlie said with a soft, breathy laugh, watching you with fond recognition. “Even when we were kids and I scraped a knee, you’d look like the world was ending.”

“You were always clumsy,” you muttered, the words low and rough, more exhale than sound.

Your ears still rang faintly, adrenaline slow to drain, and your hands - still wrapped around the antiseptic bottle and folded gauze - hadn’t quite stopped trembling. You focused on the task instead of the feeling, on procedure, on something you could control.

“Yeah,” she admitted easily, tilting her head just enough to give you access. “I was.”

You moved closer, one hand steadying lightly at her jaw while the other tilted the antiseptic. The sharp, clinical scent cut through sugar and flour still clinging to the air, grounding you further. You soaked a square of gauze, the liquid seeping through, cool against your fingers before you brought it to her forehead.

“Tell me if it stings,” you murmured, voice softer now, threaded with concentration.

The first touch was careful, barely there.

You dabbed at the edge of the wound, not the center, lifting away diluted red rather than dragging it through the cut. Each motion was small, controlled: press, lift, rotate to a clean patch of gauze. Blood thinned to pink, then to faint rust smears. You wiped away what had dried in her lashes with the corner of a fresh pad, thumb bracing her temple so you wouldn’t pull.

She didn’t flinch.

You inspected the cut more closely once it was clean - a shallow split, more dramatic than dangerous. Your shoulders eased another notch.

“You should be more careful,” you said under your breath, the words slipping out quieter than you meant, almost intimate.

“Why?” she asked, smiling that bright, unguarded smile that always made something in you ache. “When I have you to take care of me?”

Your jaw tightened. You bit the inside of your lip, copper blooming faint on your tongue. “I won’t always be there.”

Her expression flickered, smile faltering just slightly. “What do you mean? You are now.”

Your gaze dropped to the open med kit instead of answering. Something tired moved behind your eyes, heavy and old. You swallowed. “Sure.”

You applied a thin line of antiseptic ointment with two careful fingers, then placed a sterile pad over the cut and smoothed medical tape across it, pressing the edges down so it would hold. Only when it was secure did you pull your hands back.

Red streaked your fingers, dried into your knuckles, caught beneath your nails. You stared at it a second too long, then dragged your thumb absently through one smear.

“I’m sorry,” you said, quieter now. “For… that day. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

Charlie blinked, surprise widening her eyes before it softened into warmth. “Oh,” she said gently. “Apology accepted.”

‘Why are you apologizing?’

You nodded once, brisk, and began packing the supplies away, movements more methodical now. When you glanced down at yourself: flour, batter, streaks of red. You grimaced.

She slid off the stool, and the sudden shift made you flinch, head snapping up. “What happened-?”

Her question died as another voice cut through the room, sharp with static and authority.

“Well, as much as I find this very heartwarming,” Alastor drawled from the doorway, tone stretched thin with impatience, eyes glowing an irritated red, “I must cut this little bonding session short. We have… unexpected guests.”

Charlie turned toward him immediately. “What?”

“Get yourselves presentable,” he growled, smile tight as wire.

Everyone else scattered to deal with the aftermath of flour, milk, and broken dignity, but you didn’t bother moving toward a sink. You simply lifted your hand. Power threaded through the air in a thin, invisible ripple, and the mess unraveled from you like it had never dared to touch your skin. Fabric shifted, darkened, restructured itself into sharp formal tailoring that carved authority into your silhouette.

You fell into step beside Charlie as she headed toward the lobby. You could feel her glance at you once, twice, but you kept your gaze forward, jaw set just enough to close the subject without words.

Your cane formed in your palm in a curl of ember-red light, metal cool, familiar. Your fingers tightened around it, posture aligning instinctively, as if the weapon completed something in you.

“Charlie!”

The voice sliced through the room, bright and unguarded.

A streak of white and blue shot past you, wind and holy chill brushing your skin like the wake of a passing blade. Feathers flickered through your peripheral vision.

“Emily!” Charlie lit up, stepping forward into the hug, laughter bubbling out of her as wings fluttered wildly to keep the other angel hovering.

“Sorry we didn’t give notice!” Emily said breathlessly, pulling back with a sheepish grin. She gestured behind her where the portal was still lit up“Sera wanted to see the hotel.”

The name settled onto you like weight.

Sera stepped through the space the portal had occupied, tall, composed, draped in quiet authority. The portal sealed shut with a low, resonant hum, light folding in on itself like a closing eye.

“Greetings, Charlie,” Sera said, dipping into a graceful bow, voice even, warm on the surface.

Then she looked past her.

At you.

It wasn’t fear that flashed across her face, Sera was too controlled for that, but recognition hit like a silent bell. Her irises tightened, gold light stuttering at the edges.

You did not bow.

Your eyes narrowed instead, red deepening, pupils thinning into sharp slits. Your tail lashed once behind you, slow and deliberate, the motion of something that did not need to pretend calm.

Sera cleared her throat, the sound quiet but tight around the edges. “And… who is this?”

Charlie, oblivious to the undercurrent, bounced slightly where she stood. “This is my sibling,” she said brightly, stepping closer to you with open pride. Then, lowering her voice as if sharing something precious, “Also called the Regent of Pride.”

You and Sera never broke eye contact.

Understanding passed between you - old, political, and edged.

Sera extended her hand. The warmth of her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

You let your gaze drop to her hand, then back to her face, letting the silence stretch half a second too long.

When you finally took it, your fingers closed with deliberate firmness. Not enough to break, but enough to remind. Enough that her composure had to hold. The bones in her hand shifted under your grip; her shoulders stayed level, but the muscles along her arm drew tight as pulled wire.

A smirk curved slowly over your mouth, unhurried, knowing.

“Oh, please,” you said, voice smooth as polished glass, low enough that the words felt private despite the room. “The honor is all mine… Seraphim.”

Neither of you let go right away.

The miracle wasn’t that no one noticed.

The miracle was that you and Sera were skilled enough to make the lie look natural.

Behind you, the hotel still breathed with noise: Charlie’s bright voice, glasses clinking, the soft shuffle of bodies trying to act normal after chaos but it all felt distant, like sound heard from underwater.

You walked side by side without touching, without looking, two heads of state performing ease while the air between you carried the density of a coming storm. A door at the end of the corridor gave way under your hand.

The room beyond was vast and hollow, marble floors stretched wide and pale, reflecting only darkness. Tall windows loomed like black mirrors, the night outside swallowing any trace of light. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, unlit, their crystals nothing more than silhouettes.

The doors shut behind you with a low, final thud.

Silence rushed in to fill the space.

Your eyes became the only illumination – a red glow illuminating. Not bright enough to warm the room, only enough to carve sharp edges into shadow. Your presence followed, a faint pressure in the air.

Sera remained a few steps away, posture immaculate, wings folded close but not relaxed. Even in the dark, she held herself like a monument. “You wished to speak privately,” she said.

Her voice carried cleanly through the chamber, but the diplomacy was gone. This was not Seraphim addressing a ruler. This was Sera addressing you.

Your cane struck the marble. The crack of it ricocheted off stone and ceiling, a sound too loud for the stillness, too sharp to be accidental. “You didn’t uphold our deal.”

No accusation in your tone. No heat. Just fact - flat, undeniable.

For the first time, Sera’s hands shifted, fingers threading together a fraction tighter before stilling again. “I reassessed,” she replied. “It became clear the agreement was no longer… beneficial.”

Your head tilted slightly. “Beneficial,” you repeated, almost thoughtfully. Then your eyes narrowed. “To us?”

You began to move. Each step was unhurried, the soft tap of your cane echoing like a clock counting down something neither of you named. You circled her the way a predator might circle something equally dangerous - no rush, no wasted motion.

“Speak for yourself, Sera,” you murmured as you passed just behind her shoulder. “I benefited.”

Her jaw set, the line of it hardening. “What benefit,” she asked, voice tightening despite her control, “comes from watching souls unravel for eternity? From reducing existence to suffering until nothing remains?”

You came back into her line of sight, stopping closer now.

“Entertainment,” you said.

The word fell softly. It felt heavy.

Her wings twitched, just once. “It was never entertainment for me.”

A faint smile touched your mouth, thin and humorless. “Protection, then. That was your justification.”

“It still is.”

You leaned slightly on your cane, gaze locked with hers. “The same logic applies, Seraphim. Only the perspective changes. Sinners remembered fear. Hellborn stopped living in it.”

The space between you seemed to constrict, the air tight, charged, as though breathing too deeply might spark something.

Sera didn’t look away. But there was something new in her eyes now - not anger.

Concern.

“I know what happened back then,” she said, quieter. “I know why you came to me. Why you wanted this system in place.”

Her gaze sharpened, studying you, not as an opponent, but as a problem.

“But I don’t understand why you still defend it,” she continued, voice lowering further, “unless something else is anchoring you to that choice.”

Your expression did not shift, but the red in your eyes deepened, the glow narrowing to blades.

She took a slow breath. “Something interfering,” she said. “With your recollection. Your judgment.”

The words echoed in the empty room.

Your cane tip dragged a thin line across the marble with a soft scrape that sounded deafening in the quiet. Your brow lifted, your voice, when it came, was smooth enough to cut.

“What,” you asked, the syllable controlled, almost idle, though something in your gaze had sharpened, “are you implying?”

Sera never answered you.

Her attention slipped past you instead, fixing on the darkness behind your shoulder. The temperature in the room seemed to dip a fraction, breath turning thinner, the air carrying that sterile, high-altitude stillness Heaven clung to. Light gathered faintly along the edges of her wings, not radiant - contained, like a blade still sheathed.

“I know you’re there,” she said.

Her voice carried strangely, doubling over itself, one tone hers and the other something older, resonant, as if the architecture itself had spoken through her lungs. “Come out.”

The reaction was instant.

Your cane slid from your grasp, striking the marble with a sharp crack that ricocheted through the chamber. Your pupils blew wide, then drowned in red. You sucked in a breath that never quite filled your lungs, hands flying to your throat as though fingers – unseen - had closed there first.

You fell.

Knees hit stone - the sound echoed.

Your coughing shattered the silence, raw and violent, each convulsion folding you further forward. Something spilled from your mouth - thick, black, viscous, threaded with glowing red flecks like dying stars caught in tar. It splattered across the marble and spread too slowly, clinging, as though reluctant to leave you.

Sera didn’t rush to you.

Every instinct screamed at her to, and it showed - in the tightness at the corners of her mouth, in the tremor she crushed out of her hands by force. But she stayed where she was, spine straight, watching with the dread of someone witnessing a prophecy confirm itself.

Then-

A laugh.

Intimate enough to feel like breath at the back of the neck.

Your spine straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra, but the movement was wrong - jerking at the edges. Like a marionette pulled by strings that didn’t care about grace. Your head lifted last, chin tilting upward in a movement too precise, too deliberate.

The marble floor cracked.

Hairline fractures spiderwebbed outward from beneath you as dark vines forced their way up through the stone, pushing with the patient certainty of roots splitting a grave. They coiled around your wrists, your waist, your calves, thorns glistening, petals unfurling; deep crimson, almost black, velvety and wet-looking in the low light.

Behind you, shadow gathered and rose, stretching into a silhouette that mimicked your shape but elongated, distorted, shoulders too broad, smile too wide.

“Ah, Seraphim…” the voice purred from your mouth. It layered over itself - yours buried somewhere deep beneath velvet, static, and something that sounded like wind moving through a crypt. “Meddling in my affairs yet again?”

Sera’s jaw set. “Evil.”

She named it without hesitation, and the word rang with recognition rather than fear.

“Release the Regent,” she ordered, the authority in her tone rolling through the chamber like distant thunder. “You know this ends badly.”

Your head tilted, slow, curious. The vines tightened around your ribs with a faint creak, petals brushing your shoulders like a lover’s touch.

“Precisely why I’m continuing,” Evil replied, amused. “Tension makes the game worthwhile.”

“Game?” Sera’s disbelief cut through. “You call hollowing out an innocent soul a game?”

A hum of laughter vibrated through your chest. “Innocent,” Evil echoed, savoring the word. “You celestial beings do adore selective vision.”

“And you,” Evil went on softly, “washing your hands in sanctified water, pretending the red never soaked into the lines of your palms.”

Sera’s gaze dropped despite herself. Her fingers flexed once, as though phantom warmth still clung there. “It will never leave,” she admitted, voice quieter but steadier. “But I can choose what I am now. Ask for forgive-“

Laughter burst out, sharp and delighted, rebounding off marble and glass. “Forgiveness? from Hell? You still misunderstand the place you pity.”

The vines shifted, drawing your body a step closer without your feet moving at all.

“What do you want?” Sera demanded, wings flaring slightly, light pushing harder into the dark. “What justifies this?”

Thorns pressed into your skin, not piercing - claiming.

“You already know,” Theyl murmured, and a low growl threaded through the silk of its voice. “There is a presence in your realm that has irritated me for centuries. She narrowed my reach, veiled my sight, dulled what I could touch.”

Your lips stretched into a smile that belonged to something that had never been human.

“I simply want her returned,” the voice whispered through your mouth, soft and deliberate, almost intimate, carrying a gentleness that made the room feel simultaneously warm and suffocating. “Nothing more.”

Sera’s wings shivered behind her, a faint rustle slicing through the silence. Her eyes were locked on you - or the hollow echo of you that now breathed in your place. The soft glow of her aura traced the edges of her feathers, trembling like candlelight in a draft, betraying the tension she otherwise tried to hide.

“There is something else at work here,” she said carefully, her voice steady but laced with suspicion. “She would not have abandoned her post so easily if… if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Perhaps,” Your shoulders lifted in a mock casual shrug.

Sera took a cautious step forward, the marble floor beneath her echoing each movement. “Then she will not be returning,” she said, her words clipped but weighted with the authority she tried desperately to maintain.

“Oh, but you can tell her,” Evil purred, the voice slipping into a velvet taunt, “that her poor children will pay the price. As if one hasn’t suffered enough already.” Your smile widened unnaturally, stretching too far, corners of your lips curving like knives. “Oh… that night. So… beautiful.”

The air thickened, charged with an almost tangible scent of iron and ozone.

“So much blood,” you continued, voice lilting, awed. “The air saturated with it. Sweet, sharp, intoxicating. And fear… oh, how intoxicating fear smells.”

Sera’s eyes widened,horror pooling in the glow of her irises. “What… what did you do?” she whispered, a shiver ran through the shadows around her.

Your hands lifted in mock innocence, fingers pressing together over your chest. “I did nothing!”

Then a chuckle bubbled up, low and melodic, twisting through the room like smoke. “I merely nudged, played, observed. The rest? That was the work of a dear associate- a creature fascinating enough to tempt a soul straight into my hands. My, my- I can only marvel at the sins that earned them a seat in Hell.”

Sera swallowed. “How did-” she began, but the words faltered.

“Do you know,” They interjected smoothly, “the most exquisite moment to manipulate a soul?”

Your head tilted, a soft, predatory motion. “It is when they have just lost someone… someone they love. Their grief hollows them, stretches them, makes them malleable.” The roses around your limbs tightened, “They weep, they falter… and the blood runs freely, just as theirs did that night.”

“You’re sick,” she breathed, wings tensing behind her, “Release them at once!”

Your head cocked lazily, smile sharp, predatory. “Oh, of course,” you purred. “Shall I provide music too? Perhaps a little tune while I comply?”

The room seemed to shrink, air thick and charged. Every shadow leaned in closer. The roses twined tighter around your limbs exuding a faint metallic scent that made the hairs on her arms stand.

“Who do you think you are, Sera?” The voice hardened, velvet slipping to steel. “You stand there, judging me, and yet you made that arrangement years ago. Your own little deal in control… in power.”

Her throat went dry.

“Have you forgotten? Seven years ago… in the room… where it happened?”

"Ah, Mister Michael.” The angel’s voice rang bright and melodic, bouncing off the polished white marble of Heaven’s pristine halls.

“Mr. Nathaniel, sir.” Michael responded with a crisp nod, matching the other angel’s pace as they walked side by side, their sandals barely making a sound on the glimmering floors. The faint hum of celestial energy brushing against their wings.

“And did you hear the news about the event that struck Hell?” Nathaniel asked, eyes darting briefly to the high, vaulted ceiling as though the heavens themselves might whisper a confirmation.

“No.” Michael’s voice was low, clipped, a subtle furrow in his brow betraying his measured disinterest.

“You know the Morningstars?”

“Yeah?”

“Supposedly a massacre has struck during their gala, a tragedy.”

Michaell muttered something under his breath, a quiet, “Sure,” barely audible, though the faintest tension in his jaw betrayed his skepticism.

Ahead, the enormous double doors of the court opened with a soft but commanding push. Inside, rows of angels were already seated, their white robes immaculately aligned, faces serene yet alert.

A subtle ripple of light bounced across their wings as Nathaniel and his companion took their places, the polished floor reflecting their forms in perfect symmetry.

Sera entered the court, every step measured at first, echoing through the high, polished hall. Her wings brushed the floor lightly, feathers trembling with the weight of anticipation. She moved toward the head of the chamber, raising a hand to signal the guards to close the doors. The faint click reverberated like a warning bell.

“The event in Hell has shaken Heaven,” she announced, trying to maintain control. “I am here to say there is no need to worry. I have already taken all precautions in case they decide to attack Heaven, though that is uncertain. A barrier has been cast upon Hell to protect the sinners, which means none of them can enter or leave. The ones in charge are the Morningstar family, so we are under no immediate threat.”

But the angels were already speaking over one another.

Jeremiel’s voice cut sharply: “But I’ve heard Lucifer has abandoned his post, and Lilith has disappeared. Without anyone maintaining it, the barrier could weaken- we could be in danger!”

Michael leaned forward, concern etching his features. “I agree. This is a risky game they are playing. The consequences could be catastrophic.”

Micah added, voice tight with worry, “The overpopulation in the Pride Ring has only worsened ever since the punishment ages were ceased. Disorder will spread if left unchecked.”

Before she could regain composure, Adam’s booming voice thundered across the chamber. “Bitchfuck Lucifer and his little bitch Lilith let the sinners roam free! Said it was too gruesome to watch them burn by Satan’s hand- pussies!”

Nathaniel raised a hand, “We must take action. Perhaps erect a barrier of our own. Who knows what the sinners might do with no ruler overseeing them?”

Adam, ignoring him, gestured wildly, excitement and rage mixing. “I could make an army- a cool, metal-as-fuck army- to protect us all!”

The words collided, a storm of sound ricocheting off the marble walls. Each angel’s voice overlapped the next, urgent, accusing, insistent. The careful control she had clung to slipped away with every sentence. Her chest tightened; the polished floor beneath her felt like it was tilting.

Her wings beat unevenly, brushing the walls and floor like desperate anchors. Her hands trembled on the podium. Breath caught in her throat, shallow, ragged, uncooperative. The voices were no longer coherent; they became a blur of warning, fear, accusation, and blame.

A buzzing filled her ears, the sound of words she couldn’t parse. Her vision tunneled; the marble columns stretched impossibly tall, looming over her. Every instinct screamed to escape.

She clung to the edge of the podium as though the marble itself were the only solid thing left in the world, knuckles drained of color, fingers digging in hard enough to ache. She tried to breathe the way she taught others to - slow, measured - but the air refused to reach the bottom of her lungs. Each inhale snagged halfway down, splintered, and came back out trembling.

The noise didn’t lessen; it thickened. Voices layered over voices, concern turning to urgency, urgency curdling into fear. The sound pressed against her from all sides until it felt physical, like standing beneath a collapsing ceiling. Her spine bowed under it.

She stepped back.

No one noticed at first. Another step followed, then another, her heels gliding across the polished floor as if she were being pulled by an invisible thread. Her wings twitched in short, restless bursts, feathers brushing columns.

Chamber blurred at the edges of her vision, gold and white smearing together.

The court’s clamor dulled behind her, not because it quieted, but because her mind could no longer hold it. Words dissolved into a low, shapeless hum, like being submerged underwater.

“Sera!”

The voice cut through, sharp and familiar.

Her head turned toward it on instinct, but her body did not stop. She walked on, steps automatic, detached, as though the corridor had risen up to carry her away itself.

“I’m sorry, Emily, I gotta go- ” she managed, the sentence fraying at the edges, breath hitching between words.

“But-!” Emily’s protest echoed behind her, small against the long stretch of marble and light.

“Decisions are happening over dinner,”

A Seraphim and demon walk into a room

Light and shadow collided without touching. Sera’s radiance held tight to her form, wings tucked but tense, each feather edged in restrained luminescence. Across from her, you stood with your cane planted lightly against the floor, posture relaxed in a way that was almost theatrical, your aura coiling low and heavy like smoke that refused to rise.

“Regent.”

“Seraphim.”

Diametrically opposed – Foes!

“You requested my presence,” she said at last, voice even, though her eyes tracked every small movement you made.

“Ah, yes.” The tip of your cane traced a lazy arc against the floor, the sound a soft, deliberate tap. “I have decided to give you a proposal. A open door if you will.” Your gaze sharpened. “I’m sure you were among the first informed of the mishaps at the gala. An event striking almost all the rings.”

They emerge with a compromise, Having open doors that were previously closed – Bros!

Sera’s expression shifted, sorrow fitting over her features like practiced armor. “Ah, yes. A tragedy.”

A quiet, humorless breath left you. “Not at all. Save the formalities, Seraphim. You hate this place just as I hate my existence - and the role I’m forced to play.”

Her brow drew in faintly. “…I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

The demon emerges with unprecedented financial power, A system they can shape however they want,

You began to circle, slow, measured steps echoing in the cavernous room. “I wish to propose a little help with your… overpopulation problem. The fear gnawing at Heaven’s council chambers.” Your eyes flicked to hers, knowing. “I’m sure you agree with your colleagues that ceasing the punishment ages was a rather stupid take. It gave peace to sinners.”

Your cane stopped. The sound rang sharper this time.

“As much as I despise your pearly white gates, I don’t wish to make war with you,” you continued, voice cooling into something practical, almost businesslike. “Call it fear, or simply… more pressing matters. I don’t care what name you give it.”

The Seraphim emerge with the heaven’s capital… And here's the pièce de resistance:

Sera’s wings flexed once behind her, a restrained, instinctive motion. Suspicion sharpened her features, but so did something else - calculation. “What are you proposing?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Exterminations.”

The word landed heavy, wrong, like a stone dropped into still water.

“What?”

No one else was in the room where it happened

Your cane traced a slow line across the polished obsidian floor as you spoke, voice level, almost instructional. “Once every year, you may enter Hell with your army of angels and slaughter as many demons as you wish-” Your eyes lifted, pinning her in place. “-but you may not harm a hellborn. I will lift the barrier for you, at your request, when you choose to carry it out.”

Sera’s breath caught. “Ho…”

My God, In God We Trust! But we never really know what got discussed!

“A quid pro quo.”

Her gaze drifted, just for a second… toward duty, toward numbers, toward fear whispered through Heaven’s halls. “I suppose…”

You stepped closer, not invading her space, but close enough that your voice no longer needed to carry. “Wouldn’t you like to save your people?”

Her jaw tightened. “I would.”

“Well,” you said softly, “I propose a deal.”

Click boom! Then it happened!

Your hand reaching out – inviting.

“And you’ll provide us your protection?” she asked, the last thread of formality clinging to the question.

You gave a small, unreadable smile. “Well… we’ll see how it goes.”

And no one else was in the room where it happened!

how i full on imagined Regent to look at Vox in those 2 scenes (i love these toxic motherfuckers):

TAGLIST [CLOSED]: @valkirja, @nishayuro, @call-me-cheese,@lifebecringe, @hannanazix, @thecutienadq, @blueish-flower, @just-asimp, @actuallyshard, @jellyfishxxi, @boldlyenchantingfox22, @ch4mp4gn3c04st, @gremlinartstudio, @alexandriajadereads, @zamadness, @sunnyx07, @luleck, @duckburr, @destinyisastar, @thesaddestcactus27, @pandaquick, @chichishuren, @sekkkira8, @chuuyaisfineshyt, @bbhjaa, @t0rchknight, @bagofrice, @aculturedperson, @diffidentphantom, @cutiepinky, @lovelylovecin3monn, @niblex, @multivrstrash, @synxconcept, @sugxryratz,@barrythestrawberry041, @skymac712, @harleythehobbitkitty, @alex-is-offline, @viczvaporub, @ken0psi-a, @petaltheory, @veto-unable, @art3mis989, th3-l4dy, @ancientfragment, @manisoawesome, @godisitnaptimeyet, @the-bookish-artist, @pinkladybugs-posts

[bagofrice]

Vox Vox vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox Vox

[cryptographicdreams]

Part two for Vox and alastor like maybe they got married and reader ends up being killed by one of the victims or one of the victims family members, and even though he was a killer, she still loved him and she accepted that when she died so they end up meeting together in hell again, but when she was alive, she wasn’t aware of it until she died. like maybe for Alistair reader becomes a doe demon and for Vox she becomes like a mermaid demon or siren like maybe they reunite in hell like maybe for Vox people don’t believe at first that she his wife

Fluff plz

Maybe they get revenge on her killer

Love at First Sight + oblivious!fem!reader PART 2: A HELLISH REUNION.

Fic universe: none / romantic multi-character (request!) [hazbin hotel]

tags/cw: soft!vox, soft!alastor, angst w/ a happy ending, fluff, hurt/comfort, long post // (rating: mature) murder/blood + gore & cannibalism, major character death, violence, reference to nsfw

a/n: WOW okay, did not expect so much love for the Love at First Sight/Oblivious Reader request, thank you so much everyone!! 💜💜💜As for this request itself… I FEEL LIKE I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FINISH THIS FOR A THOUSAND YEARS… In any case… thank you for the request 💜(& so sorry about the wait)... also forgive me for getting very carried away with Vincent/Vox’s part- he’s my favorite, what can I even say atp?

Part 1 (human era + sir pentious) ← Part 2 [ you are here!]

Vox/Vincent 🦈📺

Vincent marries you at the earliest opportunity- almost afraid that one conversation won’t really make it stick that he loves you, that he wants you. 

But it does stick. It really, really does and Vincent couldn’t be happier- well. He could be. With the honeymoon behind you both- well- he’s due another promotion, right? Right. Absolutely. Vincent Whittman just can’t stop winning! He can see the headlines now, from News Anchor to Late Night host, you at his side cheering him on. Absolute perfection. 

You’re both practically attached at the hip now- he doesn’t have to chase you down anymore! That’s the two of you, Mister and Missus Whittman: Where one goes the other isn’t far behind. 

For the most part. Aside from some of his… less than savory extra curricular activities. He’s positive you’d still love him (or so he tells himself) if you knew, but he really- really- didn’t want to give you the chance to think about it too hard. Truly, it’s the one and only time he’s ever been particularly pleased by the fact you’re oblivious as all Hell.   

One of, if not the only, reason Vincent wants you to keep working at the studio is so that he can see you as often as humanly possible. Not just because he’s incredibly horny (in general and for you) but also because he just likes to see you- you know- around and about. To know nearly exactly where you are at all times and most importantly- that you’re nearby to him. 

(Of course it’s not lost on him how much of a bonus it is that as his- newly promoted!- assistant he can bend you over his shiny, shiny desk every now and again. You know. Sparingly.)  

You still make his coffee perfectly and there’s now the added bonus of you pressing a kiss to his temple whenever you bring it and his papers. A nice, comfortable routine. 

Nobody puts together until well after both of your deaths that the killings allegedly accredited to the Spotlight Vampire / The Star-Studded Reaper (and a plethora of other terrible pseudonyms thought up by the press) slowed down in correlation with Vincent’s initial matrimonial bliss. 

Well nobody puts it together except for… the man who kills you.

How You Died: 

You died (Unexpectedly and Tragically) & Vincent Responded (Poorly and Violently)

There’s some kind of poetic irony in the culprit of your murder (not that anyone will ever know except Vincent himself) being a newspaper reporter. A deranged, off his nut reporter, but a reporter nonetheless! The kind of guy who used to be able to make or break a career with ink on the page.   

A rising star of his own making hindered only by his increasingly obvious obsession with the Star-Studded Reaper, the elusive killer of Channel 6’s stardom. The obsession really blossomed when he got it into his head that his own brother- a news anchor for the now infamous television studio- was a victim of said killer. 

But there’s no way to tell for sure. Is there? It was ruled an accident, after all.

Somewhere along the way, for this particular reporter, it stopped being about making his biggest break to date, it stopped being about being a bringer of justice- it was just about the hurt festering inside of him. At the loss of his brother, at how his editor stopped taking him seriously… 

This reporter is full on “copious amounts of red string attached to random points on a board, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and pointing at the incomprehensible wall of chicken scratch” territory that we’re talking about here. 

And when he sets his sights on Vincent as the culprit? It’s newsworthy, alright, bad news- for this particular reporter- but news nonetheless…

He latches onto the one, the only Vincent Whittman, who appears- for all intents and purposes- to have the perfect life. Untouched by the killer. Vincent, who appears to have the perfect life. The fame, the money, the beautiful, loyal little wife that he so clearly adores nearly as much as the stage- and the killer hasn’t harmed a single hair- grey or brown- on his head! That’s strange, isn’t it? That the only man to be unaffected was just a lowly little weatherman and now he resembles the ultimate victim and yet-

And yet… There Vincent Whittman stands. The eye of the storm. There Vincent Whittman’s wife stands- perfectly safe, unharmed. Perfect and idyllically happy. Completely and entirely unaffected by the death around you...

You, poor little unobservant to a deadly fault, you, go right on up to this reporter! Visit him on one of those days Vin is stuck at the studio, worrying himself to death. 

You want to help- that’s all. All this bad publicity, even if it’s coming out of an increasingly unstable seeming individual, is stressing your husband out. Excessively. 

Vincents’s been pitching the idea with increased insistence that you help him dye his hair black (to hide the intense grey streak that he seems to this is any more noticeable than it’s ever been, surely). It’s gotten that bad. 

Not to mention you’re pretty sure he’s stopped sleeping entirely… which only makes everything else worse, you’re sure- that’s when you put your foot down and decided to get out there and figure out how to fix it. 

It’s not that you have the highest of hopes with reasoning with this reporter- who nonetheless seemed more like a parasite than a man to you- but you sort of hoped it might- you know- give him pause to see the humanity behind the fame Vincent had acquired.  

The reporter absolutely loses it. Your pleas fall on completely deaf ears. Really, seriously- how are you this stupid? How could you not know your husband was a murderer? Or were you just trying to distract him? 

Surely you had to know at this point- and fool that you were- you were trying to protect him! You were there to silence him once and for all! 

It could be considered an accident, when he pushes you. When you fall backwards. Hit your head on the corner of his crowded desk. A sickening sort of thunk and then almost silence- your breathing shallow, slipping away further and further. 

What is not an accident, by any means, is disposing of the body. Dropping it in a lake, weighed down with stones- watching it sink to the bottom.

And shattering that perfect, idyllic fantasy of the man he hates feels good for all of five minutes. Imagining Vincent Whittman weeping on live television, having finally lost something precious- having lost family- feels good before the “Oh God, what have I done. Sweet Jesus, what have I done?” really settles in… and boy, does that guilt have teeth. 

Getting Revenge:

aka The Reporter’s Death & Your Epiphany in Hell 

Reporter Man who is so deep in his guilt that he practically BEGS Vincent for forgiveness knowing perfectly well that if Vincent is a killer that well- he’ll probably just kill him. Deserved! And also if he’s not a murderer then it’s like… what kind of reaction was the Reporter expecting in response to “Hey, so the guilt is eating my alive and I have to confess that I (accidentally, I swear) killed your wife and dumped her body?”

Like I think a normal, well-adjusted man might lose it and see red too... Vincent who is neither normal or well-adjusted... and has been absolutely beside himself trying to figure out where you've gone. The police, as per usual, are apparently useless... to the point where the actual murderer is beside himself.

The Reporter is too much of a coward to commit suicide, but sucicide by way of the guy who you’re convinced is a murderer that you’re in vaguely parasocial one-sided nemesis type relation is totally different… yeah that’s fine. He just wants it to be over, please- 

If Vincent were even a little bit not in a blind rage he probably would have prolonged the killing just to rub it in his face but as it stands! Everyone’s got what they wanted- Vincent revenge, the Reporter death- so everyone’s happ- wait, no, that’s not right. Everyone involved is extremely miserable, actually.

Okay this is where he actually starts crying and weeping, covered in blood, just losing it. This is a man who has not broken down about this the whole time. What was he, some kind of foolish whiny girl? No... but missed you though. Something terrible, something awful...

Before he knew for certain, he could pretend a little that everything was normal- could go back to normal- but now? Vengeance doesn't even taste sweet, just bitter and lonely.

He loses touch with reality more than he already was after this, for what it’s worth.

Hey, you know what- the poor Reporter guy’s probably at least latently thrilled when he wakes up in Hell with- you know, his consciousness because he was right! He was so right the whole time, Vincent Whittman WAS the Star-Studded Reaper and-

Nobody’s ever going to know, nobody down here gives a shit. Someone steals the clothes off his back while he’s getting acclimated to his new not-quite-alive situation just because they can… and he knows! He knows he deserves it for killing that poor lady (you) but… surely she’s gotta be down here too? Maybe he could make amends…

The Aftermath (For You!):

While trying to survive in Hell, you find yourself running into a familiar soul…

Needless to say, you wake up in Hell very confused. You’ve been transformed into a humanoid-fish Sinner of sorts. NOT ANY FISH THOUGH, you quickly realize your fish bits resemble a pilot fish… (if Vincent hadn’t told you all kinds of shark facts you probably wouldn’t know this… this makes you very nostalgic and sad and lonely, of course, but also a bit comforted, too.)

What strange twist of fate that not only figures out who you are- who you were when you were alive, that is- but he ALSO finds that you are- in fact- an idiot who had literally no idea your husband was a killer. 

How bizarre. Guess it’s his job to educate you!  

“Now listen here, doll, I know it’s a lot to take in-” He’s recreated the board of doom as you are going to be referring to it from now on, featuring all of Vincent’s alleged crimes,  and complete with maniacal scribblings and red string. “But I was right! I was right! Vincent Whittman, was and always has been the Star-Studded Reaper-! You know, I came up with that name- hey, did he like that one? Even a little bit?”

“How would… how am I supposed to know that?”

He pushes his spectacles down his rabbit’s nose, stares at you and you- uh… well, you sure do think about the question a little harder.  

“Uh. No. I don’t think he ever liked any of them.” 

The Reporter sighs, laboriously, spinning in his high backed chair lazily. “You wanna know how I knew I was right all along?”

“Uh…” you say, faintly, your white-tipped fishtail swishing behind you nervously. “How…?”

“He told me himself! As I lay dying-” The reporter bounds off of his chair, a rabbit-thing, with beastly moose-like protrusions from his head, and takes both your hands in his to press your webbed fingers over his quickly beating heart. “And he said- I was right, and nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever sing my praises…”

“Are you at all sorry for killing me?” You ask, anxiously- trying to draw your hands away but he holds them tighter. This is starting to feel remarkably similar to the night he killed you… and for obvious reasons, you’re not very fond of that comparison.

Are you really this unlucky? That’s what you’re thinking. You had just wanted a… a job? A job that wasn’t at all gruesome or terrible and being the secretary or archivist or- whatever, note taker- to a fast climbing newspaper in Hell seemed like a better bet than petitioning- oh- you don’t know- the Radio Demon or something…!  

“Of course!” The Reporter’s shoulders sag suddenly, energy deflating him- but he doesn’t let you go. “He’d’ve never known it was my doing unless I told him… and I knew- I knew if I were right, and even if I were wrong- I knew a man like that, who, let’s face it, doll- loved you- would put me out of my misery for that reason and that reason alone.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.” Nervously, you mutter. “Well I- actually, you just sound insane.” 

“That’s exactly what my boss kept sayin’ when I told him about all my theories about your loving husband…” 

And you- you laugh. By God, do you laugh… until it turns to tears. 

Uncomfortable with your hysterics- oops- he just sort of- lets you do your thing, work through… that… all on your own. He’s not going to kick you out, right? This whole ordeal is kind of his fault. Once you’ve calmed down, the Reporter speaks, more sincerely than you’d have expected at this point… 

“For what it’s worth… I feel- you know- responsible… You need a place to stay? What’s mine is yours.” The Reporter scrubs at his long floppy ears, “Leastways until your dearly un-departed lands himself down here- no, no more tears, don’t you worry about that. It’ll happen…” 

How do you feel about all this?:

You’ve always considered yourself a fairly normal person, perhaps a bit oblivious to things that were obvious… but otherwise, completely normal and well meaning…

That you ended up in Hell suddenly makes a lot of sense… Honestly, you’re beating yourself up a little that you didn’t realize Vincent was in love with you and then you didn’t realize he was a murderer! Great! Just fantastic! You’d think you’d have gotten better at picking up on these things but not even a little bit! 

But that’s the rub isn’t it? 

You’ve never considered him as anything other than your Vincent… your sweet friend who spent weeks desperately trying to woo you while you couldn’t fathom a star like him would be interested in you at all. He was still your loving husband who would have plucked the moon out of the sky if you asked for it.

There’s a part of you that has a difficult time reconciling it, but in hindsight… there’s a much larger part that isn’t. That zeal, that mania, that desperation for recognition… well, you suppose you could see how that might lead to gruesome ends…

Do you approve of murder? No… not necessarily… but… he was still your Vincent at the end of the day, wasn’t he? 

All the murders being described to you was juxtaposed with every kiss, every late night, every spontaneous dance, every shark fact whispered or shouted, every movie watched together.

You can’t just let go of your love for him, and you hold out hope that one day, when he’s here with you, that he won’t let go of it either.  

The aftermath (For Vincent/Vox):

The news of your death doesn’t slow Vincent’s rise to the top down. Not even a little bit. In fact, Vincent deteriorates faster than before. He was already on a certain, inevitable path- don’t get me wrong- ever since that first kill it was sort of set in stone. 

However, you provided little glimpses of what he’d lose if he avoided the curves in the road and just plowed through the brush with wild abandon. 

You kept him… steadier, more cautious. More reasonable. You kept him healthy, one might say. 

With you gone… well… why shouldn’t he move full speed ahead towards the top? He belonged there, he deserved it- you knew that and now there was no fear of losing you. Either because you were scared of him or because he was being reckless.

There’s also nobody else to reach him through the haze of euphoria and say that televisions strung up haphazardly around him- while a very lovely tableau, yes- it does look amazing- on the surface- might not be the best idea to stand under? Also why-...? Why is there so much water on the floor with all these live wires? Whose idea was THAT?  

And there’s nobody around to say, “Vincent, honey, you are just spectacular!” even if he likes to think he hears it anyways in the whisper of static, the shattering of glass, the snapping of cables. 

Everyone knows what they say about your last moments, when your brain shuts down, when your heart stops- and when Vincent’s last act is under way, everything is so brilliantly bright for just a moment, painful- completely, unequivocally bright white. Even with one eye punctured, electrocuted from the inside out- burned and bleeding- he thinks he sees your silhouette in the static, with him to the end as you ought to have been. 

The Reunion:

In death… things work out much the same as they did before...

It’s a day like any other. Really, incredibly unremarkable as far as days in Hell go & that’s saying something…

Vox enters his office, half-distracted scrolling through the latest analytics on his Vphone- drawn to the spikes in popularity and the dips that he’ll have to address- fuck… It just never ends, does it?

So distracted is he that he doesn't notice that someone is already awaiting him in his office. Not a secretary and not an assistant… Just like he doesn’t notice that same someone is hurrying to escape the room as quickly as possible.

“What are you doing here?!” He snarls, voice rising- claws scrapping against the floor as he rights himself- on his hands and knees to stare at the culprit. 

You make a pitiful squeaky-toy like noise, fins flat to your head as though you were a scared cat- before you start to ramble. “An- an interview but I- I’m not really- sure I should have-” 

Vox should push you away, should draw and quarter you for your clumsiness- sparks dance on the edge of his teal claws, but something- something familiar- stays his hand.

Maybe it’s the way your voice goes soft, despite his screaming- despite the danger you undoubtedly realize you’re in. 

You reach for his screen- tentative- fingertips cool and smooth, dotted with sparkling scales, webbed between each digit and sporting tiny claws that barely ghost across the bezel before you retract. His eyes narrow, breathing suddenly much shallower- cyan creeps into the pixels of his screen slowly as he watches you. 

“It’s not broken, is it?” You ask, genuinely concerned- guilt written across a face he does not recognize but feels so deeply, achingly familiar all the same.

“It’s … fine. Doll.” He grits out, unbalanced by more than just the fact you’ve knocked him over and your tone or what exactly you’ve said.

There is a real sick sense of deja-vu churning in his circuitry right now, but he can’t help but play it out. Even if you weren’t his wife, the love of his life- it felt good to re-enact that first moment. That first connection he never expected, yet lives in him even now- a remnant of being alive, of a softer version of himself, well hidden but precious.  

The blush upon his screen intensifies and he cannot manage to will it away. 

“I am so- so sorry, Mister Vox- I-” You nod- brush one of your fins out of your face as you lurch in the opposite direction to collect the papers you were holding.

Your hand is chill in his when he helps you to stand- his strength making it so very easy to drag you up. The black and silver scales to match the tail he’s just now noticing as it slides up and tucks itself behind you as best you can manage. 

“No harm done.” Vox glances at your resume that he’s helped you to scoop up on autopilot. “...But I can’t help but wonder what a… secretary, for lack of a better word… thinks she’s doing applying to be a shark feeder?”

A glorified petsitter, really- although the feeding part was extremely, extremely important… but Shok.wav and Vark and all his other babies did get excessively lonely. Work’s been Hell lately- figuratively speaking- and he hates- hates the thought of them being neglected so... why not, right? Could just throw ‘em in the tank when they were no longer needed, if worse came to worse…

“I- I’m- well. Looking for a career change, I suppose… obviously I am also a fish Sinner. Sir- but-! That’s not- that’s not the whole pitch- just the start- Okay, okay. Um- I’m not just any fish sinner.”  

You swing your thick tail around as though it’ll mean something- Vox squints and raises an uncomprehending eyebrow at you. “Okay… and?” 

The scales, an alternating stripe pattern of black and silver, glitter in the teal lights of his office. The very tips of your fin are a matte white and- Oh, wait! He knows! Are you a-? 

“I’m a pilot fish and it’s- well, obviously you know what I’m getting at already since you have sharks- er. Hell sharks, at least, but the concept is probably the same, right?”

Vox blinks. Vox opens and closes his digital mouth stupidly- quite like a fish you’ve just described.

“Pilot fish have a mutualistic and symbiotic relationship with sharks such as tiger and whitetip sharks…” he clarifies, because of course he knows that. Obviously. Like you said.

You beam up at him delighted anyways.

“My husband- I mean, my husband when I was alive- I guess that’s kind of nullified now? It is till death to us part and all- anyways. He had a fascination with the creatures.” 

You pause and then, taking in his blank, almost dumbfounded expression- you blurt out to clarify. “Sharks! Not- not pilot fish, he loved sharks. It was adorable but… I don’t know. I’ve always sympathized more with the little fish? The one that takes care of the big bad shark…”

His screen fuzzes up momentarily to the point where he can’t see you standing there at all. It’s not… you. His wife, his- everything. It can’t be you… you don’t belong down here, you shouldn’t be here and yet- 

A quiet exhale as you sigh, half reminiscing- half nervously wringing your hands together as you await his judgement… and possibly your execution. He’s been known for that- Christ, what must you think? No wonder you were fleeing. 

“Why… why do you want this job?”

You fix him with a curious stare. There’s something that’s shifted in this interaction, you can tell that much- but what you can’t figure out is why or what you did.

“Do you want the truth…?” You wince, “Ah- that’s… I mean- the ah… less business-like truth.”

Vox huffs with almost-laughter- because- damn, this should be good, whatever it is. People don’t ask that unless they’re going to say something really hilarious. 

“Trust me, I do.”

Granted, you don’t seem to find it very funny. In fact, you sniffle all of a sudden, your wide-eyes clouding with sudden tears. 

“Sorry- I- sorry.” You admit, scrubbing at your face uselessly. The tears keep falling. Vox resists the urge to reach out and brush them away for you- because that’s a foolish thing to do for a stranger. “That’s why I was- I was trying to leave and not waste your time- sir. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what… honey?” 

The petname kind of jumps out of him- some long buried, half-forgotten part of him that’s aching something fierce right now slipping through his teeth to scream into the void a little.

“This… Be here. That- that phrase: trust me. Vincent he- or rather his studio used it for a while and he co-opted it for himself. He was always clever like that.”

Vox stares at you, an arc of electricity jumps between his antenna- his screen glitches so harshly that he’s afraid he’ll shut down entirely and have to reboot. 

And then what’ll you do? Flee, probably, and he’ll have to go hunt you down again- he hasn’t had to chase you since before it finally dawned on you that he loved you and-

You don’t seem to notice the turmoil or the recognition or the relief painted on his face in quick succession through your tears.

“I didn’t apply just to be a little closer to him, you know, really I didn’t- I can do this, I’m sure, no sweat, but-” You wipe at your eyes clumsily, sniffle- tilt your head down with a frown that can only be the last shred of your self-awareness and good sense fighting a losing battle before you continue. So horribly, terribly honest- he desperately needs to bundle you up in his arms but can’t force himself to move, standing shock still and transfixed. 

“I kind of hoped, after all this time, maybe I’d just run into him- like I did before. Best mistake of my life, really and I barely saw it coming… I barely saw a lot of things- come to think- but that’s all just… silly, isn’t it? And now I’m a fool spilling my guts to an Overlord, of all people-” 

Then he says your name, quiet- intimate- breathes it out like a desperate prayer. 

Somehow, mid-ramble and voice increasingly shrill with a whole mess of emotions, you’re still listening to him. You pause, and in the silence he says your name again- a little louder, a little more certain.  

When you hear him say your name it stops your sentence dead in its tracks. Your mouth gapes open while your tail gives one quick, nervous swish behind you. 

Vox watches understanding cross your expression, swimming past like the shadow of a shark just underneath the water. He’s giddy with it. It looks the exact same as it did so long ago, even if your face was now a little different.

“Hey, honey.” He croaks. His vocal processors glitch out with the sheer weight of the emotion, his fans kick up humming to compensate for how his heart beats against his sternum. “I don’t think that’s silly at all- to want to run into me- Hell, I’ve been wishing you would… I mean- hey- can’t be the world’s worst strategy. It worked on me the first time, didn’t it?”

It dawns on you- you really hear it now. The inflection, the way he holds himself-

Fuck! How did you not realize that Vox and Vincent were one in the same?!

“Vin-” you cover your mouth with your hands, shock stopping your words dead in your throat. 

The papers scatter as you both drop them carelessly, scooping you up in his arms easily with his superior strength- spinning you around in delight. You laugh, you cry- smoothing your cool hands along the straight edges of his screen sweetly. 

“Hey, hey- I’m here now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. This time-” I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. “I’m- not going to let you go anywhere.”  

You shake your head, blubbering through the tears and the laughter. Vox carries you to the couch on the other side of the room and sits with you in his lap, rubbing your back and gingerly carding his claws through your hair until you’ve both calmed down enough to speak.  

“A little pilot fish that takes care of the big bad shark, huh?” He murmurs low and sultry, feels the bottom of your tail brushing his leg as it wags in time with your frantic nod, “You took care of me, baby. You really did- I was so lost without you.”  

A sympathetic tinge pulls at your otherwise relieved smile, “What… happened, Vin? After?”

Vox takes your face in his clawed hand, revels in the way you tilt your head into his palm, completely and utterly smitten.  

“I’ll tell you all about it later just let me- fuck-” Electricity jumps between his antenna, bright and sharp, as he brings his face closer to yours. The glass is warm, static electricity hums against your mouth just shy of an actual kiss as he whispers, “Just let me enjoy this first.” 

Alastor 🦌

The definition of wedded bliss in the dictionary should simply be an image of yourself and Alastor. 

Many nights spent in his company are filled with gentle, warm cadence- both quiet moments of contentment and nights spent with laughter and dancing. Reading to each other, you humming to the radio while you cook and he- as always- helps. He makes you tea to soothe your vocal cords before all your performances, reads you poetry to settle your nerves. You leave him little notes in his folders that he finds while on set that make him smile ever wider. 

Your career is going quite well- as well as it can go, in any case.

And! You finally get to that duet you always wanted with you singing and Al playing the piano- although, not on the main stage but only for your close friends. It still delights you to sing with him, to be in such harmony.

Of course he keeps his… less savory habits to himself. Wouldn’t do for you to get spooked. You already put up with so much for his sake- and besides… all of his targets earned their fate. He’s glad for your obliviousness, he’s fairly certain murder would upset your otherwise perfect rhythm with each other.  

Needless to say, despite everything, you two were together and things were perfect…

Until tragedy strikes, that is… can never have a good thing, can we? 

Your death:

That you’re targeted by a man your husband works with is… more unsavory than anything else. You don’t say anything on purpose, not wanting to bother Al with such nonsense- thinking it will pass, that you’re over-reacting- especially when it comes to his place of work that he’s fought so hard to acquire a position in… 

Little did you know he’s already noticed, he’s already made notes. Little did you know that in his mind he is already plotting out the best way to do so without disrupting any of his other holdings as a radio host or drawing your suspicion to his involvement. Drawing your suspicion is not so much of a worry, considering your typically oblivious disposition.  

Too little, too late, however- as before he can execute any of these extremely delicate plots, the crude fool hits you with his car.

You know how it is with these sort of men who have never had to face real consequences or rejection. Entitled, childish. Setting his sights on something unattainable and when they can’t have it…. Well then why should anyone? They throw a tantrum. 

You had just thought… naively, obliviously, that it was not so much a fixation as a coincidence… but alas, that was a deadly assumption to have made. 

It’s quick. Your death. It’s a fairly quick death,  if it’s any consolation. 

This man’s death is, on the contrary, not quick in the least… Does getting skinned and eaten alive sound fun? No…? Good. Nobody involved is really having fun, but, at least to Alastor, it channels some of his grief into action for a short time.

The Aftermath (for Alastor!):

Alastor seems the type to me to preserve your heart Mary Shelley style and keep it with him. Although I am on the fence about him taking a nibble or not…

In any case, Alastor, I imagine, kind of retreats from his more public hobbies after your death, focusing a little more obsessively on the secretive occult. He doesn’t quit the radio, but he has higher aims. (Not necessarily to raise you from the dead… but it has come to mind.)

When he finally does get in contact with a fully fledged demon, what he asks from Rosie is twofold. Power first, and as an extra little favor… to look for you. Just in case there were some skeletons in your closet that might mean… well. He’s hopeful. Not entirely convinced anything will come of it, but hopeful- and if you are, in fact, in Hell- well that all the better that he’s made this deal for ultimate power. He’ll be able to protect you.  

Iirc Al dies immediately after his deal with Rosie, thus… your reunion is a fairly quick thing.  

Out of all the trophies the dimwitted cops collect from his home… there’s only one organ, preserved and labeled, a testament to his enduring affection. (The sad part is, of course, how the media twists this romantic gesture (although it is grim, I’ll admit to that) terribly and awfully. Made worse by the racism of the time period, but- to you and to him, this was a singular romantic gesture from the start.)

Reuniting in Hell:

It does take some time to locate you, of course. Even determining if you might be around is a chore that takes time!

The amount of time between first talking to Rosie and dying is too short (“I can’t just snap my fingers and have people appear!”) but nonetheless, she does acquiesce to this request. She imagines you two must have been such a darling pair, she’d hate to see you separated forever…  

Of course, he starts to build up his power and assert himself in the meantime- it wouldn’t do for you to be in any danger with him. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to either of you now- never again.

Between Rosie and Alastor, they do manage to find out where you ended up- and you could have ended up in worse places in Hell. Not ideal, certainly but… acceptable. 

You see, you woke up in Hell several years prior to Alastor’s death, and you are, of course, confused, frightened. Instead of your human proportions, you’re stuck with a spotty little tail, hooves and big fluttery ears… like a doe. 

Your talent for singing gave you some favorable options while in Hell, at least.

Although you do end up in some dead end joint where you’ve been working as a lounge singer… it’s not lucrative, it’s not real fame- but it pays the bills… barely.

The club is dimly lit by overhead lamps, with sagging floorboards and hazy with thick, cloying smoke. The bartop is scratched and worn, the tables sit unevenly on their legs and the chairs creak when sat upon. All in all, it wasn’t the worst shithole to ever exist, but it certainly did not suit you. That’s what Alastor thought. No, no, you were destined for far greater than this…

For your part, you don’t notice him when he walks in and sits himself down. Some of the other patrons do.

Even in the small and ever dwindling crowd, night after night. Most of whom are regulars at this particular bar… but still, you do not immediately notice the Radio Demon in the crowd. So lost are you in the music as you sing your heart out, having not truly gotten to be a star in life. Even if you were merely a footnote in a forgotten bar, crammed between the bigger, bolder establishments in Hell’s ecosystem. 

When the song ends and you release the microphone is when you recognize the new face in the crowd, smiling wide- all sharp, yellowed teeth like that of a harvest moon. He’s clapping slowly. The other patrons, shocked into silence and uncertain of what to do- only start to clap with gusto when the terrifying stranger stops and glares at them.

You don’t recognize him when he leaves his seat, all red fur and a too wide grin, but you are nonetheless captivated by the way he moves. Confident, yet easy- and you suppose he’s handsome. He’s got little tufts of hair that look like ears and antlers- a deer demon, quite like you, you realize. 

His ears flutter almost anxiously as he produces a flower that resembles a red rose. Save for the eyeball in the center, which tears up as he twirls it between his thumb and forefinger during his approach. The tears are like dewdrops as he approaches the stage, stopping right in front of it and stares up at you. The grin never drops. Not even for a second. You’re captivated, stunned to silence and stillness both- a figurative deer in the headlights once again.  

Stunned, you watch him press his lips to the petals in the way your husband used to before you could get it through your thick skull that he loved you. He offers it towards you from the ground, you bend to grab it- and he brushes the petals across your knuckles. A kiss from him to a rose to you as he hands it to you.

“You deserve a much better stage, ma chérie.” Alastor murmurs sweetly, his words crackle at the edges with radio static. The petals of the rose are soft in your palm, the smell sweet as you clutch it to your chest. 

Alastor extends his hand, and you reach your hands out towards him, teary eyed, pleading but patient- hesitating just before taking it. Alastor takes it in his, tugs you forward to press a quick, genuine kiss to your knuckles. He then proceeds to lift you from the stage easily, black tendrils of shadows push you over the ledge- falling is easy when you know he’s there to catch you, hold you. 

You giggle through the sudden influx of your tears, touching his cheeks gently- an allowance 

“None of that- hush-” His knuckle still brushes underneath your eye and wipes the tears away, “It’s quite alright now, isn’t it?”

Nose to your nose, you press a kiss to his teeth- ears flutter blissfully with your happiness, tail wiggling. Alastor returns the gesture, kissing the corner of your mouth- chuckling.

“We’ve always made the perfect pair, haven’t we, darling? In life,” he blows at one of your doe ears playfully- you giggle. “And in death.”

“Aren’t you just the cutest bit of roadkill I ever did see!” is the first thing Rosie says to you. You laugh, having- obviously- come to terms with your death by this point. Alastor does not find this phrase nearly as amusing. 

Alastor ends up being the one who explains everything to you… from your death to his gruesome hobbies. Figuring that if he doesn’t, Rosie will, inevitably, either hold it over his head (Was owning his soul truly not enough leverage? Must he also submit to such humiliation? Ugh.) or you would have one of your little epiphanies. 

It’s Hell, after all, and firstly- he had not a reason to hide his habits any longer, there are so few laws here except the law of the fittest. And he was inclined to be the fittest.

He expects anger, betrayal, etcetera but is surprised to find you are… settled with these truths. Even the most gruesome. Not that you agree with murder, per se- or are going to join him in eating people for the hell of it… (at least not right away lol)... but you’re in Hell for whatever sins you’ve committed. Envy, perhaps, or pride. 

You find it kind of amusing that you missed the signs. Those late nights. Those weekends at his cabin… you had no fears of him being unfaithful, but it had just never crossed your mind that he might be killing people out there, ha! 

In any case… you loved him still. The way he greeted you in Hell resembling how he had before- he remembered!-, that he had been looking for you all this time- and still wanted to have you by his side and take you away from a lonely, miserable and eternal career… 

All the awful things he’s done, and all the awful things he will do… well. Those are separate from his love from you, aren’t they? You believe that it is, and you believe that they don’t outweigh the love you feel from him.

Your voice graces the air waves alongside Alastor’s, intertwined with the screams of the damned. (He wasn’t kidding about you deserving a better stage, and what better stage than being allowed to perform on his?)

[cryptographicdreams]

A Little Death • nsfw • (Vox x exorcist!fem!Reader) • [Hazbin Hotel]

fic universe: For Every Fallen Feather tags/cw: fluff + smut + humor. soft!Vox. (former) exorcist reader, // nsfw (MDNI!!) cowgirl, cock warming, dirty talk a/n: my brain is very jumpy atm so I'm bouncing around to some dfferent one offs & requests I have drafted. This is fairly short so I thought I'd clean it up rq. 🥰

“I thought we were practicing our dirty talk, angel?” Vox skims his claws up and down your bare back, faint electricity crackling along your spine. The curtain of your wings draped lazily over the armrests of his mighty office chair flare up with a sharp movement- a sound resembling a moan rumbles in your throat, trapped behind your closed mouth. “And that- what you just said- was weak as shit. Zero stars. Boo!”

He plays a sound clip of a crowd booing. Your brow furrows deeper, confused frown evident, lip bitten to breaking- your blood beads gold before it spills down your chin.

Oh, how he despises your attempts to be quiet. A bad habit he hasn’t managed to break. Yet. 

You, meanwhile, tilt your head to the side in that dumb way he’s so fond of. The corners of your eyes pinch, your teeth divest themselves from your lip so you can pucker them slightly in thought. As though you were standing single file hearing orders and not sliding your pussy over his dick with military precision. 

Fuck- your generally unresponsive nature drove him crazy only because he knew there were cracks that would lead to breaking it. 

Not sinking all the way down into his lap, you give it another attempt- never breaking eye contact with him- supporting yourself on his shoulders.

“Does it not arouse you to think me corrupt? By your own hand? By your hands… on me?” Your tongue darts out, held between your teeth for a moment- your blood smears, flashing in the teal light of his screen as it brightens. “By your…” 

Golden eyes dart down and stare momentarily at where you’re both half-joined before you suddenly and quickly shift your weight to sink entirely down upon him. His cock disappears into your warm, wet heat with a wet schlick sound.

Vox groans, breathy and desperate- your eyes flutter closed but you don’t manage a moan. Instead you keep talking, almost entirely unflustered. 

“By your cock? In me? Defiling me?” You tilt forward, press your tits against the sharp line of his lapels. Breath fogging up the glass as you speak, close enough to kiss. Red pixels drool down the edge of his screen, you trace the pad of your finger along them softly. “Is it not thrilling that you are the only creature on or off God’s green earth to make me cum? To cum inside of me?” 

Vox tilts his screen back against the chair with something resembling a cross between a moan and a chuckle, almost a hiccup in his sheer surprise. So you have been paying attention. Who would have thought?

“Okay- okay- Christ- very good, baby- always such a good girl for me.” He manages, moves his hand from your back to thread his claws through your feathers. You sigh again, it warbles strangely- eyes fluttering with the same intensity as your wings jerk out at the touch, at his words. You’re almost preening, cunt contracting around him- tight, fuck- almost painfully so- when he speaks so sweetly and then relaxing ever so slowly. As though reluctant to let go. 

Hands falling to your hips, he presses you down as he grinds up against you- your wings flare out again, lift up- rustle and shake as you shiver- but you are otherwise nearly and eerily silent. 

Vox knows he has got to find a way to make you scream his name one of these days but- that can wait. For a little while, at least. 

Relaxing again, hands still pressed into your hips- keeping you steady, keeping you still. His digital eyes roam your naked form, the soft downy feathers lining your throat, the tops of your round little breasts with nipples pert. You’re warm and soft and-

A thought grabs him, hazily- and his teal pupils narrow. 

“Hey, angel- question.” 

“Yes…?” You don’t open your eyes- your lashes flutter just barely in acknowledgement.

“Why’d they give you such a perfect pussy if you weren’t supposed to use it, huh?” His teal grin widens, lascivious, tongue slinking out slightly- wet and wanting- “... Or have it be used?”

Now, you bother to open your eyes so that you can blink at him placidly- painfully innocent in a way that makes his dick twitch inside of you. 

“Humans are His favorite.” 

“That does not answ-” Vox starts- you adjust your weight, roll your hips in a way that’s entirely accidental and yet still makes his screen dissolve in a white lightning strike of a glitch. His claws arch, bite into your hips momentarily, even knowing all he has to say is: “Stop- be still.” 

And you obey, unquestioning and automatically- your shoulders pin back and become rigid even as his big hands begin to skim up and down your bare thighs. The only movement you make is the slight rustle of your feathers with each pass of his skin against yours, the cool tips of his claws that spark mildly- but otherwise, you are as still as can be. 

Voice low, salacious, he murmurs- “There we are, pretty thing. My pretty thing.”

Your cunt flutters around him, holds fast and then relaxes at the tamest of praise- Vox hums softly with delight, the sensation is a soft, pleasant pulse rolling through his groin. 

“What is confusing about my answer?” You ask, faintly impatient- but even toned, as if you’re asking about the weather from half-way across the room and not stretched out perfectly by his cock and consequently soaking his lap with your juices.

Vox’s sigh turns into a laugh that shakes his shoulders underneath your hands.   

“Humans are “His” favorite, okay, I’ll bite. So what?”

“Aesthetically.” You say to clarify, as if it is the most simple thing in the world. As if it’s a proper answer. Not allowing him to prod you further, you press your face to his screen again, mash your nose against him insistantly.

Much of the time, he thinks you’d crawl inside his skin and live there, if you could- Vox muffles his laughter, lip bit- red pixels drooling from the corner of his poorly concealed grin- and doesn’t let his screen bend for you. 

Annoyance is very clear in the way you pull back a little and then come back with force, teeth bared slightly when growling.  

Kiss. You plead without saying anything- without blinking, his eyes have to cross to even hope to meet yours. The harsh blue light of his screen doesn’t bother you- doesn’t entice you, either, it would seem- but it doesn’t bother you. 

Vox shifts one hand up to the back of your head, threads his claws through icy white hair that’s as soft as silk. Holds you fa

You mumble incoherently against his mouth, happily accepting his tongue into it- although when you do it does cause you to jut your hips forward naturally, seeking friction- driving him crazy before stilling yourself again. Trying so desperately to be good, to follow orders.

“Killin’ me here, angel.” Vox hisses as the kiss breaks in the wake of his hips bucking up to meet your incidental little movements- whether this is a punishment or reward, he doesn’t know.

A rare smile graces your face when you lean back to look at him- more of a smirk really- corners of your eyes pinched with what can only be mischief. Golden blood and slobber dripping from your chin; you don’t reach up to wipe it away. 

“That is exactly what I was made to do, Vox.” 

You say this to him with your voice bright and ringing clear as a bell. You lean in close again, thumbs stroking across the lower frame of his screen- the unabiding static he’s producing in a state of arousal washes over you like a blanket, familiar- comforting- it makes the fine ends of your hair reach for him too. 

A sound dangerously close to a purr leaves you- his claws bend automatically, pressing into your skin but without breaking it; skinny frame shuddering underneath the weight of you, the subtle threat you won’t follow through on. 

It’s a longstanding- not an argument, per se- an understanding, well-worn, familiar. You were made to kill demons, and… you still do. On occasion. Usually at Vox’s behest. More often, however, you sit so pretty and so beloved in this particular demon’s lap like you are now.

You’re still smiling, though, as though this fact is more amusing than anything- progressively breaking into a wider grin; feral- all teeth and overly pleased with yourself. 

Voice becoming slightly more gentle, you whisper, “But never you fear… nowadays, I only intend to bring you a… little death.”

[cheersonlyy]

sooo I have an AU idea where Charlie has 1 year to try to redeem Vox, otherwise he'll be killed because causing a revolution against Heaven is not just a children game

also there's a lot of silentstatic 'cause I can't wait for S3 (Alastor having an emotional boost because Vox dgaf anymore and Vox just wanting to end it all)

[9kaytor7-deactivated20260322]

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 6. 𝖡𝗅𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁

✶ SUMMARY: Regent bleeds through the edge of reality, haunted by memories and visions that may not be their own, as desperation and grief blur the line between what is real and what is forced to be.

✶ WARNINGS/TAGS: Where the fuck do I even start??? Graphic Depictions of Violence, Dark Themes, Angst with the Briefest Comfort, Emotional and Pshychological Trauma, Grief, Mental Breakdowns/ Panic Attacks, Emotional Abuse, PTSD Triggers/Flashbacks, Character Death (Mentioned), INTENSE mind Manipulation/Hallucinations, Pshychological Disortions, Obsession, Self-Destructive Behaviour, Music appearance (not sung)

✶ WORDCOUNT: 16𝗄 (Lord help me.)

✶ NOTE: Buckle up folks you in for a ride with this one. This is one of the loooonger chapters- though a lot of them from here on on will be with a bigger wordcount. (Which means It will take me more time to write for it to be better.) But will have cleansers in between with some calmer/soft moments.

✶ PROOFREAD BY: @mingapace ! | They wanna report me to the authorities for this chapter :(

MASTERLIST ✶ PLAYLIST ✶ AO3

It had barely been a week, and the place already felt foreign. Seven days of strained, half-hearted attempts at communication. Seven days of constant bickering with that television-headed bastard who seemed to exist purely to grate on your nerves. Seven days spent carefully orbiting Lucifer, avoiding him with the precision of someone who knew exactly what kind of damage he could still do if given the chance. You could endure one ghost from your past-but not two.

Not him.

The Wrath Ring’s castle rose before you, its jagged silhouette cutting into the red sky like a familiar wound. You slowed your steps as you approached, your gaze drifting toward the hedges lining the path. The flowers were gone. Where once thorned blooms had twisted through the bushes, there was now only clipped red foliage.

Satan’s handiwork. Or rather, his order. He had always hated flowers - said they were indulgent, distracting. Still, he let you have it over the years. ‘So you wouldn’t throw a fit.’ he’d said while snapping his nails (DIVA). As if that had ever been the point.

The massive doors loomed ahead, lacquered red and inlaid with grinning skulls, polished to a sharper shine than you remembered. You lifted your hand toward the gong, fingers curling as hesitation snagged you for the briefest moment-

The doors swung open before you could strike.

You froze, eyes widening, and then the tension broke all at once as recognition hit. “Noxbert,” you breathed, a grin pulling itself across your face before you could stop it.

You bent forward, extending your hand, and he mirrored the motion with practiced precision. What followed was your usual mess of a greeting-an awkward blend of fist bump, half-dab, and something that barely resembled a bow. A ritual the two of you had cobbled together over the years, much to his persistent disapproval. He’d always insisted it was unbecoming, improper for a royal attendant to dab with regency. You had always disagreed.

This time, as always, he simply straightened, smoothed his gloves, and gestured inward with a polite sweep of his arm. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”

You scoffed softly as you stepped past him, waiting for the doors to close before falling into stride at his side. Another habit he had once tried, unsuccessfully, to break. He’d insisted on walking behind you for years. Eventually, he’d given up.

“Is it really home,” you asked lightly, “if I was evicted?”

“It will always be a home for you, Your Highness,” he replied without missing a step, voice steady and certain.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of you, and with every step it became harder to ignore what had changed. Or rather-what had been erased.

The castle still stood as it always had: the same vaulted ceilings, the same polished stone, the same oppressive grandeur. But the warmth you had once carved into it was gone. No flower vases along the walls. No personal decorations. No soft touches that had made the space feel lived in rather than ruled. Everything you had added - everything that had made it yours - had been stripped away with surgical precision.

You didn’t even want to think about your old room. Satan had probably turned it into a grilling hall or some other monument to excess, just to prove a point.

“So,” you said at last, breaking the silence as you glanced down at him, at that familiar, carefully neutral expression. “How have you been?”

Noxbert inclined his head slightly. “I don’t believe I matter that much, Your Highness. But thank you for asking.” A small, genuine smile curved his lips.

Your tail betrayed you immediately, giving an unmistakable wag. You felt absurdly pleased. Seeing him smile was a rare thing-ultra-mega-legendary! even. He was always composed, always perfect in his role as secretary and guardian of the castle. Every flicker of humanity you managed to draw out of him felt like a victory, one you hoarded quietly.

After a moment, he continued, “And how have you been, Your Highness?”

You slowed for just a second before answering. “I-” Your voice caught, then steadied. “I’ve been managing. Adjusting to the new atmosphere and… everything.” You exhaled through your nose. “You know how much I dislike drastic changes.”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “That is why I always prepared your schedules a week in advance.”

“And I always appreciated it,” you said, dipping your head slightly as the two of you continued down the long hall.

His expression softened. “I was sorry to hear what happened. It was all so sudden.” He turned down a corridor with you, footsteps measured.

“I can only imagine how frustrated you must have been when you left.” He hesitated before adding, “It may be selfish of me, but I wish you hadn’t gone so abruptly. Still… I understand why you did. You wouldn’t have wanted to risk lashing out at Adinele or myself.”

You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly feeling like a degraded teenager. “Yeah. You know how I get when my temper gets the better of me.”

“I have witnessed it on numerous occasions,” he said dryly.

A weak huff of laughter escaped you. “And yet you never hated me for it.”

He stopped then, just for a heartbeat, turning his gaze toward you. “Never, Your Highness,” he said quietly. “You are only a person.”

Your body flinched before you could stop it, your gaze dropping to the stone floor.

Only a person.

You weren’t sure when the line between person and tool had blurred beyond recognition. It had happened slowly, over years, until you hadn’t noticed it at all. But hearing the words spoken aloud… spoken so simply settled something in your chest.

Hell’s morning light spilled through the doorway as the kitchen door creaked open. You winced immediately, lifting a hand to shield your eyes until the glare softened enough for you to squint past it. When your vision finally adjusted, Adinele stood there, framed by the glow.

“Your Highness,” she said, bowing instinctively.

You let out a small chuckle and stepped forward to greet her but you barely had time to move before she caught your arm, turning it over with practiced urgency.

“Have you been well?” she demanded, already inspecting you. “You didn’t get into any trouble, did you? Any rageful outbursts-no, wait.” She paused, eyes sharp with concern. “Did you at least take care of yourself when they happened?”

You didn’t resist. You went pliant in her grasp, letting her fuss over you like an overprotective mother who had been worried sick. She tugged at your sleeves, pushing them up to check your arms, slipped your gloves off without ceremony, and examined your hands closely. Her fingers brushed over the familiar constellation of old scars, lingering on the newest one - a pinkish mark where a wound had healed cleanly.

From somewhere behind you, Noxbert cleared his throat pointedly. “Adinele.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “What?” she snapped. “I’m worried. Am I not allowed to be worried?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but said nothing more.

Once she seemed satisfied, once every inch of you had been checked and rechecked, she carefully pulled your sleeves back down, smoothed the fabric at your shoulders, and finally smiled, genuine and relieved. “It’s good to see you, Your Highness.”

You returned the smile without thinking. “Right back at you, Adinele.”

Adinele finally stepped back, giving you space. For a brief moment you were simply left standing there, facing the kitchen table- and then you saw it.

You sucked in a quiet breath, the sound catching in your chest before you could stop it.

Noxbert spoke before you could find your voice, his tone measured but not unkind, as though he understood exactly what had just dawned on you. “Sir Satan ordered that all flowers be removed from the castle,” he said. “I was unable to preserve most of them.” A pause, deliberate. “But I ensured the one most important to you was spared.”

Your gaze locked onto the small flowerpot resting at the center of the table. You moved toward it slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid it might vanish if you came too close. Morning light poured in through the window, catching on the glazed ceramic and bathing the blooms in something nearly awed. For a fleeting second, it looked less like a kitchen fixture and more like an altar.

You reached out, fingers trembling as you slid your hand beneath one of the smaller clusters of blue petals. The forget-me-nots bent gently beneath your touch, supple and alive, as though leaning into you rather than away. A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding finally escaped, your shoulders loosening as the tension bled out of them.

Your eyes softened, lids lowering as you took in every fragile detail-the pale veins threading through each petal, the quiet resilience in their stems, the familiar, grounding scent that had no right to survive here.

You lifted your gaze toward the windowsill.

It was bare.

Where once there had been a dense sprawl of living blue, spilling outward and claiming the light, there was now only empty stone. Clean. Final. Your throat tightened, and you looked back down at the pot before the emptiness could settle too deeply.

Carefully, reverently - you gathered it into your hands, cradling it against your chest as though it were something that could bruise if held too tightly. Your thumb brushed the rim of the pot absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of it.

Behind you, Noxbert and Adinele exchanged a quiet glance. Neither said a word. They simply watched, expressions softened, as the Regent of Pride stood there in the quiet morning light-unguarded, unarmored, holding something small and living with a tenderness few ever got to see.

Lucifer had been restless all day.

It showed in the way he paced the living room, boots tracing the same worn path across the carpet again and again, wings twitching faintly at his back like they couldn’t quite settle. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything since morning. Not paperwork, not meetings, not even Charlie’s overly enthusiastic 171938 time recap of this weeks… exercise.

‘A positive note!’  she’d said, beaming like it meant the world.

He didn’t know whether to believe it, but he trusted Charlie with his heart and that was enough to leave him wound tight with something uncomfortably close to guilt.

“What’cha pacing around the living room for, Luci?” Angel drawled from his sprawl across the couch, lower eyes blinking lazily as he tracked Lucifer completing yet another tight circuit. “You’re gonna wear a groove into the floor at this rate.”

Lucifer stopped short, claws combing through his hair as he turned on his heel. “I- well- I have an important guest coming,” he said, words tripping over themselves before he forced them back into order. “Someone who’s supposed to help us with our… uh-”

“Family issues?”

The interruption came from the doorway.

Lucifer’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing instantly as Vox sauntered into the room like he owned the place, mug in hand. Static flickered faintly across his screen as he grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

Lucifer’s lip curled, a low growl vibrating in his chest as his gaze locked onto the sinner. He visibly considered saying something sharp before deciding, with great effort, to pretend Vox simply did not exist.

“Yes,” he said instead, jaw tight. “Our family issues. And I can’t even find them, and I’m worried they won’t show up in time, and-”

“Relax, hissy-stick.” Vox cut in cheerfully, lifting his mug to his screen. The white ceramic read Strongest Sinner in bold, self-satisfied lettering. Clearly added by Vox himself. “I’m sure they’re around somewhere.”

He took an exaggerated slurp, the sound obnoxiously loud. “Avoiding you, preferably.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched.

His nostrils flared, shoulders squaring as heat prickled beneath his skin. For half a second, the room seemed to tense with him - air pressure shifting, the faint scent of ozone creeping in - before he sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to unclench.

‘Don’t let him get to you.’ he told himself. ‘Do not let him get to you.’

Vox lowered his mug just enough to watch him, screen flickering with smug satisfaction. “See?” he said lightly. “Progress already. Growth. I should charge for this.”

The look Angel shot Vox next was sharp and unmistakably ‘don’t push it.’ Vox caught it, paused mid-sip, then blinked-once, twice-before lowering his mug with an exaggerated air of innocence.

“What?” he said, static fluttering faintly across his screen. “I’m being helpful.” He gestured vaguely with the mug. “They probably just stepped out. Job meeting. Regal obligations. You know-important, high-status nonsense, like always.”

Angel didn’t look convinced. He crossed his arms-all of them-and sank deeper into the couch cushions, eyes narrowing. “Uh-huh. Sure. And you’re not enjoying this at all.”

Vox’s grin widened. “Define ‘enjoy.’”

Lucifer, meanwhile, had already resumed pacing, boots cutting quick, restless paths across the room. His tail flicked behind him, irritation radiating off every step. Angel watched him for a moment, then sighed and fished his phone out of nowhere.

‘Get Charlie down here. Now.’ ‘He’s spiraling.’

Message sent to the kings daughter in law, Angel tucked the phone away and settled back in, content to spectate.

Vox leaned against the arm of the couch, clearly savoring the scene. If he could’ve planted a camera somewhere -captured the King of Hell pacing like an anxious intern - this would’ve been premium content. Viral. Legendary! But no, he’d learned the hard way that trust-building meant not recording psychological breakdowns without consent. Tragic, really.

And with his luck, it’d earn him a strike.

They lingered in that uneasy stalemate for a few more minutes: Lucifer pacing, Angel lounging, Vox observing like a critic at a live show-until the sudden ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the room.

Lucifer froze.

Then he bolted.

He shot across the living room in a blur, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke and displaced air like something straight out of a cartoon. The door was already halfway open before the sound had fully finished ringing.

Angel snorted. “Well,” he said, grinning. “There he goes.”

Vox tilted his head, screen flickering with amusement. “Ten bucks says he practiced that sprint.”

Lucifer flung the door open with a sharp, eager motion, already leaning forward as if momentum alone might conjure the person he was hoping to see. For a split second, his expression hovered on expectation-then his gaze dropped, confusion knitting his brows together.

An imp stood on the threshold, nearly his height, posture immaculate. They wore a dark, tailored suit pressed to perfection, the fabric catching the low light in subtle, deliberate lines. A slim briefcase rested in one hand, polished to a dull shine, while the other extended outward with practiced confidence.

“Rowell,” they said, voice smooth and measured. “My dearest client, at your service!”

Lucifer stared.

Then blinked- aaaand then blinked again.

He hesitated just long enough for the moment to stretch awkwardly before taking the imp’s hand, his grip warm but distracted, as though his thoughts were sprinting several steps behind reality. Rowell’s mouth curved into a brief, almost amused smile.

“I’m the therapist you requested,” they clarified, adjusting their grip on the briefcase.

Lucifer’s mouth formed a small, stunned ‘o’. His brain visibly stalled-processing, recalibrating-before everything clicked at once.

“Oh-!” His wings twitched, feathers ruffling. “Oh! Yes- yes, that’s- YES.” He stepped aside in a flurry of movement, gesturing far too enthusiastically toward the interior. “Please, come in, absolutely, thank you, thank you for actually coming-”

Rowell dipped into a respectful bow as they crossed the threshold, their steps unhurried. Their eyes swept over the hotel’s interior with quiet precision, taking in the cluttered warmth, the lingering tension in the air, the faint hum of voices deeper within the building. After a moment, they gave a small nod-approval or acknowledgment, it was hard to tell-before turning their attention back to Lucifer.

“I’ve been informed you requested a family therapist,” Rowell said, opening their briefcase just enough to retrieve a slim notepad and pen. “Specifically to address ongoing familial conflict.”

“Yes-yes,” Lucifer replied quickly, clasping his hands together as if anchoring himself. “It’s for my two kids-”

Rowell paused, pen hovering midair. Their gaze sharpened, analytical but not unkind. “You are their father?”

“Yes,” Lucifer answered without hesitation.

“And the other parent?”

The question landed heavier.

Lucifer stilled, the energy draining from his posture. One clawed hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes drifting away as if the answer were written somewhere on the walls instead. “She…” His voice softened, losing its earlier brightness. “She left.”

Rowell didn’t rush him. They observed quietly-the subtle dip of Lucifer’s shoulders, the way his tail flicked once before curling closer to his leg, the faint, old ache threaded through the pause that followed.

“I see,” Rowell said at last, voice gentler. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s something we’ll likely need to revisit later.”

Before Lucifer could respond, footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

“Dad?”

Charlie’s voice bloomed down the hall as she hurried into view, her expression tight with concern. She glanced between Lucifer and the unfamiliar imp, unease flickering across her face- still carrying the weight of Angel’s urgent message and Vaggi’s worry pressed into her chest.

Lucifer turned toward her, a collision of relief, nerves, and guilt crossing his features all at once.

“Char!” Lucifer’s voice lifted the moment he saw her, tension breaking like a cracked glass finally giving way. He stepped forward and caught her hands in his, his grip warm and a little too tight, wings twitching behind him as a nervous habit he hadn’t yet mastered.

His smile was sheepish, hopeful in a way that made him look far younger than the King of Hell had any right to be. “This-this is a family therapist,” he said, turning her hands slightly as though grounding himself through the contact. “Their name is Rowell. I… I decided we could use some help.”

Charlie followed his gesture, her eyes settling on the imp in the dark suit before flicking back to her father. Her expression softened, but doubt crept in all the same.

“Dad,” she said gently, choosing each word with care, “I really do appreciate you trying. I know this means a lot to you. I’m just not sure a therapist is… well-equipped for our situation.”

Lucifer’s brows drew together immediately, the hopeful crease in his expression tightening into something more fragile.  “Why not?” he asked, a faint edge creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “That’s what they’re for, aren’t they? Helping families talk. Fixing things that don’t work.”

The way he looked at her then - earnest, uncertain, already bracing himself for failure made Charlie’s chest ache. She squeezed his hands, anchoring him, and lifted her smile until it felt steady enough to pass. “You’re right,” she said softly. “We can’t do this alone. Maybe… maybe this will help more than we think.”

Lucifer exhaled, a long, shaky breath leaving him as his shoulders relaxed. Relief washed over his features so plainly it almost hurt to look at. He pulled her closer at his side, giving her hands one last grateful squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured, before turning back to Rowell with renewed energy. “So- when can we start?”

Rowell adjusted their stance, unfazed, already setting their briefcase down with professional calm. “Immediately, if you’d like,” they replied. “All I’ll need is a private room where we won’t be interrupted.”

Lucifer nodded at once, Charlie echoing the motion, and together they guided Rowell down the corridor to one of the quieter hotel rooms. The door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing them off from the bustle outside.

 “You mentioned two children,” they said, glancing up. Their eyes settled briefly on Charlie. “I only see one present.”

Lucifer lowered himself into a chair, fingers coming up to rub the back of his neck again as uncertainty crept back in. “Ah- yes. The other one is… occupied,” he said, hesitating. “Some sort of meeting, I think. I’m not entirely sure where they are right now.”

Rowell hummed, making a note. “And their name?”

“Well,” Lucifer began, straightening just a touch, “they’re the Regent of Pride-”

Rowell went completely still.

“Regent?” they repeated, eyes widening as recognition struck hard and fast. “The Regent of Pride?”

The sudden shift in their demeanor made the air feel tighter. “Well why didn’t you say so!” Rowell blurted, shock and unmistakable interest bleeding into their tone.

Charlie’s head snapped toward Rowell so sharply it was a wonder she didn’t give herself whiplash. Confusion crossed her face in quick succession-surprise, disbelief, then something closer to alarm. “I’m sorry,” she said, blinking hard, “what?”

Rowell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they set their briefcase down with deliberate care, the metal clasps clicking open as if on cue. The case unfolded like a magician’s trick: thick notebooks slid out first, their spines bent and worn, pages bristling with multicolored tabs and handwritten annotations.

After those came loose papers, neatly bundled, then glass bottles filled with swirling liquids, pill vials labeled in precise handwriting, and finally a heavy leather-bound journal that looked old enough to have survived several regimes of Hell.

Only then did Rowell laugh-a dry, knowing sound. “Oh, yes,” they said breezily, already stacking the notebooks across the small table as though claiming territory. “They were a client of mine for years. Long-term case. High-intensity.”

One notebook was flipped open, revealing pages dense with looping script, diagrams, and angry red underlines. “Eventually gave up on therapy, as most of my… more volatile clients do.”

Lucifer stared, unmoving, eyes tracking each item as it was laid bare. Charlie stepped closer without realizing it, gaze flicking between the notebooks and the therapist. “They were… a client of yours?” she repeated, her voice softer now, cautious.

Rowell hummed, uncorking one of the bottles and sniffing it absently before setting it aside. “Mm-hm. Satan, I have to say, I’m finally getting the whole picture.”

Their eyes lifted at last, dragging over Lucifer with clinical interest-his height, his wings, the tension wound tight in his shoulders. “You’re quite a bit taller than what they described you to be,” they added with a crooked grin. “Very dramatic descriptions, actually. Lots of gesturing in the notes.”

Charlie let out a nervous laugh and patted her father’s arm, as if to reassure herself he was still solid, still there. Lucifer didn’t react. His gaze was fixed on a particular notebook Rowell had opened now, one page marked ANGER EPISODE – PRIDE RING in bold ink.

“They were… how bad?” Lucifer asked finally, voice low.

Rowell tilted their head, considering, as they pulled out another journal and let it fall open with a soft thud. “Oh, a masterpiece of problems,” they said cheerfully.

“Identity fracture, authority resentment, emotional repression bordering on self-erasure.” They flipped a page. “Here’s a fun one-chronic guilt masked by arrogance. Classic.” Another page turned. “Oh, and rage displacement. That one kept me on my toes.”

Lucifer swallowed. “How many therapists did they have before you?”

Rowell paused, tapping the edge of the notebook with one claw as if tallying an invisible list. “A couple,” they said. “Some quit. Others…” They gestured vaguely, then mimed a slicing motion across their neck with two fingers. “Didn’t.”

Charlie’s breath caught. “Didn’t…?”

“Decapitated,” Rowell clarified lightly, as though discussing an unfortunate workplace injury. “Mostly blue bloods. Prideful, condescending types- terrible bedside manner. Satan was very motivated to keep that whole affair quiet.” They smiled thinly. “But things have a way of surfacing eventually, don’t they?”

Silence pressed down on the room, thick and uncomfortable.

Charlie slowly turned to Lucifer, worry pooling in her eyes. Lucifer met her gaze, his usual confidence stripped bare, replaced with something raw and unsettled. Between them, the table sat buried under years of notes, records, and bottled coping mechanisms - physical proof that whatever was coming back into their lives was far more complicated than either of them had been prepared to face.

Rowell clapped their hands together once, sharp and decisive, the sound echoing faintly off the hotel room’s walls. “Well then,” they announced brightly, already rummaging back into their bag, “let’s get this therapy session started.”

Charlie and Lucifer watched with growing unease as Rowell produced even more items - chalky crystals wrapped in cloth, folded sigils, and finally a small metal tin that rattled ominously when shaken. Rowell popped it open and tipped two pale tablets into their palm.

Both Charlie and Lucifer froze.

“These are just headache pills,” Rowell said casually, though they paused, staring down at the tablets with a thoughtful frown. “Standard precaution. Some sessions… escalate.” After a beat, they shrugged and added two more pills to their hand. “Better safe than sorry- you want some?”

Charlie and Lucifer shook their heads a chorus of “no-nope.” Filling the room.

“Suit yourselves.” Rowell shrugged, and swallowed the pill try.

Lucifer’s wings twitched. Charlie’s shoulders crept up toward her ears.

“Um,” Charlie said carefully, forcing a polite smile, “we… kind of can’t start without them here.”

Rowell waved a dismissive hand, already tossing the tin back into the bag. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got it all covered.” They pulled out a thick, battered book bound in dark red leather and set it reverently on the table. Sliding on a pair of narrow glasses, they licked the tip of one claw and flipped through the pages with brisk efficiency, eyes darting as they scanned dense columns of infernal script.

Lucifer leaned forward despite himself. “How exactly is this supposed to-”

“Shhh!” Rowell snapped without looking up. “I’m concentrating.”

Lucifer recoiled instinctively, lips snapping shut as he leaned back, hands gripping the arms of his chair. Charlie shot him a look that said ‘do not provoke them.’

Rowell began to move then, one hand raised as they traced symbols in the air, the other hovering over the open book. They murmured words under their breath-old, layered language that Lucifer half-recognized, fragments of summoning dialects warped by therapy jargon. His brow furrowed as he caught your name spoken clearly among the incantation.

The room dimmed.

A dark red glow bled from the pages of the book, pooling across the floor and climbing the walls like smoke made of light. The air grew heavy, charged, pressing against Charlie’s chest until she held her breath without realizing it.

Rowell finished the final word and snapped the book shut.

Nothing happened.

They blinked. “Huh,” they muttered. “That’s odd. This usually works.”

The book jerked violently from Rowell’s hands into the air. It hovered there, trembling, its spine glowing as a deep, blood-red light burst from between its pages. Smoke poured out in thick coils, rolling across the ceiling before spilling downward, heavy and suffocating, tinting the room in crimson.

The smoke twisted, condensed-then shaped itself.

Charlie and Lucifer both recoiled instinctively as a chair materialized beside them, followed by your form slamming neatly into it as if you’d always been there. You were mid-motion, one hand raised with a fork inches from your mouth, food still skewered on its prongs. A flower pot-your flower pot-hovered beside you, wobbling dangerously in the air, its cluster of blue forget-me-nots shaking as gravity seemed to remember itself all at once.

“Oh- shit-”

The pot tipped.

You reacted instantly, flinging the fork without hesitation. It clattered uselessly across the floor as you lunged forward, catching the pot just before it could fall. You dragged it into your lap, clutching it protectively, breath sharp in your chest.

Behind you, the book dropped like a dead weight, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“WAIT-NO-MY PLATE!” you shrieked suddenly, realization hitting you like a truck. You leaned forward, hands grabbing at empty air where, seconds ago, a full table of food had been. “NO- NONONO- MY FOOD- I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO EAT THE COOKIES! FOR SATAN’S FUHUHUCK…”

You cut yourself off only because you had to inhale, fingers digging into your hair as you tugged at it in frustration, rubbing your forehead like it might fix this somehow.

‘Satan give me patience,’ you thought bitterly. ‘…Actually, never mind.’

The room went dead silent.

You slowly lifted your head, peering through the mess of your hair as your eyes adjusted. The unfamiliar hotel room came into focus first-then Charlie, frozen with concern etched across her face, Lucifer standing rigid beside her, wings tight, expression unreadable but tense.

And finally-

Rowell.

The book skidded the last few inches across the floor and came to a stop right at your feet. Your eyes narrowed. Smoke curled from your nostrils. “You fucking-”

“Ah- Regent!” Rowell cut in brightly, flipping open a notebook as if this were a perfectly normal entrance. “How kind of you to join us!”

“Join us?” Your voice dropped dangerously low as you turned your head slowly toward Charlie and Lucifer, gaze sharpening. “What the fuck is this?”

Rowell hummed, flipping a few pages. “A family therapy session. And you know the rules-no swearing during my sessions.”

“I- are you fucking-”

A sticky note shot through the air like a projectile and slapped directly over your mouth. You let out a muffled groan, peeling it off with two fingers without even needing to read it. “NO SWEARING! >;<”

You crushed the note in your fist, glaring daggers. Rowell clapped their hands together, utterly unfazed. “Now! Let’s begin, shall we?”

You leaned back in the chair, the worn wood groaning softly under your weight. The flower pot remained clutched in your lap, a small, living anchor in the sea of emotional turmoil, your eyes never leaving the three figures who had orchestrated your sudden arrival.

Rowell rummaged through their bag once more, fingers disappearing into its depths before resurfacing with a neat deck of color cards: flat, matte squares with no markings, no words, nothing to guide interpretation. They tapped the stack against the table once, aligning the edges, then spoke.

“Each of you will choose a color that represents how you feel about this family,” Rowell said, after a beat, they added dryly, “Not how you think you’re supposed to feel. How you actually feel.”

They fanned the cards across the tabletop in a careful, practiced arc, a rainbow of muted possibilities. Then they leaned back, clipboard resting against their knee, their eyes sharp and expectant.

Charlie was the first to move, shifting forward on her knees. Her gaze flickered over the spread only briefly before her hand closed around a soft pink card without a shred of hesitation. She drew it back to herself and held it to her chest, fingers curling protectively around the edges as if it were something fragile, a small, hopeful secret.

“I picked pink,” she said, offering a small, tremulous smile as she lifted it for the others to see.

Rowell nodded, already scribbling something in their notes, the scratch of their pen the only sound in the tense room.

Lucifer lingered, his posture rigid. His eyes passed over the cards again and again, a silent war playing out behind them. His gaze lingered just a fraction of a second too long on a deep, angry red before forcing himself away, as if the color itself were dangerous. Eventually, he reached out, his movements stiff, and selected a gold card, holding it between his hands as though testing its weight. His grip tightened, then eased-careful not to crease it.

“I picked- uh- gold,” he said, then squinted at it, tilting the card slightly. “Or… is this yellow?”

Rowell hummed noncommittally and wrote it down without comment, their pen never pausing.

Your turn was an exercise in silent agony. You stared down at the fanned cards, your jaw tightening as your hand hovered over one, then drifted to another, only to pull back as if burned. Your fingers flexed, restless, a silent testament to the conflict raging within you, as if every color carried a price you were no longer willing to pay.

Your hand hovered once more - caught between red and blue. Back and forth. With a sharp, aggravated exhale, you snatched both, holding them up between your fingers like a challenge, daring anyone to say something.

A long-suffering sigh seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Rowell’s shoulders visibly slumped, their professional composure finally cracking under the weight of your defiance.

“I did say a color,” they remarked, pinching the bridge of their nose with two fingers. Then, after a beat, their eyes sharpened with clinical interest. “Though… I am intrigued. What made you choose two this time? In your previous sessions, you always picked red-“

A low growl rumbled out of your chest, cutting them off mid-sentence. “I told you not to reference those.”

Rowell lifted a brow, unfazed by your threat. A quiet, almost amused chuckle slipped out. “I said I wouldn’t analyze them,” they replied calmly, shrugging. “Context still counts.”

You pointed a sharp, accusatory finger at them, then jabbed it back at your own chest. “We know the context. And that’s already too much.”

Another sigh from Rowell, this one patient but firm, as they gestured with their pen toward the cards still fanned on the table. “Then choose.”

Your jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in your cheek as the internal war reached its breaking point. With a frustrated snarl that was more animal than regal, you dropped the red card.

It didn't just fall; you flung it from you, letting it slap against the polished tiles with a sharp, final crack. The sound echoed in the quiet room, a punctuation mark on the end of a sentence you refused to speak. Your hand tightened around the blue card, the edges bending and creasing under the pressure of your grip, a small, fragile rebellion against the role you’d been forced to play.

Rowell winced, a flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or just a deep-seated hatred for damaged materials - crossing their features before being smoothed away by professional calm. They said nothing, simply dipping their head and making a neat, precise note in their book, the scratch of their pen a counterpoint to the ragged sound of your breathing.

“Alright,” Rowell said at last, closing the notebook with a soft thump and setting it aside. They leaned forward, their entire posture shifting from clinical observer to engaged mediator. “Now I want each of you to tell me why you chose the color you did.”

Charlie’s hand shot up instantly, waving with the barely contained enthusiasm of a student who actually did the reading. “Ooh- me, me!” she chirped, her voice bright and eager. “I picked pink because, to me, it represents calmness, happiness, and romance.”

Rowell turned toward her, their head tilting with an almost predatory focus. “And do you see yourself reflected in that color?”

Charlie nodded without hesitation, clutching the card closer to her chest as if it were a sacred text. “Yeah. I really do.”

You watched her, a bitter taste rising in your throat. It was like listening to a child describe a world they’d only read about in fairy tales, a world that had never existed and never would.

“Good,” Rowell said, a note of satisfaction in their voice. “That aligns almost perfectly with how pink is most commonly interpreted psychologically-comfort, affection, emotional openness.”

They continued, their voice a steady, measured drone as they unpacked the symbolism, their words weaving a tapestry of therapeutic jargon that Charlie absorbed with rapt attention. Every word was a tool, a carefully constructed concept designed to build a framework around her chaotic feelings. You could almost see the gears turning in her head, already filing away ideas for future exercises, for the hotel, for everyone else. It was so perfectly, so tragically Charlie.

When Rowell finally finished, they turned slightly and gestured toward Lucifer. “King?”

Lucifer startled, his shoulders jerking as if he’d been zapped with a low-voltage current. He glanced down at the card in his hands, blinking once, twice, as though reminding himself of its existence. “I-ah-yellow. Or gold,” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to sound confident. “I chose it because it represents positivity. Happiness. Warmth.” He hesitated, then smiled, a soft, sincere expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. “And most importantly… hope.”

The word landed in the center of the room like a lead weight. Your fingers tightened around the blue card, the cardboard groaning in protest.

Rowell hummed approvingly, their eyes flicking briefly toward you - taking in the way your knuckles had turned white, the way you seemed to shrink into your chair - before returning their full attention to Lucifer. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of their mouth.

“Hope,” they echoed, savoring the word. “Tell me more about that.”

Lucifer brightened immediately, a desperate animation flooding his movements as his hands lifted, his wings twitching with the momentum of his thoughts. It was the performance of a king trying to convince himself he still believed in his own sermon.

“Well-hope to change things,” he said, the words tumbling over one another with a familiar, practiced enthusiasm. “To change Hell. The system as a whole. I always believed it could be better, that it should be better-”

“You didn’t.”

The interruption landed like a blade through silk-clean, sharp, and utterly final. The air itself seemed to flinch, the light from the hotel windows dimming for a fraction of a second as if recoiling from the sound. The gentle scratch of Rowell’s pen ceased.

Lucifer turned toward you with a startled, uncertain laugh that didn’t quite know where to land, his posture sagging just a fraction. “What?” he asked, confusion edging the forced brightness of his smile.

You didn’t look at him. Your attention remained fixed on the flower pot resting in your lap, your thumb tracing the cool ceramic rim with slow, deliberate care, as if grounding yourself in its simple, solid reality. A soft, bitter scoff slipped from your lips, paired with a low, humorless laugh.

“You didn’t have hope,” you said, your voice eerily calm. “Not for the rest of the Rings… not really.”

Lucifer’s smile tightened, a visible crack in his kingly facade as nerves bled through. “I did- yes -I mean, I tried, but-” He faltered, his gaze darting toward Rowell as if searching for backup, for validation from the one person in the room who wasn't family. “I lost hope, even for the Pride Ring at one point, but Charlie-”

A sound tore out of you, somewhere between a growl and a laugh, low and sharp enough to make the glasses on the table hum. You leaned back in your chair at last, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. The expression on your face was a dangerous, shifting thing: a crooked, almost amused smirk layered over something raw and wounded, your brows drawn tight as you gestured vaguely toward Charlie without breaking eye contact.

“It’s always her,” you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. “When was it me? When did my ideas ever matter?”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, twisting in her chair as if the words were physical blows. She tried to catch your eye, quietly mouthing your name, a desperate plea for you to stop, but you refused to look at her-refused to give her that lifeline, refused to let her pull you back from the edge.

Your smile collapsed entirely then, curdling into something sharp and unmistakably disgusted. You leaned forward, the flower pot still clutched in your lap, and the venom in your voice was pure, undiluted poison. “You’re just another prideful bastard,” you said, your voice low and cutting, “who only ever cared about his precious little sinners.”

The last words left your mouth like something rotten you couldn’t wait to spit out.

“They’re my responsibility-” Lucifer began, his voice a weak attempt at regaining control of the narrative.

You cut him off by standing, the movement sharp and sudden, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor with a shriek of wood on stone. With deliberate, almost reverent care, you lifted the flowerpot from your lap and set it down on the table in front of Rowell. A small puff of soil rose from the ceramic as you leaned forward, your presence eclipsing Lucifer where he sat, a sudden eclipse of fury.

Rowell didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. They remained perfectly still, their face an unreadable mask, already anticipating the familiar, explosive arc of your anger-the verbal lashing, the release, the eventual, exhausted collapse back into your chair.

Oh, how wrong they were.

“No, Lucifer,” you said, your voice low and vibrating with a restraint stretched to its breaking point. “Hell is your responsibility. All of it. Every Ring.”

Your lip curled, a sneer marring your features as you straightened, smoke beginning to coil faintly around your shoulders like gathering storm clouds. “But you chose to care only about sinners. You and Lilith both.”

Lucifer didn’t stand, even as your shadow swallowed him whole. He stayed seated, his hands lifting in a placating gesture, trying desperately to reason, “You know that’s not how it works. That’s why the Deadly Sins exist-to divide the labor, to keep order-”

You pointed a single, trembling finger at him, the digit shaking with a fury that was almost palpable.

“You are chained to Pride,” you snarled, each word a spark in the growing darkness. “You don’t have jurisdiction here- but you do over the others. You always did. You could have done something if you actually cared.”

Your hand swept outward, a grand, furious gesture as if the other Sins might materialize at any second, summoned by the sheer force of your accusation.

“They don’t care,” you went on, your voice rising. “And the ones who do are too weak, too scared to stand against the rest and change anything.”

Lucifer finally straightened in his chair, his own voice rising as he tried to force his point through the tempest. “You have to understand- my word wouldn’t have been enough against Satan. You know how he is. He wouldn’t have listened.”

Charlie moved with him, half-rising from her seat, her hands hovering in the space between you as if she could physically hold the shattering moment together. Meanwhile, Rowell, watching the scene unfold with the calm of a seasoned storm-chaser, reached into their briefcase without breaking eye contact with the confrontation. They pulled out a bottle of tequila, popped the cap with their thumb, and took a long, unapologetic swig, the action a silent, dark commentary on the proceedings.

“YOU WERE CROWNED KING, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” The scream tore through the room, a raw, guttural explosion of sound that made the very air recoil.

Your eyes flared a brilliant, terrifying red, and a wave of heat rolled off you, so intense it made the dust motes dancing in the light sizzle. The smoke around you thickened into a roiling, black aura. Charlie reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm in a desperate plea for calm - you jerked away as if her touch burned, as if even that small comfort was unbearable now.

“A crown doesn’t mean power to him,” Lucifer said sharply, the words coming out faster than he seemed to intend. His voice cracked at the edges despite his effort to keep it steady. “To Satan, it’s just another piece on a board. A chess token in his little game of entertainment.”

You stared at him, a statue carved from fire and fury, unmoving, unblinking.

He leaned forward now, his hands lifting in a frustrated, almost pleading gesture, his entire posture screaming a defense he couldn’t quite put into words. “You have no idea what pushing back against him entails. He doesn’t respect authority- he- he mocks it. Titles, thrones, crowns… they’re props to him.

“And yet,” you cut in, your voice low but trembling with a barely contained violence, “you would go through Hell and Heaven to push Charlie’s ideas.”

You took a step closer, the heat of your aura making the air between you shimmer. “You’d bend rules, move systems, rewrite doctrines just to give sinners a second chance.”

Your voice dipped then, losing its sharp edge and sinking into something far more dangerous: raw, wounded, and aching. It was the sound of a scar being ripped open. “But you couldn’t even spare me a glance when I tried to make a difference.”

The breath left Lucifer in a visible hitch, a sharp, audible gasp. His shoulders faltered, his entire frame seeming to shrink as the accusation landed somewhere deep and vital. For a long, stretched moment, he didn’t speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land.

You held his gaze, your own fury still blazing, but now threaded through it was something far worse. Hurt. Old, unhealed, and aching. The kind of profound, soul-deep pain that came from being unseen for too long.

“You’re being unreasonable,” he said at last, the words hurried, defensive, a weak shield against the truth of your pain. “I’m telling you- I wouldn’t have had the influence-”

You stared at him as though the world had tilted off its axis, as if he had just spoken a language so alien it couldn’t possibly be real. Disbelief bled into something darker, messier, a chaotic storm of emotion you could no longer contain. It felt like thorns were piercing your skin from the inside out, invisible but relentless, squeezing the air from your lungs until it hurt to breathe.

“Why,” you demanded, your voice trembling with the force of your grief, “give second chances to bastards who chose every step that led them here- who had the power to change their own outcomes-when there are people who never had a choice to begin with?”

“That’s not how it works,” Lucifer insisted, desperation now a raw current in his tone. “I didn’t create all of them-”

“Yeah,” you snapped, and a sharp, unhinged laugh tore out of you, a sound completely devoid of humor. It echoed in the small room, brittle and hollow, making Charlie flinch. “You only made the Goetia. The ones who sip tea and eat crumpets while deciding which imp to torment for sport.” Your laughter continued, a wild, unsettling cadence. “Who gets slaughtered next, just to keep them entertained.”

“Sunbeam-” he murmured, the name a soft, desperate plea, a relic of a time when you were still his to protect. He reached for you, his hand trembling.

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT.”

The scream tore from your throat, a full-throated explosion of pure, unadulterated rage. The lights in the room flickered violently, and the temperature plummeted. The flowerpot on the table rattled, its fragile blooms trembling.

The sound of a child’s love finally dying under the weight of a king’s neglect.

You stared at them- wide-eyed, breathless-before a sharp, broken laugh spilled from your lips. It echoed too loudly in the small room, a wrong, hollow sound that had no business being a laugh at all. A single tear welled at the corner of your eye, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand as if disgusted by its very existence. Horror crossed both their faces, mirrored and unmistakable.

“It’s funny,” you rasped, your voice cracking despite your effort to keep it sharp, the brittle laughter still shaking your frame. “You know?”

“You said you were cast out for your bright, revolutionary ideas. That you hated Heaven for punishing you for daring to change things.” Your laughter faltered, curdling into something cruel and bitter. “And yet you’re no better.”

Lucifer’s breathing turned shallow, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of centuries had finally settled all at once. Charlie opened her mouth, stepping in before he could speak, her voice tight with a desperate need to fix things, to smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

“There were pressing matters,” she said, trying to steady the situation, trying to steady him. “You know that. They were lower on the food chain at the time- people were dying-”

You turned slowly, deliberately, your gaze locking onto Lucifer’s face with surgical precision. The air around you warped, heat shimmering faintly as your last vestige of patience evaporated.

“So the gala,” you asked quietly, your voice dangerously calm, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within you. “Was that just entertainment to you?”

Lucifer stiffened. “What?” The word was a choked whisper, a ghost of a sound.

The floor creaked beneath your weight as your tail lashed violently behind you, knocking over a chair with a sharp crack. Glass rattled across nearby surfaces. Shadows bled outward from your feet, crawling up the walls like living things. The lights flickered once. Twice.

“Was it fun?” you demanded, your voice rising, layered now with something inhuman and ancient beneath it.

“Entertaining?” Your eyes burned, glowing faintly as smoke curled from the corners. “Watching them bleed out in my arms all those years ago?”

Charlie froze. Confusion shattered across her expression as she looked between you and her father, her mind struggling to connect the dots. “What are you talking about?”

The room shuddered, a low groan of protesting wood and stone.

“WHEN YOU HAD FULL POWER TO HELP- But NO!”

Your voice cracked and ricocheted off the walls, every word heavy with years of pent-up frustration. Your fists clenched at your sides, knuckles turning white, the tremor in your hands betraying how tightly you were holding everything in.

“Oh no… You were too busy sealing the barrier,” you spat, the words like acid. “Too busy protecting sinners so the blue bloods wouldn’t touch them. And what about the rest? Did that ever cross your mind?”

Charlie flinched, stepping forward again, trying to bridge the chasm of your pain, but you barely saw her, your vision tunneled, focused solely on the father who had failed you. “And after that everything crumbled, Mom left. Charlie left to go fuck some excorcist bitch-” you sneered, the words ugly and cruel, designed to hurt. “-you are now happy, aren’t you?”

“Don’t call her that!” Charlie’s voice broke through your storm, sharp and trembling. She planted her feet, her horns glinting as she squared her shoulders, her eyes glistening with unshed tears but fierce with a protective fire. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”

“AND I WAITED FOR YOU LIKE A DOG. DAY AND NIGHT-“ Your voice dropped to a hoarse growl, laced with a bitter laughter that had no joy in it, only pain “LIVING OFF HOPES AND DREAMS THAT DID NOTHING BUT CHOKE ME.”

Charlie reached a trembling hand toward you, her voice soft, almost fragile. “I tried… I really did. I sent letters, messages, everything I could. I tried to reach you-”

You cut her off with a harsh, incredulous scoff. “Tried? Bullshit! If you tried, where were you? Why didn’t you come? Did you expect a letter to fill the void I lived in every night?”

Her lip trembled, tears now streaming freely down her face, her hands hovering uselessly in the space between you, as if afraid to touch you, afraid you might shatter. “I-I wanted to, but I didn’t know-”

The room felt smaller, the air thick with the weight of your words, so heavy it was difficult to draw breath.

Lucifer stood off to the side, his face pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide with a horror that seemed to root him to the spot. His posture was rigid but uncertain, like a man afraid to breathe too loudly, lest the entire fragile structure of the moment shatter.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, fragile against the storm you had just unleashed.

“About the gala… I didn’t see you.” He held your gaze, and you narrowed your eyes, searching his face for any sign of a lie. “The gala was in Satan’s and Lilith’s hands. I only came later to seal the barrier.”

Lucifer’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line, and you caught the faint flicker of guilt- or was it confusion? that crossed his face before being hastily suppressed.

A shaky, brittle laugh escaped you, the sound hollow, stripped of its previous rage, replaced by a dawning, terrifying disbelief. “Don’t act so coy now,” you said, your voice trembling. “You saw them bleed in my arms, Lucifer. You watched the life drain from their eyes… and you just stood there. Laughing at me.”

“I would never-” His voice was firm, laced with a genuine shock that was almost more painful than anger.

“You- you’re mixing things up,” he continued, stepping closer, his body leaning in, his posture honest yet uncertain, as though every instinct told him to approach with extreme caution. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, and there was a raw worry etched into the crease of his brow, in the tilt of his head. “I wasn’t there-”

You scoffed, the sound swallowed by a sudden, high-pitched ringing that buzzed in your ears. “What- no, no, you were there,” you insisted, your voice shaking as you gestured vaguely toward the empty space in front of you, not daring to look at him directly, as if the memory might materialize there. “You were standing there… in front of me-”

“No-I wasn’t-”

His words barely reached you, drowned out by the roaring in your head. Your vision darkened at the corners, the room blurring at the edges as memory clawed its way up from the depths of your mind, not as a clear picture, but as splintered fragments of broken glass. You pressed your hands to your face, your fingers tangling in your hair, desperate to grasp onto something solid, something real, as your own mind turned against you.

They were in your arms. So heavy. The scent of blood, metallic and cloying, filled your nostrils, a phantom taste on your tongue. You ran through the endless corridors, your own footsteps pounding like war drums, your screams echoing back at you, unheard. You searched for someone- anyone with the power to help- but the halls were empty, abandoned, leaving you alone with the chaos and the rapidly cooling body in your arms.

No… no, Lucifer was there. You were sure of it. His gaze, once steady and paternal, had turned cruel, amusement glinting in his eyes as he looked at you, cowering and drenched in blood. He laughed, a low, mocking sound that echoed in your soul.

Or was it him?

Something shifted in your memory- a dark shape, amorphous and changing, coalescing in the space where Lucifer should have been. A strange grinning inky shape with his voice, but not his face. Your mind fractured under the weight of it, replaying the scene over and over, or maybe planting false echoes to torment you, twisting your most painful memory into a weapon designed to make you hate the one person you had left to love.

You stumbled back, your hands dropping from your face as if they were suddenly too heavy to hold. Your breath hitched in a ragged, painful gasp. Your gaze darted from Lucifer’s horrified, pleading face to Charlie’s, which was a mask of pure, heart-wrenching confusion.

“I… I don’t…” you whispered, the words catching in your throat, your certainty crumbling into dust. “I don’t remember.”

‘Don’t listen to him.’

A voice, no louder than a breath, grazed your right ear. It was ghostly and insistent, clinging to your spine like a cold film of oil. You recoiled, stumbling back another step, away from Charlie and Lucifer, who both reached out to you, their faces a blur of confusion and concern. You wrapped your arms around your chest, a futile attempt to hold yourself together.

‘He was laughing.’

The voice slithered to your left ear now, curling around your skull, intimate and poisonous. You lifted your blurred gaze to Lucifer, and for a terrifying second, his worried, innocent eyes were replaced by a sinnister glimmer, a cruel, unfamiliar grin spreading across his face.

‘They all laughed.’

The sound wasn't just a memory anymore. It was real. A sharp, maniacal laughter that seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the walls, bouncing off the ceiling, filling the room until there was no space left for anything else.

You watched in horror as Charlie’s expression twisted into the same malicious grin, Rowell beside her wearing an identical, cold amusement. You shoved backward, sending chairs crashing to the floor, the splintering wood a dull thud beneath the cacophony, trying to carve out even a fraction of space to breathe.

Blackness bled into the edges of your vision, a creeping darkness that pulsed in time with the roaring in your ears. A figure emerged from it, looming closer, an impossible shadow, familiar yet alien. Your chest heaved, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that felt like swallowing glass.

You choked, the air thick and jagged, as if invisible thorns were clawing at your throat. Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and unchecked, leaving cool tracks on your burning skin.

‘They laughed as I bled into your arms.’  the voice-so achingly familiar, so horribly wrong- slithered through your skull, a serpent of memory and lies.

Your body convulsed with a shuddering sob. “No-no, he said he wasn’t there-” you gasped, coughing through the panic, your mind grasping at the fragile shards of reason. “He said he wasn’t there-”

‘Stop listening to him!’  the voice hissed, venomous, intimate, curling through your mind like smoke. ‘Don’t you remember? He- laughing- they all- bled- don’t you remember?’

Your hands flew to your head, claws digging into your temples as if sheer physical force could silence the noise, could excavate the poison from your own brain. “Leave me alone-stop- f-fuck- stop!” you shrieked, your voice cracking, raw and ragged, a raw nerve exposed.

A heavy hand wrapped around your arm – a horned figure too familiar pressing their face close to yours - and their voice- louder, sharper, undeniable-shattered everything else in the room with a scream.“DON’T YOU REMEMBER, REGENT?”

“GET OFF ME!” you roared, swiping at the contact with wild abandon. Thorns flared to life along your forearms, your claws slashing through the air as you staggered backward, pressing yourself against the nearest wall. The jagged spines left faint, stinging scratches in the plaster as your breath came in harsh, uneven bursts.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

The whispers, the laughter, the crushing pressure in your chest-they vanished like a receding tide, leaving behind a ringing silence. You dropped your arms, trembling, and let your gaze fall to the floor, trying to catch your ragged breaths, trying to remember how to breathe normally. The metallic scent of blood lingered, sharp and invasive, filling your nostrils and making your stomach churn.

Tentatively, you looked up.

Lucifer’s wings were unfurled, wide and protective, forming a shield around Charlie, who was kneeling on the floor. She pressed one hand to her chest where blood seeped through the fabric of her shirt, the other wiping at tears that streamed freely down her face. Her lips trembled as she tried to stifle a sob, her eyes wide and pleading as she glanced at you.

‘You only ruin things.’

The thought wasn't a voice. It was a conviction, a final, damning judgment that settled in your bones like ice. The room was silent now, but the air still hummed with the tension of what had just happened, your chest heaving, your claws flexing involuntarily. You had done that. You had hurt her.

You didn’t look back.

You fled.

The world became a blur of stone and shadow, the grand corridors of the hotel folding in on themselves as you tore down the hallway.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly, each one a frantic drumbeat against the marble, a desperate attempt to outrun the memory that was clawing at your insides. You didn’t know where you were going- only that staying in that room, under their pitying gazes, wasn't an option.

A part of you half-hoped you’d reach some dead end, some forgotten stairwell that would simply swallow you whole and spare you the effort of choosing what to do next.

Your body made the decision for you.

Your legs finally gave out, and you slid down the nearest door, your back hitting the wood with a dull thud that knocked the air from your lungs. You stayed there, head tipped back, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling as your breathing came in shallow, uneven pulls. For a few precious seconds, the world was quiet.

Then the sob broke free, raw and ragged.

You clapped your hands over your mouth immediately, your shoulders shaking violently as you tried to force it back down. Crying felt dangerous-like if you let it happen fully, if you gave in to the shattering, something worse would follow. You pressed your palms harder against your lips, biting down on your knuckles until the sharp, grounding ache was enough to let you breathe again.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, frozen against the door - tail curled around your body for comfort - afraid that moving would unravel you all over again.

You didn’t hear the door across the hall open.

You only noticed the presence when something stepped into your field of vision: blue-and-white shark slippers padding quietly across the floor.

You lifted your head slowly, eyes stinging, your vision blurred and unfocused. No sharp grin greeted you. No taunting laugh. The silhouette resolved into a tall, angular shape, his screen dimmed rather than glaring, his posture loose in a way that almost suggested… hesitation.

He stopped a few steps away. “You look like shit.”

You sniffled, tears glinting like tiny jewels at the corners of your eyes as you met his gaze. Vox shuffled on his feet, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. You looked… pitiful, like some sodden, abandoned kitten left out in the rain, and for a brief, uncharacteristic moment, he imagined it. He forced himself not to let a chuckle escape.

After a pause, he extended a hand toward you. You flinched instinctively, a full-body recoil born from years of expecting betrayal. He froze, then slowly opened his palm wider, offering the gesture as if it were an invitation rather than a command. “Want a drink?”

You sniffled again, staring at the outstretched hand but making no move to take it.

Instead, you forced yourself upright, moving with unsteady, tentative steps that reminded him of a newborn fawn finding its legs for the first time.

Vox retracted his hand but didn’t speak, just watched you, his head tilted.

When you began to follow him, he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds to check on you, making sure you didn’t stumble as you rubbed at your eyes, wiping away the tears and attempting, half-heartedly, to compose yourself.

The bar lights hit your face like tiny suns, harsh and unflinching, and you squinted, raising a hand to shield your eyes as you slid onto the stool next to Vox.

He leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted in a way that felt less like curiosity and more like a quiet, clinical assessment.

This was no longer the poised, commanding Regent of Pride he usually dealt with. Vulnerability clung to you like a cloak, and for the first time, he was quietly, uncomfortably aware of it, his usual smirk replaced by a thoughtful, unreadable expression.

Husk approached the bar, his wings twitching slightly. He took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance-the calm, almost composed demeanor of the TV demon, and the absolute wrecked state of the Hellish royalty sitting beside him. He’d seen a lot of strange things in his afterlife, but this ranked. He cleared his throat, adopting a professional stance that was undercut by the weary cynicism in his eyes. "What'll it be?"

Vox gestured with one claw lazily, not even bothering to look at the bartender. "Give me… uh, whatever. I'm not picky tonight." He tilted his screen toward you, a brow quirking just slightly, a silent invitation.

You cleared your throat, the sound scraping in the quiet air. Your voice, when it finally came, was a hoarse, dry whisper, scraped raw from crying and stress. "I… uh… whatever’s the strongest," you muttered, staring at a particularly interesting scratch on the bar top, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Preferably… with a bit of poison in it."

Vox let out a soft, amused scoff, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his screen. "Oh, suicidal now-new look for you."

You shoved your hands deep into your coat pockets,"Pretty old look, honestly," you muttered, the corner of your mouth twitching in bitter humor.

Vox blinked, a rare pause flickering across his screen as if his thoughts had briefly desynced. He shifted his attention back to Husk, who was already behind the bar, swirling your drink with the kind of precise, practiced ease that came from years of repetition. The liquid caught the dim bar lights as it moved, red and gold reflections sliding along the glass in lazy arcs.

A soft, familiar click drew Vox’s gaze back to you.

You were flicking your lighter open and shut, sparks spitting uselessly from the wheel without ever catching. Your shoulders sagged in quiet frustration before you turned toward him, holding the cigarette between your fingers.

“Got a lighter?” you asked, voice rough but even.

Vox didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in just enough to close the space and extended a single finger, hovering it a breath away from the cigarette’s tip.

Your eyes lifted to his, and for a moment the bar seemed to recede-the low hum of conversation, the clink of glass, even Husk’s movements fading into the background. His gaze was sharp, curious, searching, and when you met it, something unspoken passed between you: recognition, perhaps, or simply the acknowledgement of two people standing at the edge of their own messes.

A faint spark snapped between his fingertip and the cigarette, igniting it instantly. Vox’s eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer before he looked away first, gaze dropping to his claws as though the moment hadn’t happened at all.

You huffed a quiet breath of amusement, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. Closing your eyes, you took a long drag, letting the smoke burn down your throat and settle heavy in your chest. You welcomed the sting, the dull promise of a headache later-anything was better than letting your thoughts spiral again.

Husk’s voice cut cleanly through the moment as he set two glasses on the bar with a solid, grounding thump. You flinched slightly, then looked up as he straightened.

“Drinks are up,” he said, tone professional, though there was a hint of pride beneath it, like he expected you to appreciate the effort.

You leaned closer to the glass in front of you, peering into the deep crimson liquid as it clung to the sides, slow and viscous. The color alone made your nose wrinkle as you gave it a cautious sniff, curiosity warring with suspicion.

“Woah- is that a shark?” you turned sharply at Vox’s words.

He had pulled his own drink closer, screen tilted down almost flush with the rim of the glass, his pupils expanding in open fascination. A tiny rubber shark floated proudly atop a swirl of ocean-blue liquor.

Husk straightened behind the bar, chest lifting just a bit at the reaction. “Yeah,” he said, pride unmistakable in his voice. “Been workin’ on it. Heard it’s trendy, so I figured I’d dust off what’s left of my brain and learn a new trick.”

Vox tilted his head, studying the miniature shark like it might move on its own. He pointed at it with two claws. “Okay, but… what do I do with it?”

“You dump it in,” Husk replied, gesturing lazily. “Let it bleed.”

Vox nodded solemnly, pinching the shark between his fingers. The thing looked absurdly small in his grip, dwarfed by metal claws and static hum, and you let out a soft, surprised laugh before you could stop yourself.

“HOLY SHIT, that’s cool,” Vox said, grinning wide as he flicked the shark aside and took a sip. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly. “Fuck yeah!”

You turned back to your own drink, drew in a long drag from your cigarette, and let the smoke pool in your lungs before reaching for the glass. No hesitation, no ceremony- you tipped it back and swallowed half of it in one go. The burn hit hard and fast, scorching its way down, sharp enough to cut through the noise in your head.

Husk froze mid-motion, ears twitching as he stared at the rapidly lowering level in your glass. “…You’re really not gonna savor that, huh?” he said, irritation edging into his tone.

You shrugged, exhaling smoke through your nose. “Not in the mood for foreplay tonight.”

Vox was already absorbed in his drink again, watching the colors swirl like a private light show, leaving Husk to glance back at you. He wiped his hands on the rag, hesitating before clearing his throat.

“Look,” he started, cautious, “I know it ain’t any of my business-”

You leaned back slightly and blew a lazy stream of smoke in his direction. He waved it away with a scowl, coughing once. “Correct,” you replied, flat and unapologetic, eyes narrowing just enough to warn him.

Husk coughed again and subtly shifted his stance, squaring his shoulders as if professionalism alone might cut through the haze of smoke drifting across the bar. “Ahem. Look-” he began, tone gruff but not unkind, “if you ever need a drink… or someone to talk to. Doesn’t have to be all that therapist crap. I’ll be here.”

You lifted a brow, lips twitching with dry amusement as you glanced him over. “You look like a shitty therapist.”

He huffed, gesturing vaguely at himself with the rag still clutched in his paw, a brief flicker of concern crossing his features. “Yeah, well. I’m still probably better than whatever shrink managed to get you this messed up.”

A low, humorless sigh slipped from you as you leaned back, resting your head against your palm. “I’m used to it,” you muttered. Your fingers traced the rim of the glass, swirling the last streaks of crimson liquor as a dull headache began to settle behind your eyes. You ignored it, letting it blur together with the smoke curling lazily around your face.

After a moment, you looked back at him, fatigue giving way to quiet curiosity. “So,” you asked, voice softer, “how’d you end up here?”

Husk let out a short chuckle, polishing a glass that was already spotless. “That’s a conversation you earn after a few more rounds,” he said, eyes glinting with faint amusement.

You nodded, gaze drifting back to the near-empty glass as you rested your cheek in your hand, the bar’s low hum filling the silence.

“Look-” Husk started again, more careful this time.

You lifted your eyes to him, waiting.

“They’re both trying,” he continued, voice lower, steadier, his hands resuming their slow, habitual work. “Well… Charlie is, at least. She’s ambitious. Stubborn. Kinda delusional, if I’m being honest. But she actually tries.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Takes responsibility for things I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I don’t think I’ll ever be redeemed- but she believes I can be.”

Beside you, Vox went completely still, his attention locked on the surface of his drink.

Husk glanced up at you briefly, his expression softening before he looked away again. “And since I’ve been here… I’ve gotten better. At handling things. At seeing what actually matters.” He paused, then added more quietly, “So don’t go too hard on her. She’s doing her best- even when it’s way out of her league.”

You stared into the glass for a long moment, throat tight, before murmuring, “Did she ever… mention me?”

Husk hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said honestly, his voice dropping.

You let out a slow breath, your tail drooping as if it could no longer hold itself up, the weight in your chest settling deeper. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Husk broke the silence again, his voice quieter, more careful.

“But… that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you.”

You lifted your gaze just in time to see him set the glass down with a soft clink, his movements unhurried.

“Quite the opposite,” he went on. “I think she felt so much guilt about it that she didn’t even think she had the right to say your name. Not because you didn’t matter- because you mattered too much.” He paused, searching for the words. “Feels like a mix of respect, fear, and pride. All twisted together.”

Your shoulders slumped as you looked away, fingers coming up to shield your face. The sting behind your eyes finally broke through, tears threatening as you pressed your palm there, breathing shallowly. Husk didn’t comment. He simply returned to polishing his glasses, the steady, familiar motion giving you space to fall apart without being watched.

The quiet was broken by the soft knock of glass against wood. You glanced up, swallowing hard. “One more,” you said, lifting the nearly empty glass toward him.

Husk met your eyes for a brief moment, then nodded, approval subtle but there. “Atta’ bud,” he murmured, refilling it before sliding the drink back across the bar with practiced ease.

“One more.” You say again after the 2nd glass.

“One more.” You say after the 4th.

One more.

One more.

One more-

One.

…

You stared at the glass in your hand, empty again, its rim trembling slightly as your fingers shook. Your vision swam, a dull, insistent headache pulsing behind your eyes. You lifted the glass anyway, breath hitching. “One-” The word died on your tongue.

Something was wrong.

The hotel bar was gone. The sharp reds and sterile whites dissolved into deep, burnished browns, polished wood worn smooth by decades of hands and spilled drinks.

The counter beneath your palm was solid oak, nicked and scarred, warm to the touch as if it still remembered the heat of countless evenings. Amber light washed over the room, low and honeyed, bleeding into richer reds and golds that flickered softly with the sway of hanging lamps. The air was thick with scent-aged whiskey, old smoke, polished brass, and something floral beneath it all, sweet and familiar, like crushed petals pressed into memory.

Somewhere nearby, a slow jazz tune breathed through the room. A trumpet crooned low and lazy, a piano answering it like an old friend. The music didn’t demand attention; it wrapped around you instead, settling into your bones.

You shivered, unease crawling up your spine- not fear, but recognition.

A door creaked open.

You turned.

Your breath caught so sharply it hurt.

Your heart folded in on itself as you stared at the silhouette framed by the dim doorway, backlit by shadows and warm light. The curve of their horns was unmistakable, twisting in the same elegant pattern you’d memorized long ago. Their posture, their stillness-it was all achingly familiar. As they stepped forward, the details came into focus: the cut of their clothes, timeless and neat, the small blue flower pinned carefully to their chest, just where it had always been.

Blue. Unmistakable. Unchanged.

“Flower…” The nickname slipped from you without permission, foreign on your tongue yet impossibly right. You hadn’t said it in so long it felt like pulling something delicate out of your chest and letting it breathe.

You pushed yourself off the stool, movements sluggish and uncoordinated, stumbling once before catching yourself. Slowly, almost reverently, you crossed the space between you. They met you halfway, then stopped, a soft smile curving their lips. The same smile lines framed their mouth, the same gentle crinkle at the corners of their eyes. Time hadn’t touched them- not here, not like this.

Your gaze traced their face as if you needed to relearn it, afraid it might vanish if you blinked. You hesitated a single step away, doubt flickering just long enough to hurt- then you reached out.

Your hand lifted, trembling, and when your fingers brushed their cheek, a faint spark danced at the point of contact, warm rather than sharp.

They leaned into your touch instinctively, nuzzling their cheek into your palm like they had a hundred times before. The sensation stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes burned, tears blurring the edges of them as the world narrowed to this- this warmth, this presence, this impossible closeness.

You breathed out a whisper, fragile as glass, meant only for them.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

Their eyes widened, surprise flaring bright and unguarded before softening into something achingly familiar. A quiet laugh slipped from their throat- warm, genuine, the kind that curled low in the chest - and Satan, you knew with painful certainty that you would replay that sound a hundred times if you could. It was the same laugh you used to chase, the one that came out when they forgot to armor themselves.

“That’s so fucking cheesy,” they said, swatting at your arm with a light, playful flick. The touch barely had any force to it, but it carried years of muscle memory, of comfort.

Of you.

You only smiled, slow and fond, the kind of smile that came from knowing them too well. “Is it?” you asked, brow lifting as your voice softened. “I thought you liked my cheesy lines.”

Their smile stayed-just for a second longer than it should have-before it tilted, edges fraying into something sad and bitter-warm. Their gaze dropped briefly, lashes lowering. “Sadly,” they murmured, almost to themselves, “I did.”

The air shifted.

There was the sharp, familiar scratch of a record needle being dragged into place, followed by the soft click of a switch. Static hissed through the bar, filling the space like held breath, like anticipation - then it faded, smoothing out into the gentle croon of a guitar. A bassline followed, slow and intimate, and then a voice voice slid in, rich and velvety, wrapping around the room as if the song had always been waiting for this moment.

I know, I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…

The bar seemed to lean in with the music. Warm amber lights glowed against dark, polished wood-walls lined with old posters, brass fixtures dulled by time, the scent of aged liquor, tobacco, and faint florals lingering in the air. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, catching gold and red hues as they floated. It felt like an old jazz bar pulled straight from memory, something that existed half in reality and half in longing.

They turned their head toward the record player, watching it spin slowly, blue and black vinyl glinting as it turned. You didn’t follow their gaze. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from them- not when they were standing there, whole and familiar, as if the past had reached forward and taken shape.

Instead, you extended your hand.

They looked back at you, hesitation settling into their features. You could see it in the slight tightening of their jaw, the way their fingers twitched as if unsure whether to take what you were offering. Skeptical. Guarded. As though they hadn’t come here for this- hadn’t come here to remember.

You didn’t let them overthink it.

“Let’s dance,” you said simply, voice low and steady.

Your fingers closed around theirs before they could pull away, warmth meeting warmth. You drew them closer, guiding them gently, and your feet found the rhythm without effort -as if your body remembered even when your mind ached. The music carried you both, slow and unhurried, a sway that felt intimate without trying to be.

They huffed softly when you pulled closer, nose scrunching as they leaned in just enough to catch your scent. “Augh-Satan,” they muttered, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “That’s the worst smell of nicotine I’ve ever encountered. Your taste has definitely worsened.”

You let out a low chuckle, spinning the two of you just enough for your coat to flare and settle again. “You can argue with Monty about that.”

“Monty?” They rolled their eyes with a sigh. “He put you up to this? I don’t have the patience to argue with that dickhead.”

“He hasn’t changed,” you said quietly, feeling the way their hand finally relaxed in yours, fingers slotting in like they had always belonged there. Like they remembered too.

They hummed, then their gaze drifted over you- slow, careful. Taking in the creased fabric of your formal attire, the way it sat wrong on your shoulders now. The exhaustion etched into your face. The shadows beneath your eyes that even Hell couldn’t hide.

“Neither have you,” they said softly. “If anything…” Their voice lowered, gentler now. “You look tired.”

You smiled, small but sincere, thumb brushing lightly over their knuckles as you swayed. “Well, I am tired.”

They tilted their head, studying you. “Work?”

Your eyes met theirs, the song swelling around you like a confession given permission.

“Life,” you said quietly.

Then, softer-barely above the music- “…without you.”

They grimaced as if your words had struck them physically, their mouth tightening while their brows drew together in quiet anguish. The easy sway of the dance dissolved beneath their feet; they slowed, then stopped altogether, forcing you to halt with them. Your joined movement broke, leaving you standing too close, the air between you suddenly heavy and wrong.

“Don’t say that,” they murmured, shaking their head. Their voice carried a plea beneath the firmness. “You should’ve moved on by now.”

The record kept spinning despite everything, the song threading through the bar like a cruel ghost.

…I can see it in your eyes that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before…

The lyric lodged itself in your skull, echoing until it drowned out your own thoughts.Your chest tightened painfully as you stared at them, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“How could I?” you whispered, the question raw, almost offended by the very suggestion. The idea of moving on felt grotesque, unnatural. Like being asked to breathe without lungs.

They crossed their arms over their chest, shoulders lifting slightly, retreating inward. It was a posture you knew intimately, one they’d always taken when they felt cornered or hurt. Seeing it now made something fracture inside you.

“Do you still blame Charlie and Lucifer?” they asked carefully, eyes searching your face as if bracing for impact.

A scoff burst from you, sharp and brittle, tinged with something dangerously close to hysteria. “Of course I do,” you snapped. “It’s their fault- this-this never would’ve happened if they-”

“It’s not,” they interrupted, their voice firmer now, disappointment darkening their expression. “And you know that. You’ve always known it.”

You stepped toward them abruptly, panic flaring, your hand shooting out as if you could grab the truth and force it into shape.

“He watched you bleed out in my arms,” you said, voice shaking, words tumbling over each other. “He stood there and let it happen. I felt you slipping away-I felt it.”

“No,” they said, voice laced with confusion “That didn’t happen. He wasn’t even there.”

The world lurched.

“What?”

The word barely escaped you as the music warped, the melody dragging, distorting, before fading into an unbearable, hollow silence. The warmth of the bar dimmed, colors bleeding at the edges like wet paint.

“You’re mixing illusions with reality,” they said softly.

You turned away from them, breathing hard, fingers curling into fists as if you could anchor yourself to something solid. “No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “No, I’m not- I know what I saw.”

You spun back toward them suddenly, eyes wild, reaching out again with frantic urgency. “It’s me,” you insisted, voice breaking. “It’s me, Flower. You’re here. You’re standing right in front of me. You see me, don’t you?”

They looked at you then with devastating clarity, as if seeing not just you, but everything you’d become. “What happened to you?” they asked quietly.

The question hollowed you out.

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused, desperate, your voice climbing. “I’m right here. I didn’t change- I didn’t let go. I kept you safe. I kept you alive.”

Their expression softened, pity and grief folding together. “I’m not real,” they said gently. “I’m something you made. A memory you refuse to release. An echo you keep replaying so you don’t have to face the silence.”

A laugh clawed its way out of your chest, thin and cracked, your breathing uneven. “No,” you said, shaking your head violently. “No, that’s not-”

You grabbed their hands again, pressing them to your cheeks, your touch frantic, almost reverent, as if proof could be forced through sensation alone. “You’re warm,” you whispered urgently. “See? You’re right here. I saved you. I did. I just need time -I can fix this. I’ll make them pay. I’ll bring everything back. The way it was. The way it’s supposed to be.”

They stared at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, horror and sorrow etched deep into their features. They echoed your name softly, and it nearly shattered you. “I’m dead.”

You shook your head again and again, laughter bubbling up in sharp, broken bursts. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no -you’re lying. You’re wrong.”

The bar around you blurred, lights smearing into molten gold and red, walls breathing, bending inward. Your grip tightened, desperate, almost painful.

“You’re not dead,” you insisted, voice rising, unraveling. “You’re here. You can’t leave me again.”

You repeated it like a prayer, like a command, like a spell- “You’re not dead. You’re not dead. You’re not-”

Their face softened into something unbearably worn, exhaustion etched so deeply into their features it looked permanent, like it had settled there long before you ever reached this moment.

Their eyes-once bright, once sharp-were dulled now, heavy with a fatigue that went far beyond the physical. You felt it when your fingers brushed their claws, the faint tremor in their hand as you held it too tightly, as though touch alone might anchor them to existence.

You dragged your thumb along the familiar curve, committing every ridge and angle to memory with frantic devotion, terrified that if you let go even for a second, they would vanish.

“Let me die,” they murmured, voice thin and cracked, like something stretched too far and left to fray. “Please. Just… let me die. Let me rest.”

The words detonated in your chest. Instinct took over before reason could intervene. You surged forward, cupping their face in both hands, palms pressed firmly to their cheeks as if you could physically keep them from falling apart. Your grip was desperate - bordering on painful - thumbs shaking as they brushed beneath their eyes.

“I just need a little more time,” you said, breath coming fast, uneven. Your eyes burned with something feverish, something unhinged, a fire that refused to go out no matter how much damage it caused. “Just a little more time, and you’ll see. You’ll see everything I’ve done. Everything I’m going to do.”

Their breath hitched. Horror bloomed across their face as they tried to pull away, claws scraping uselessly against your wrists.

“I never wanted you to hurt anyone,” they said, voice breaking in the middle, splintering under the weight of the realization dawning in their eyes. They stared at you like they were finally seeing you clearly- and didn’t like what they found. “The-… “ Their breath hitched” those weren’t-…. They were your doing.”

Your lips curved upward slowly, reverently, the smile that spread across your face born of devotion rather than joy. It was the smile of someone utterly convinced they were right. “It was for you,” you said softly, almost lovingly. “Every last one of them. Payback. Justice. They took you from me. They deserved to bleed for it, and more.”

Their expression twisted, disgust and grief warring across their features. “You’re becoming just like them.”

“Like them?” A sharp laugh tore from your throat, brittle and disbelieving. “Like those sinners?” Your voice rose, echoing violently as the space around you seemed to shudder in response.

“Like those soul-rotting monsters?” They flinched as you stepped closer, your shadow swallowing theirs. “The ones who killed you?! The ones who slaughtered so many more hellborns that night!”

Their voice shrank, fear threading through it. “You’re scaring me.”

Something inside you cracked at that. You dropped to your knees in front of them, the movement sudden and reverent, as if you were bowing before a deity rather than a memory. You seized their hands again, clutching them with trembling intensity, your head bowed low, devotion bleeding into madness.

“I’ll make them pay,” you vowed, voice shaking, unsteady with obsession. “Every single one of them. You’ll see. I even made a deal-” Your voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial, hope flickering wildly as they struggled to pull free. “It’ll bring you back. I can remake you. Recreate you. We’ll go back to how it was. I’ll go back to who I was.”

“Let me go!” they shouted, finally wrenching their hands from yours.

You rose slowly, dread flooding your veins as you searched their face, panic clawing its way up your throat. Words tumbled out uncontrollably, tripping over each other in your desperation.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like-

“I love-“

“Don’t,” they cut in sharply, their voice slicing through yours.

“I never got to-”

“It was for the best,” they said quietly. Their tone softened, resignation settling in like a final breath. They looked at you with something painfully gentle, a bittersweet smile pulling at their lips. “You were… a wonderful experience.”

The words tore straight through you.

“You were-” You couldn’t finish. Tears blurred your vision, your throat tightening as you stared at them, desperate for some miracle, some impossible reversal.

They exhaled slowly and took a step back.

You flinched as if struck.

“Let me rest,” they pleaded. “This isn’t you anymore. I don’t know what kind of creature has taken root in your body, but I want nothing to do with it.”

They stepped back again.

The room began to fracture- hairline cracks splitting through the air itself, light bending, reality warping under the strain. When you tried to follow, thorned roots erupted from the floor at your feet, thick and barbed, coiling violently around the ground, holding you in place.

They retreated further, their form already blurring at the edges, voice barely more than a breath carried on the air.

“Let me die.”

“No-” The word tore out of you before you could stop it, raw and unshaped, and as you tried to surge forward your leg dragged hard against the living veins coiled around it.

Pain flashing white-hot up your spine as the roots bit deeper and tightened with merciless intent, yet the sensation barely registered beneath the tidal wave of panic crashing through you, because all you could see was them leaving, their shape already turning away from you as though the ground itself had decided you were no longer worth standing on.

“NO-DON’T LEAVE ME, PLEASE-” Your voice fractured as it rose, splintering into something hoarse and desperate, and you clawed uselessly at the floor while thorned roots surged higher around your body, wrapping your arms, your ribs, your waist, forcing you upright and locking you in place as your breath came in violent, uneven gasps, each one scraping your throat raw while tears flooded your vision until the world warped into light and shadow.

“DON’T LEAVE ME -FUCK- FUCK-” The scream collapsed into a sob halfway through, your chest seizing as the roots constricted harder in response to your struggle, pinning you like a grotesque monument carved from grief and regret, yet still you thrashed against them, muscles burning, lungs screaming, body shaking uncontrollably as the sobs you’d been holding back finally tore free.

“LET ME GO- LET ME-… please ” The plea broke apart as you stretched your arm toward them, fingers trembling violently as you reached so far it felt like you might rip your own soul loose just to close the distance, just to feel their hand in yours again, because you would have trapped yourself willingly, would have drowned in this self-made hell of pain and obsession if it meant they stayed.

If it meant they were still here, still real, still breathing in the same space as you.

But they never looked back.

The glow of the night swallowed their form piece by piece, soft light bleeding around their silhouette until it fractured, thinned, and finally disappeared entirely, and the sound that ripped out of you then was no longer a scream but something broken and animal, your mouth open in a soundless cry as the roots held you fast and you writhed helplessly, pinned and shaking like a weeping statue left behind to rot in its own devotion.

I love you…

I love you…

I love you…

I love…

I…

Your vision bled through.

The world slammed back into place with cruel immediacy as the hard, polished surface beneath your cheek grounded you in reality, cold and unyielding, and a small, wounded whine slipped out of you before you could stop it as you pushed your face off the wooden bar, the hotel surrounding you in all its garish clarity - red and white, sharp lines and sterile brightness, hope and peace plastered everywhere like a mockery of what you’d just lost.

Your tail flicked weakly behind you, an instinctive, disoriented movement as though your body was still trying to wake you from something that refused to loosen its grip, and when you looked around slowly, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the low hum of the room, the emptiness hit you all at once.

You were alone.

The bar existed in quiet indifference, alive in that distant, mechanical way that made it painfully clear nothing here had shattered the way you had, and you rubbed trembling fingers into your temples as your breathing struggled to even out, your chest still tight, still aching.

“Fuckin’… hell…” The words scraped out hoarse, worn raw by screaming you hadn’t realized you were still doing.

Then your eyes caught on something small and impossibly mundane.

The tiny rubber shark sat where Vox had been, tipped on its side, abandoned, and the sight struck you straight in the chest with a sharp, unexpected ache that stole what little breath you had left, because only then did you register the warmth draped over your shoulders. You stiffened before slowly gathering the fabric in your hands, fingers curling into it instinctively as though afraid it might vanish if you didn’t hold on hard enough.

A blanket - soft, heavy, patterned in familiar blues.

Before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in, and the scent was unmistakable, ozone and static threaded through something darker and musky, unmistakably Vox, and your throat closed so tightly it hurt as you sat there in borrowed warmth, clutching the blanket like an anchor while your gaze remained fixed on a stupid little rubber shark.

You pressed your cheek back down onto the cold wood, taking the rubber shark into your fingers and looking it over. Before clenching it into your hold.

“You want the crown, don’t you? Then get close to it as much as you can… My friend.”

TAGLIST [CLOSED]: @valkirja, @nishayuro, @call-me-cheese,@lifebecringe, @hannanazix, @thecutienadq, @blueish-flower, @just-asimp, @actuallyshard, @jellyfishxxi, @boldlyenchantingfox22, @ch4mp4gn3c04st, @gremlinartstudio, @alexandriajadereads, @zamadness, @sunnyx07, @luleck, @duckburr, @destinyisastar, @thesaddestcactus27, @pandaquick, @chichishuren, @sekkkira8, @chuuyaisfineshyt, @bbhjaa, @t0rchknight, @bagofrice, @aculturedperson, @diffidentphantom, @cutiepinky, @lovelylovecin3monn, @niblex, @multivrstrash, @synxconcept, @sugxryratz,@barrythestrawberry041, @skymac712, @harleythehobbitkitty, @alex-is-offline, @viczvaporub, @ken0psi-a, @petaltheory, @veto-unable, @art3mis989, th3-l4dy, @ancientfragment, @manisoawesome, @godisitnaptimeyet, @the-bookish-artist, @pinkladybugs-posts

[bagofrice]

NEWWW CHAPP

[xyangblog]

Someone gonna lose his mind(

[ceruleanheaven]

if im killing myself and youre killing yourself then who tf is gonna write the yaoi

[goldenthena]

❝a fallen angel for eternity...? ❞

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — vox × exorcist!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — a sheer act of kindness resulted in an eternal punishment. Left in the depths of hell a strange looking demon found you, showing you compassion you easily fell into. Maybe you should've questioned it, but in a vulnerable state who would?

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — gore, tbh you shouldn't trust vox but you're here aren't you? amputated leg -> robotic leg [curtesy of vox], manipulative themes — if this does well I'll continue it and dive deeper into dark vox and his tendency to manipulate

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — taglist / please be kind to reblog or comment as it keeps your fav writers motivated! I've never really written vox this way. -> happening before Vaggi, READER WAS BORN IN HEAVEN ...lets start slow shall we?

The red clouds closed around you, casting a dark shadow. The screams of poor sinners surrounded hell's space, painting it as the punishment it was and letting no one escape its dangerous claws. Exorcists devious laughter echoed around you, they were enjoying their work - driving the angelic steel weapons through every sinner that crossed their paths.

You ripped your axe from an antelope looking demon, slicing their head in two as a blood curling scream catched your attention. Slowly turning around your eyes landed on a small demon you would classify as a child - a child who just saw you murdering someone.

Lute's voice rang in your ear, telling you to kill it too after all you couldn’t let it live. This is why you’re here, to kill them but the look of sheer fright made an uncomfortable knot clench in your stomach.

Could you go through it? Of course, you had done it thousands of times, why was there any difference now…there shouldn’t be. Hesitantly you raised your axe, staring at the creature with wide eyes and just as you slash it down you stopped, just above their face. They whimpered, eyes closed as they realised how their breathing never stopped.

You had spared their life, for once making the wrong choice - in heaven's eyes. You lowered your axe and exhaled a deep breath, “run,” you whispered as it dawned on you what you had just done. Frantically you scanned your surroundings, praying no one had seen it but as a body collided with yours it was clear; you were in deep shit.

“You dare to spare that demon scum?” Lute seethed, face covered in anger as she stood up and ripped your weapon away, holding it above you. “I knew you were a liability,” she snarled and swung the axe down, successfully cutting off half your leg. A pained scream ripples from your throat, body beginning to tremble as golden blood streamed from your kneecap.

“You are a disgrace to all angels. We have a simple job and you can't even do that right,” the lieutenant spat in your face, her mask showing the twisted grin widening once she ripped your mask off. “Lute, please! It was a child!” you cried, clutching your leg in desperation.

Lute didn’t care, she grabbed your halo and threw it harshly on the ground. Your head started pounding with no foreseeing end, causing your vision to blur and a dizziness to overcome your body. You could feel Lute tightly gripping your hair, dragging you into a dirty alley.

You couldn't string a single thought, mind too clouded in trying to process the piercing pain surging through you. Lute pushed you against a wall, punching you in the face and causing you to fall down.

She cackled, “live among the ones you deemed don't deserve death and see how you will die at their hands,” leaving the axe on your right, she stalked away with bloody hands and the intention of reporting back to Adam.

The world around you turned black as you lost consciousness.

————

Vox was manspreading in his chair, sipping his coffee from a ‘fuck alastor’ mug as he switched through the surveillance cameras from last night's extermination. Cables were stuck to the back of his TV shaped head, sprouting with blue electric sparks.

The scenes looked like every other year, dead sinners bleeding out and angels leaving their weapons carelessly in hell. He did hope some overlord had died, at least then he would climb the display higher without much action.

Vox rested his head on the back of his hand, boredom reeking from his features as nothing out of the ordin– that wasn't normal.

An angel raises her axe before stopping right in her tracks, showing mercy and letting the child go. A moment of silence before another angel rushes in to punish her, slicing the leg off and dragging her into an empty alley, leaving in the end with a mask and satisfied smirk.

He switched the cameras to live, checking to see if the angel was still there – it was. Leg bound with fabric to control the bleeding and crouched behind a garbage can to hide from anyone walking by.

Without much hesitation Vox zipped through the CCTVs seeing an opportunity too good to pass up on, oh he would rise up like a god.

With careful steps he treaded into the alley, keeping noises to a minimum as to not alarm you in any way. The first thing he noticed was your axe laying far away from you, meaning you wouldn't be able to hurt him right away.

A shiver ran down your skin, you questioned how hell could be this cold if it was always praised to be filled with fire and heat.

God, you had to leave…ever since waking up you knew, there had to be somewhere you could go, but there wasn't. No angel besides Lucifer had ever fallen and you doubted he would be kind enough to take you in, after all he allowed the exterminations.

Suddenly a crushing noise catching your attention, eyes wide in fear as you crouched further against the garbage can. A shadow loomed before you, decreasing with every step it took. Your lips trembled, this is going to be it, they will end your life and take revenge for all the years you did the same.

“Are you okay?” the soft buzzing tone reached your ears. You lifted your head, eyes meeting the mismatched ones of a demon. He wore a dark blue striped blazer and dress pants, a red vest and white dress shirt with a red bow tie. Face abnormal, shaped like a TV and two – one crooked – antennas and a hat

He lowered himself on one knee, keeping a safe distance…who could blame him? “They got to you, huh?” a light joke to ease your mind yet it only built more questions. “Do you know–,” you began in a meek voice, holding tightly onto your leg.

“An angel? I kinda concluded that with the golden blood and wings,” he cut you off, claw motioning to said wings and blood covered cloth. You swallowed, of course he knew. There wasn't a way you could hide who you truly were. Instead only staring at him, scared to say anything that would make you end up dead.

“Doesn't look pretty, I can help you. We will make that leg as good as new,” Vox promised, his smile hopeful and inviting as he reached his hand out to you. “Why are you so nice?” the question slipped from you before you could stop it, quickly slapping a hand on your mouth in shock.

He chuckled, “you mean because you killed my people?” he tried to stop himself from letting anger get the better of himself, “well it seems you had a change of heart and paid the price for it…why should I continue to punish you?” the demon questioned, his hand itching to just grab you and throw you over his shoulder.

Hesitantly you accepted his hand, letting him envelop yours while he leaned down to grab your waist with his free hand and hoisted you up on your feet. For a second you lost your balance, quickly gripping his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Sorry,” you muttered, not daring to meet his eyes. You felt awful, killing creatures like him and then they were the ones helping you - maybe you were right however? Lute said they’d kill you, but he didn’t or at least he hasn’t done it yet. Not a bone in your body trusted him, but dying wasn’t an option either and a tiny spark in you wished to prove Lute and especially Adam wrong.

“It’s okay, slow steps,” he answered, giving you a soft smile, “can you hide them?” His question was sudden, pointing at your wings that awkwardly hung on your back. “Not really?” it was more of an ask than statement, even if you made them as small as possible there was nothing to hide them underneath.

As much as Vox would love for everyone to see that he had an angel, many would try to slaughter you at sight right after yesterday’s events. Thinking for a moment he decided to drape his suit jacket over your shoulders, successfully hiding your wings.

He noticed your gaze lingering on your weapon, “I’ll have someone get it,” he assured you with a squeeze on your arms. Automatically he sent a message to his assistant, Ethan could handle it - not like anyone could kill him now. Pride surfaced in Vox when he saw your unsure and nervous expression, knowing you’d believe him anything.

When you arrived at the Vee tower curious eyes followed you. Velvette and Valentino, unaware of Vox’s plan and keeping a safe distance in case he decided on throwing a tantrum but they didn’t miss a few feathers falling onto the floor as you walked by.

Your eyes roamed the threshold, it was remarkable in comparison to heaven. Not in a sense of architecture but creativity – heaven beamed with bright colours and golden skies, buildings finished off with round edges, fully made of glass.

Here nothing felt royal, sharp edges and dark colours on every corner. Aside from this tower, it was glowing with warmer colour and shining golden light up, almost feeling like home for a little while as you overlooked the entertainment district. “Why are there so many sexual innuendo?” You asked, gaze landing on several skyscrapers that said ‘dicks’, ‘tits’, ‘porn’, ‘slots n sluts’.

Vox instantly came to your side, face palming as he realised angels weren't as sex driven as demons. “You're in the entertainment district and if anyone wants to have fun…they come here,” he tried explaining, though at the frown pulling on your eyebrows he could see you weren't satisfied with that answer.

“But why would I sleep with anyone other than my partner?” you continued, not understanding his logic. Tilting your head to the side you spotted two demons fucking each other in the middle of the street. With wide eyes you move to point at them but a dark blue hand with cyan claws closed over your eyes, “we will talk about that another time,” Vox grimaced.

He helped you move towards his room. Like the genius he was, he had someone work on a leg while he picked you up, designing it to fit your aesthetic but still keep a VoxTek logo.

Hoisting you up on his desk, he slid the jacket off your shoulders and let you reveal your wings in full grace. The sight made him forget his task momentarily, they were absolutely beautiful even if they belonged to an exorcist.

“This will hurt, but there isn't a way around it. The leg needs to stop bleeding,” he whispered, grasping a needle to sew your wound shut. A pained sob escaped your mouth, tightly holding onto the edge of Vox’s desk.

He bit his lip, concentrating completely on leaving no scars but pressing against your skin to deepen the reminder of Lute's punishment. You didn’t dare to look at him, eyes closed as you bit your lip to keep any whimper from slipping out.

“I can’t put the leg on if you still have your clothes on,” Vox stated, standing up to reach for the robotic leg and hiding a sly smirk as he heard your breath hitch. “But that’s not…,” you started, “baby we’re in hell, those virtues don’t go into effect here,” he cut you off with a dark chuckle.

Glancing at him warily you lifted your skirt up to strip your leggings off. Vox cold - enormous - claws were placed on your naked skin, causing goosebumps to run down your arms. “It’ll feel weird at first, but you get used to it,” he shrugged, positioning the leg right on your kneecap. Automatically it latched on you, a metal ring closing around your thigh.

“How do I walk?” you asked, looking at him with a curious expression and earning an arrogant laugh from him, “did you forget how to walk? Just do it.”

You pouted at his reaction, standing up without help trying to find your balance. You set the robotic leg in front of the other, repeating the action with your healthy one and abruptly losing balance by the third step.

Vox was by your side in seconds, holding you before you hit the ground, “are your wings just decoration?” He raised a singular eyebrow.

A glare formed on your features, you weren’t stupid or naive…this was just a new environment to get used to. “No, but you said to walk, I don’t need my wings to walk,” you stated, freeing yourself from his grip and unfolding your wings to hit him in the face.

“Now I know why you’re an exorcist,” the demon muttered to himself, maybe you weren’t as shy as he thought but at least he would have even more fun with you.

You wobbly walked over to a sofa, propping your weight on its arm. The pain became less, by now just a comfortable thud in the background. Adam and Lute trained you to not feel pain, abusing you and all of your sisters. Slowly you turned around, stalking back to Vox and tilted your head, “you never told me your name,” you pondered.

“You're wearing it,” he smirked, pointing to your new leg. You read the name, confusion written over your face, “that's a weird name, VoxTek,” you tested the name on your tongue, still it didn’t sound quite right. “Vox, that's my brand, angel,” he mustered you, puffing his chest as your gaze softened in a quiet ‘oh’.

————

Vox practically shoved you into his bedroom, no one should see a magnificent thing like you. Ordering Velvette to make you clothes resembling him became the only solution as you were already walking thanks to him.

Once the clock striked midnight he had finally convinced you to sleep, he remained awake and watched you intensely.

Valentino strode in, exhaling a cloud of red smoke as he held the cigarette out his partner, “what's with the charity case?”

Vox rolled his eyes, of course Val didn’t have the vision for a brighter future, “she's our way into heaven. I saved her, she's going to be in my debt but no one can know of her,” Vox took a drag of Vals cigarette, turning to look up at him and a spiral formed in his left eye, “I mean it, Val,” a static undertone buzzed in his voice, face in a grim expression.

“Sí papi, I wouldn't want to destroy your beautiful plan,” the moth took Vox screen in his upper hands and acted as if he could squish his cheek, smiling sharply. “Good,” he smirked in response, letting himself be dragged in a filthy, tongue filled kiss.

“Vox?” your voice pulled his attention away, shoving Valentino aside as quick as possible. You had sat up, sweater slightly falling of your left shoulder as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “Do you think they're searching for me?” you questioned causing Vox to raise his eyebrows before locking in.

“Of course not, remember what they did to you? You did the right thing, saving a poor innocent sinner, a child!” he came to sit in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks and his screen drowned your skin in blue undertones. “They don't care, they don't think we're worthy of life, that all of us are evil when in reality we're just humans.”

A tear rolled down your cheeks, brain circuiting and your threw yourself into Vox, hugging him tightly, “they were my family,” you whispered, hiding yourself in his chest. “We are now your family, they don't deserve someone like you,” he grinned devilishly, eyes meeting Valentino who had come to hide in a dark corner, only his red eyes and gold tooth glowing.

to be continued ....

-> taglist / please be kind to reblog or comment as it keeps your fav writers motivated!

taglist [vox]: @thegirlnextdoorssister @yybrzzs1 @sugarydollita @mothiekat @no0ner3 @madamedesalaunier @nak0me1usine @bagofrice @scootlerdoodler @writersblocker9 @justgiulia

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