[busines-as-unusual]

₊ ⊹ Chapter Masterlist ⊹ ₊

. . . ⇢ ₊ ⊹[Summary] ⊹ ₊

. . . ⇢ ₊ ⊹[Content Warnings] ⊹ ₊

Chapter 1 — Key Signature

Chapter 2 — His Plans for Sabbath's Daughter

Chapter 3 — Creatures We Desire

Chapter 4 — Zeal with Knowledge

Chapter 5 — Some Pumpkins

Chapter 6 — Haunt You, Taunt You

Chapter 7 — Last Go ‘round

Chapter 8 — The Goal I’m Dreaming Of

Chapter 9 — And How Do You Manage?

Chapter 10 — Queen in the Moth Burrow

Chapter 11 — Can’t Hide Away

Chapter 12 — Easy to Pretend

Chapter 13 — Lying in the Bed You Made

Chapter 14 — The Calm Before the Flames

Chapter 15 — Sour Grapes as Bitter Pills

Chapter 16 — What Hurts the Most

Chapter 17 — Ere Tempest

Chapter 18 — ✬ Coming soonish ✬

[busines-as-unusual]

₊ ⊹Summary⊹ ₊

. . . ⇢ ₊ ⊹[Content Warnings] ⊹ ₊

. . . ⇢ ₊ ⊹[Chapter Masterlist] ⊹ ₊

You kept your attraction to Alastor hidden since the day you reacquainted in Hell. Unfortunately, he saw right through you. When recruited for a joint venture with the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor uses this as the perfect excuse to toy with you. While he respected that the mask you wore seemed to closely resemble your true face, he was far too intrigued with you to not want to make you drop your facade.

No, he didn't want to simply remove your mask, he wanted to shatter it in his hands and watch you crumble with it.

[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 17 - Ere Tempest ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: Yeah, so… I disappeared. For months. Again. My bad, guys.

You treated Rancor to the same brunch spot you’d taken your friends. You figured after the rowdy night at the hotel, he’d appreciate a quiet, low-stress meal.

And you worked up an appetite last night; you could eat enough to feed a platoon.

The two of you enjoyed the pleasant ambience in comfortable quiet, the music a gentle backing track to the peace. It brought you to a different time, when Mother would sentence you to your room—barred from one of her supper club parties on the occasions she didn’t make you play the piano for her guests. He’d sneak you lemon drops, liquorice, and other sweet treats.

You stirred honey into your tea. “How are you enjoying the meal?”

In typical fashion, he smiled and nodded in his quiet way.

“And your stay at the Hotel?”

Another nod from him. “The princess and her partner are very welcoming, and my room’s quite lovely. The maid is… terrifyingly efficient.”

He shuddered, and you snickered. “Niffty’s a gem, the mini manic maniac. The rats all worship her, crown and everything. It’s an astounding sight, really.”

“If you'd told me the housekeeper would be scarier than the Radio Demon, I never would’ve believed you.”

You let the silence stretch out a moment too long. Discomfort scrambled the eggs in your stomach.

“Speaking of the Radio Demon…” You drummed antsy fingers on the table, conflicted over this farcical request. “You know I hate to ask anything of you, but if Alastor asks who you are to me, tell him you were my husband when we were alive.”

His croissant hit the floor. Dark red eyes bulged out of his skull like you’d told him to go do the unspeakable with a landmine.

“I know, I know! It’s a strange request. But you see, Alastor loves prying into my business. I told him that so he’d leave you alone.”

Brows knitted in thought, he stared at his croissantless plate and stroked one of his hare-like ears like one might a beard. “Of course I’ll tell him whatever you want, but I have to ask… why is the Radio Demon so interested in you of all people? Not that you’re not interesting, Merity, but you see why I’m curious.”

You would also love to know why!

You dragged your hands down your face in exasperation. “As a well-adjusted adult, I don’t expect you to understand this, but he derives sadistic joy from doing anything and everything to remind people how they are beneath him out of this narcissistic need to feel superior. If not me, it would’ve been any other poor schmuck chosen at random. I’m not special to him.”

You weren’t special to him.

Did that make it better or worse?

You pushed those thoughts off a cliff. Dwelling on them further would only make you want to jump off said cliff.

You gripped the fork and pushed against the teeth with your thumb hard enough it bent backwards. “Alastor is the epitome of infuriating. I swear to all that is unholy, if I end up double dead, it'll be because I snapped and tried to tear into him with my teeth. I want to grab him by his bony shoulders and throttle him until he—”

Rancor’s gentle laughter broke you out of your rage-filled soliloquy. He quieted his chuckles with a cough into his fist, but his eyes glimmered with amusement. “Sorry, sorry. It's just… you remind me so much of Viola. She was more bark than bite, but you’d never know it from her temper.”

His melancholy smile made your guilt throb in your chest. Viola. His wife. Heaven and Hell separated them for decades, but despite everything, he still wore his wedding ring. He insisted on it. Rancor would rather resign himself to eternal loneliness than move on from her.

That had to be love, you thought, or at least an aspect of it. Rancor’s swan-hearted commitment surpassed the promise of “til death do us part.” He lived life never unfulfilled or discontent. If the cruel and unusual phenomenon known as “soul-mates” existed, then he got to be among the few who found his.

Lucky.

But the comparison between them and you and Alastor sent your stomach plummeting off the aforementioned cliff.

You forced a laugh. “I’m certain you were nowhere near as bad. You never broke into her house, withheld her medication, stalked her, violated her boundaries, humiliated her, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I-I certainly did not! Good God Almighty…” He shook his head and muttered into his teacup, “Do I even want to know how you’re in this situation?”

“You really don’t.”

Rancor, the angel that he was, agreed to your bizarre request, no further questions asked.

So when a few days passed, and you spotted the two of them talking at the hotel bar, you didn't worry. Not at all. Nope. Rancor would corroborate your story, and Alastor would move on to create brand new problems to give you headaches.

Yaaaaaay…

No doubt Alastor wanted you to catch them, given how his smug little gaze slithered your way. The fur on your tail stood on end as you walked through the lobby with Charlie. You fought the urge to look over.

Your ears swiveled, the two not on the same page. One listened to Charlie talk about potential joint ventures after the Showcase wrapped up, the other cocked to eavesdrop.

You successfully failed at both.

Both conversations merged into gray noise, fragments of both occasionally discernible. Rancor laughed at something Alastor said, and you fought the instinct to run over and flip the bar. What are they talking about? What could that charming scoundrel have possibly said to make him laugh? How in Lilith’s fresh Hell did he persuade a man who seldom drinks to have one with the GODDAMN RADIO DEMON early in the goddamn morning?!

And when would he be gone so you could get a drink?

From hammerspace, Charlie pulled out what you mistook as a particularly narrow wall-length tapestry, until she started rattling off a litany of ideas for future projects. You used the momentary distraction to glance over at the bar.

Rancor spoke with subdued enthusiasm as Alastor listened passively. Husk polished a glass as Angel showed him something funny on his phone. When the bartender looked at one of those memes you never got, you caught his eye.

Yes! You cleared your throat. With a subtle wave, you successfully grabbed his attention. Your eyes darted pointedly between Rancor and Alastor several times in hopes that he would understand the unsaid request.

No dice.

You pressed the backs of your hands together, then snatched them away.

Husk gave you a maddening shrug and a bemused stank face. The nerve, to look at you like you were the crazy one. You repeated the motion. Angel nearly spat out his drink at your risible attempt at charades.

You pantomimed strangling them.

“Tem?” Charlie's sweet voice snapped you back to reality. Concern and confusion filled her eyes. “Is everything alright?”

A beat of silence passed before you flung your arms around her and crushed her into a hug.

“No, sweetie!” You cooed loudly. “Everything’s perfect! I’m just so excited to be APART of this with you and the hotel.”

Finally! Husk got the hint. He offered Rancor more of what you hoped was a shim, but he dutifully declined. With a nod at Alastor, he moseyed about his merry way. If you were prone to dramatics, you’d cry.

Instead, Charlie took on the task, sniffling over your shoulder and hugging you back. “I know! I’m so happy you’re here with us!”

You stroked Charlie’s hair as she cried and babbled in joy, the two of you now the center of attention in the lobby. Residents passed by, side-eyeing the strange display.

If you had the nerve to check, you’d see Alastor look over with laughter in his eyes.

It took a minute for Charlie to calm back down so you two could wrap up the bull session. Alastor had already vanished by the time you strode over to the bar.

You slammed your hands on the table and shot Husk the meanest of mean mugs.

“What?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Tell me, Husker, what exactly did you get out of this gesture?” You repeated the motion, this time with twice the tension in your shoulders.

“I thought you were doing an impression of a T-rex with nerve damage drowning in honey,” Angel said. “Anyone tell you you’re shit at charades?”

Yes. Mimzy at your birthday party, your mother at your birthday party, a man at a gin joint you suspected might’ve been Aaron Kosminski but could never prove, Katie Killjoy during Tom Trench’s birthday party twenty years ago after the two of you made out but before that grenade went off in the cake—

You huffed. “I was trying to get you to separate Rancor and Alastor.”

“How the hell was I supposed to understand that, woman?!” Husk snapped back.

“Because it was obvious?!”

“No! No, it wasn’t!”

“It really wasn’t,” Angel added.

You groaned and plopped your head on the bar counter with a solid thud. Hair fell around you like a blanket.

Husk and Angel exchanged a look you didn’t catch. Angel parted the curtains of your hair so your eye peeked through. “Hey, toots, I don’t think it’s that big a deal. I mean, Freaky Face mostly let ya man yap.”

“Did you, perchance, eavesdrop?”

A blush and a glance at Husk you barely caught. “Uuuuuuh…”

“Goddammit.” You stood, smoothed out your skirt, and took a big breath. “You think he is in his broadcasting tower or his room?” You asked Husk.

“Probably the tower,” Husk said, then frowned in regret. “Don’t—”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Are you crazy?”

“We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat.”

“Babe,” Angel said flatly, “that’s a terrible idea.”

“Be back in a pop.”

The two watched you storm the stairs, disappearing up the steps in a flurry of quiet rage.

Husk shook his head, returning his attention to polishing the glasses. “That crazy broad. Five bucks says she’ll finally goad him into taking a bite out of her.”

“I’ve got ten on them finally fucking.”

Your knuckles rapped on the door to Alastor’s studio for a second time, a room you never dared go near before today (and yet somehow knew exactly how to get there). “Alastor! I’m not leaving until you open this door.”

Nothing. Ten whole seconds of maddening nothing.

Typical.

Sighing, you fished your phone out of your brassiere, prepared to smoke him out. You paused, eyes scanning over an unseen notification; a message from… Alaric?

You couldn’t recall when the two of you exchanged numbers, but you must have. Crisp black letters spelled his name with a Veemoji of a pulsing heart with an arrow through it. How drunk were you last weekend?

A shake of your head; that’ll be a problem for Future Temerity to deal with.

You unlocked the phone with your face (unsettling) and opened the Vodcast app you couldn’t delete. “Oh, no! I guess I have no choice but to listen to Vox’s podcast while I wait. Oh look! His latest episode’s about… looksmaxing vitamins? Not sure what the hell that is, but I guess we’re both about to find out!”

The door jerked open before you had the chance to push play.

Alastor failed to hide his vexation behind the clenched teeth of his smile. “What is it?”

You opened your mouth like a dying fish gasping for life. His jacket was off, his dress shirt sleeves rolled perfectly up his forearm so high you could see his rich, blackened flesh transition into the lovely café au lait pallor mortis of his face.

Jesus wept! He might as well have flashed you.

“W-we need to talk.” You slipped your phone back into your cleavage. Lord, your skin was not heating up over a little bit of arm.

His eyes cast downward in distaste before returning to your face. “Why, of course! Why don’t you step inside and we can have ourselves a little chat, hmm?”

He stepped aside and beckoned you in with a flourish of his arm. Your eyes flitted from him to the room, then back to him. Thinned-lipped and eyes narrow, you accepted the offer.

You didn’t know what to expect from Alastor’s studio— something like Sweeney Todd meets Ed Gein meets Graham McNamee.

And you weren’t too far off.

The smell hit you first. Petrichor underscored by the subtle scent of copper. Hellish daylight filtered through ruby windows, painting everything in soft, blood red hues. Reedmaces sprouted haphazardly out of the floor here and there like daisies. His jacket hung on a deer’s rack coat rack. Off to one side stood his sound desk. There sat a lamp with a suspicious leather lampshade, and his mixing console full of more knobs, buttons, and switches than you knew the purpose of. No matter the era, audio setups threw you for a loop, the technicals of it magic in your eyes.

Alastor took a seat at his workstation. “Impressed by what you see?”

Your eyes flicked back towards him, outwardly unfazed but inwardly screaming. For whatever cruel and unjust reason, he looked extra radiant today, the reddish light no doubt doing him favors he didn’t deserve.

The air grew fuzzy with static, the feeling traveling to your stomach like you took a gigantic bite out of one of those cattails and inhaled.

To answer honestly would be madder than a box of frogs.

“I’d love to know what you think you’re doing, Alastor.”

He jogged a stack of papers full of notes and doodles. “Prepping for my broadcast, of course. What else?”

Your arms crossed your chest. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I told you to leave Rancor alone.”

“True, those words did come out of your mouth.”

“And yet you ignored them.”

His smile turned gleeful, downright giddy. “I did!”

A blood vessel popped somewhere behind your eyes— loud enough that he surely heard it, his laughter the apparent indicator.

And Alastor laughed, a hardy belly laugh that rattled his rib cage and filled the small space. He slapped the table and regarded you like his own personal vaudeville show.

“The look on your face!” he hollered. “Making demands like you had any authority! I believe allowing you to mouth off has made you forget your place.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re free to leave whenever you want, sweetheart.”

And there went another blood vessel…

“You lack self-awareness, Temerity— attempting to throw the weight around you clearly don’t have is utterly adorable. That’s what I like about you. Your temerity!”

His laughter at your expense drowned out those six little words.

You summoned a revolver to your hand and shot three rounds out the windows.

Glass shattered light thunder. Shards rained down on some poor, unfortunate sod who yelped like a frightened rooster. Heated wind wafted in like invasive cigarette smoke; the chaos of Hell filling the room like soft jazz.

Your darkened gaze turned back to Alastor. His eyebrows vanished behind his bangs; surprise, intrigue, and aggravation a unique blend on a face that never stopped smiling.

“Are you ready to conversate like adults, or do I have to stoop to your level?” You asked, gun still raised to the window, hazy smoke wafting from the barrel.

“It’s converse, my dear.”

You swung the gun toward his console. A shadowy tendril coiled to life and struck the gun out of your hand before you could pull the trigger.

A shiver ran up your arm and down your spine. You snatched a blade from your garter. The tendril tore it from your fingers.

A second gun spun to life in your hand. “I can do this all day!”

You cocked it, the sound crisp and sharp over the muted soundscape of the literal pandemonium outside. Alastor’s eyes and smile narrowed. Another tendril shot from behind him and grabbed your wrist. A sharp twist forced you to drop the gun with a pained grunt.

“Despite my admiration of your utter gall, I must admit your id can be rather trying.”

“And you would know all about being trying.” You wrested your arm free from the shadowy appendage. It slithered down your hand and back to Alastor as you rolled your achy wrist.

Silence followed for a moment, the two of you at an impasse. Alastor uncrossed and crossed his legs, and rested his chin on the back of his hand. “Even in a lavender marriage, I find it hard to believe that someone like you could peacefully coexist with someone so agonizingly… twee.”

You leaned back against his desk with your arms crossed. “Of course you would find him twee. You couldn’t appreciate sincerity if it sent you home with a half peck of Hell apples and mended your raggedy ass coat for free.”

“My, my! You’re in quite the mood today. So snippy! Nothing at all like the generous woman your ex-husband described.” He playfully tapped a finger on his cheek in mock thought. “No, I cannot see someone as ornery as you financing his lifestyle for decades out of the ‘goodness’ of your heart.”

Your hands tightened their grip on your biceps. Shit. You should’ve coached Rancor more on how to deal with Alastor. Lies and deception never came as easily to him as they did for you— a trait you clearly didn’t inherit from him.

“Either you’re a regular Mother Katharine Drexel. O-o-or,” Alastor drew out (needlessly, you might add), “he has foreknowledge of all the skeletons you’ve stowed away in your closet. You can see why I’m so curious.”

Double donkey shit.

A sharp exhale, a pinch of your nose. “Alastor, baby, you’re awfully nosy for someone who claims to despise the flat-faced, control-freak charlatan who wants to implement a surveillance state across the Pentagram. I can see why the two of you were friends.”

The air around you chilled and soured. Alastor’s smile didn’t shift, but his eyes glinted with offense. “My dear… I am nothing like that buffoon.”

“Oh please! You two are different flavors of the same bullshit.”

The signs were subtle: the lights dimmed and flicked back to full strength faster than a blink. The wind through the window’s bullet holes turned from a warm summer breeze to an icy draft. Alastor’s smile stretched thin and curled in disgust.

You cocked your head; the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “I sense I’ve struck a nerve. Please, do argue. I’d love to hear how you rebut that.”

“That’s funny. All I sense is a woman getting above herself and shooting from the hip.”

”Ha! I never shoot from the hip. My bullets always connect. Much less wasteful that way.” You sighed. “This was pointless. See you around… Radio Demon.”

With a mock salute, you turned on your heels and sauntered towards the door.

“One more thing, dear.”

You reached for the door. A glowing green manacle dropped your wrist; the heavy weight of the accursed deal dug into your flesh. You stumbled and steadied yourself against the door. Your fist clenched as you willed your racing heart to stop rattling your ribcage.

You turned to face the bastard, who somehow managed to loom over you from a chair across the room, hefting chains in his hands. He rolled his wrist once, twice. Wrapped and coiled around his forearm like a serpent, he wrenched you towards him.

Another stumble; you caught yourself before he brought you to your knees. A growl moved to your throat, teeth grinding together so hard your jaw ached. “I don’t have time for your bullshit today.”

“You certainly had the time to stomp your way to my studio to make demands! I thought you said you could do this all day?” He stood and glided closer to you in one unnaturally smooth motion. Another tug drew you closer. Far too close.

“You are such a pain in my ass— they oughta rename piles after you!”

”Oh, don’t be like that,” he cooed mockingly. His blood red eyes full of a sick sense of… joy? Satisfaction? He pinched your cheek. “I just need you to answer one itty bitty question, and I’ll let you be on your merry way!”

You pulled your face away only for him to grab you by the jaw and force your eyes back on him. Alastor certainly picked up on your pounding heart with his big ol’ ears. The warbled feedback from the speakers shot a chill up your spine.

“Tell me, Temerity… Why is Rancor so important that you feel the need to needlessly lie to protect him?”

A spark of sharp pain shot from your palm before warmth trickled down your fingers. You hadn’t realized you had clenched your fist so hard your nails pierced flesh.

Your next words seeped out like the blood from your wound, the truth flowing out before you could stop it. “I owe him my life. I love him.”

Alastor’s brows jumped to his hairline. The shackles of your deal remain visible, proof of your unsatisfactory answer. Unlike with Vox, you couldn't play coy, act dumb, and expect him to accept a simple answer. Alastor knew you better than that, for better or for worse.

Always, always for worse.

The air turned sharp around the two of you, like lightning before it struck. Flesh was the only thing keeping you from exploding. You wanted to shake him by the bony shoulders. You wanted to stomp and scream that this was none of his FUCKING business!

You pulled your head from his hand. He ignored the urge to chase after you with his hand. The glare you gifted him was filled with utterly delicious contempt. Your eyes glowed with so much resentment, Alastor could taste it, bitter and strong like the darkest chocolate.

Whether he knew it or not, you’d given him what he desired: your full, unmitigated attention on him and him alone.

No distractions.

No way out.

Just you, him, and his leverage over you.

A/N: Feel free to skip this long-ass note. I'll understand. I have depression and apparently it gets worse in the wintertime. Well, I had no clue since I used to live somewhere with two or three days of winter every year. So yeah, that beat the shit out of me for a while. Then I moved, got on meds that actually helped, turned 30, learned that I’m demisexual, and spent months as a broke bitch looking for a job. But things are good now! Life rocks now. My goal is to somehow finish this before season three comes along and contradicts my fic even more. But we’ll see how that goes. And I gotta update these tags, dog. Anyways, those of you only on AO3 might’ve never seen the art I’ve made of Tem. I think AO3 allows you to archive art, but let me double-check that so I don’t break the rules… I had fun writing this chapter! I hope you had fun reading it. The next two won’t be as fun. Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

♥︎Taglist♥︎

@forbidding-souda @mo-0-o @yummii13 @the--rebel--fae @babesway22 @mullet-mother @fifiyaps @lunatguard

[busines-as-unusual]

I'm not dead! Mostly.

[sanguineselene666]

Boo✨

[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 16 - What Hurts the Most ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: Enjoy this long bastard. (The chapter, not Alastor, btw...)

You couldn’t recall the last time you’d seen Rancor. Maybe seven or eight years prior, and even then it was about a decade between visits. He’d requested a quiet, private life outside of the city and you had granted his wish. He deserved so much more but asked so little of you. Every few months, you sent him money to make sure he wasn’t struggling. He insisted you didn’t need to do it every time, but you did, and every time you sent someone in your place to cut him a check.

He cared for you, but his kind heart kept him from admitting that your presence hurt.

So when he came to the hotel looking to check it out, you were beyond ecstatic and wasted no time introducing him to everyone.

Charlie excitedly shook his hand. “It’s so nice to meet one of Temerity’s friends! I know you’re going to love it here! Why don’t we show you around before you settle in? Alastor?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as Alastor materialized from the shadows. You could take the high road and not get into a petty argument this time. Of course the host of the hotel would assist in guiding the tour; you couldn’t exactly argue.

Charlie led the tour, a bundle of enthusiasm the entire time as she showed Rancor the various amenities: the bar, lounge, and even the amphitheater. You could almost forget Alastor’s presence… if he wasn't looming behind you like a sentient, malevolent fart.

The four of you strolled up the aisle towards the amphitheater’s exit, Rancor and Charlie up front with you and Alastor taking up the back. Foolishly you glanced his way, only to see his blood red eyes fixed ahead, brow laxed. You’d realized the best way to gauge his feelings were through his eyes, ignoring the smile altogether, but even then it challenged you to try and figure out how he felt.

Did he really give a shit about you sleeping with Vox? You doubted it. Even with their animosity, you couldn’t understand how Alastor, with his complete and utter lack of interest in all things sexual, could possibly care. But you couldn’t let those words go: “I simply… expected better of you.”

The idea of letting him down in any way hurt more than it should. You didn’t exist to please him. You didn’t need him to be proud of your decisions.

You sighed deeper than you meant to, earning a curious glance from the Radio Demon. You shot your attention back to the two in front of you.

“It’s a good thing you came today, Rancor. The concert tomorrow is going to have the hotel pretty packed,” Charlie said with a self-satisfied chuckle. “Will we see you there?”

Rancor smiled sheepishly. “Oh, no, Miss. Crowds and loud music aren’t quite my cup of tea. No offense.”

“None taken! We’re just happy to have you here. Right, Alastor?”

Alastor cracked the wryest of smiles. “Positively ecstatic.”

Don't think he didn't catch the roll of your eyes, the way your lips pressed together. His jaw clenched.

Alastor whirled, placing himself between you and Rancor. “So, my god man! What brings you to the Hazbin Hotel?”

Rancor, Satan bless him, took it in stride. “Well, Hell has been… an interesting experience to say the least, but I’m ready for a change. If there’s a chance I can see my family again then I’ll try it. At worst this’ll be a vacation.”

He chuckled and you joined in, but Alastor studied your expressions long enough to tell what guilt would look like on your lonely face, even if it only lasted the briefest of moments.

His lip quirked with intrigue.

“We loooove a positive outlook here!” Charlie chirped. “You’ll fit right in.”

“The hotel’s gotta be the safest place in hell,” you added, “especially with such a powerful sinner working there… but enough about Niffty!”

You chortled, and Alastor’s eye twitched. “Charming as usual.”

“Alastor! You’re here?”

Radio waves soaked in annoyance rolled off Alastor and made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You glowered at him. His smile grew a hair.

No doubt the other two in the party felt the animosity. Charlie jumped in, eager to lessen the tension. “So! Rancor! How do you know Tem?”

“I supposed you could say we’re from the same town,” he answered. “Knew Merity since she was young.”

You almost smiled, then Alastor said, “Really? She's never, ever mentioned you.”

Something — anxiety, shame — stabbed at the middle of your back, dull pain spreading to your gut. “It’s because my relationships are none of your business.”

“Can I not be curious about a good friend?”

Shut up heart shut up heart shut up heart SHUT THE FUCK UP

“We both know that’s not what this is about,” you replied, voice cold as your demeanor.

“AN-Y-WAAAY!” Charlie twirled and walked off, eager to pull attention back to the tour. “Why don’t we show you the… laundry facilities!?”

After a thrilling tour of the laundry machines — all while trying and failing to ignore Alastor behind you — you privately escorted Rancor to his room. “Here’s our stop. Room 667. Neighbor of the beast.”

He laughed, and that eased some of the tension in your gut. “Do you need me to send for your things?” You asked him. “I noticed you didn't bring anything.”

He laughed awkwardly. “If you don’t mind, Merity. I didn’t expect to check in right away, or for you to be here, really.”

Tension returned, the knife of guilt twisted deeper.

Despite hiding your pain behind a smile, he quickly added, “Not that I’m not glad to see you. Surprised, s’ all.”

He tried to spare your feelings. Like always. You sighed, smile melting into something more sincere. “I’m glad to see you, too. I’ll let you get settled. The rooms are actually very lovely.”

Rancor glanced down the hall, as if expecting someone to round the corner. “I’m not by the Radio Demon, am I?”

You laughed. “He’s not as scary as he seems, don't even worry about running into him.”

“The two of you seem… oddly close, with how you speak to each other. Is that a new development?”

You scoffed, exasperated. “He just gets a kick out of messing with me and being a little bitch.”

Rancor blinked. “The Radio Demon… is a little bitch?”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe!” You could soliloquize all the B-words that could describe Alastor: boorish, bastard, brat… beguiling, beautiful.

Rancor’s sweet chuckle brought you back to the present. “Well, I know you won’t let him get to you.”

You couldn't tell him how wrong he was.

You nodded and tried to head off, give him his space, but he stopped you midturn with a squeeze to your shoulder. You flinched out of surprise more than anything.

“We should have lunch sometime. Let’s catch up.”

Your eyes widened, hope catching in your throat. “Of course. Whenever you'd like.”

Something flashed in his eyes you couldn't place before you two parted. Despite Rancor’s kindness— no, his unwavering compassion and grace towards you, you knew seeing you took a toll on him every time, even when over a century removed from it all.

But he wanted to see you and had asked you first? You practically skipped down the hall.

Achill ran through you, bitter and icy up your spine. Solid darkness whipped past you, sliding along the walls unnaturally. For a moment you wondered if it was your imagination.

“What a sentimental parting!”

“Mammon’s taint!” You fell flat on your ass. Alastor grinned down at you, lip twitching with contained laughter. His invisible audience on the other hand didn’t hold back their glee.

You stood, dusting off your dress, tail swishing behind you. “So we're done pretending you're not stalking me?”

His eyes darted back to your face. “Your old pal seemed like quite the interesting fellow.” Of course he ignored your question. “It's curious how you’ve never mentioned him.”

You crossed your arms, giving him nothing. That wouldn't do.

“If I recall correctly, I overheard you tell your little friend I wasn’t as scary as I appear—”

“Why don't I get you a punch card for eavesdropping at this point?”

“I was simply passing through! But to the point: you and I both know you lied to the man.”

He tsked-tsked and booped you on the nose, grin widening when you snapped at his finger with your teeth. For the briefest of moments, he wondered what it would feel like to have your teeth cleave through his flesh and ligaments, his blood streaming down your décolletage…

“Did you also hear how I called you a little bitch?” Your expression hadn’t changed, but he could hear the lilt of your smug grin in your voice.

And there went your slick mouth. While entertaining, it grew tiresome; clearly he’d been letting you off the hook for sassing him for far too long. He considered shoving a finger in your smart mouth in order to shut you up, to see if in your shock you’d really bite his finger off.

Alas, he’d put a pin in that for now.

“Well, if you insist on staying mum on the subject, perhaps I could pay your little friend a visit—”

“Stay the hell away from him.”

Finally. Your passive indifference shifted to that anger he loved to see on you, but it wasn’t simply wrath. Something he hadn’t seen in quite some time flecked it, something he’d never seen on you. Protectiveness.

His smile spread, radio interference crackling excitedly around him as he tilted his head with faux innocence. “I’m sorry,” he baited, “come again?”

You stepped closer, as if that intimidated him. “Leave him alone, Alastor. He’s a good man; he doesn’t need you messing with him.”

He laughed. “A good man? A lovely sentiment, but quite impossible. There are no good men in Hell.”

“Well he’s the exception that proves the rule. If you have even a shred— I mean the smallest little speck of humanity in your shriveled black soul—” you pointed at the center of his chest without touching him to emphasize your point, “you’ll leave him be.”

“Who is he to you?”

You looked at him, hands on your hips as you simmered with quiet indignation. “Why?”

“I'm just having a hard time believing he matters this much to you when you’ve never even brought up the old man.”

He kept poking into this open wound, knowing it bothered you and made you squirm. The man’s a sadist, and you foolishly played into his depraved little kink every time, and you’d let him prod at this wound so much he slipped right underneath your skin. He didn’t care about the answer. Not really. He only found it entertaining you fought and resisted. You needed to give him what he asked for, not what he wanted.

And not necessarily the truth.

You relaxed your posture. “Rancor is— was… my husband.”

He paused, the silence almost palpable before he spoke again. “Your husband?”

“Yep. That's the big secret. I know you're riveted.”

Again, you couldn't make out the look in his eyes. “I never pegged you,” he motioned the microphone end of his staff at you, “for the settle down type.”

You took it as a compliment.

“It’s a tale as old as time, really!” You explained, lining up the crock of shit you were about to feed him. “We got married for the tax benefits back when we were alive. I got his money, he got his beard. Classic lavender marriage, you know how it goes, haha!”

“Is that so? Well you two must've been really close— no wonder you're so defensive!”

You grimaced. Where did he get off sounding so sardonic?

He yapped away. “But the fellow looked plenty capable to me. I'm sure he can take care of himself, no need for you to be overly involved.”

“And you can pour your own drink, but it’s nice when someone does it for you.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to take him aback, giving him pause long enough for you to turn on your heel and leave him in the hall. For better or for worse, he didn’t follow you this time.

The time had come. Finally the day, the first day of what Charlie charmingly dubbed as “The Showcase of Salvation” arrived.

With multiple acts playing, this event would last until midnight. You made sure to get up extra early in preparation for the show. Many of your own employees worked as ushers, stagehands, and cashiers at the concession stands outside the venue; you spent some time with your managers to make sure everything would be smooth sailing going forward into the night.

The air hummed with excitement and anticipation, your smile undying as you flitted through the hotel and auditorium, the sea of excited people charging you up more. sinners flooded the hotel; a handful of hellborn scattered in as well. You shouldn’t have doubted Charlie, she had a solid intuition.

Well… for the most part.

You did have to go behind Charlie's back and hire Blitzø for back up security. You stuck him and his sniper rifle in the gods (it seemed rather appropriate), up so high he had the perfect vantage point in case anyone wanted to stir up shit.

You leaned back on the railing and watched him set up his gun. “Thanks again for doing this, Blitzø. I know it was rather last minute.”

“Yeah, no problem, murder tits. So can you… kindly fuck off so I can do my job in peace?”

You steamrolled him. “Can you believe the princess didn't want to hire security? I told her it’s standard precaution, but she— get this— said ‘it might be too intimidating.’ I get Alastor’s the hotel’s protector, but he’s not omnipresent… I hope.”

“Oh, yeah, it can be reeeeal fucking annoying when a bitch can't pick up in subtle clues.”

A roll of your eyes, you pushed yourself off the railing. “Alright, I get it. I can take a hint.”

“No, not really.”

“I'll leave you to your post…” You hesitated, fidgeting with your hand. “But before I do, there's something I need to tell you.”

Gun finished, he held it, barrel at the ceiling, with his free hand on his hip. “Well shit, you ain't done yapping?”

You scoffed in faux offense. “Well, excuse me for trying to apologize.”

He blinked. “Apologize?”

“Yes. Apologize.” A deep sigh prepped you for sincerity. “I owe you a big fat apology for setting your van on fire and for generally being a ‘psycho pyro slut.’ Moreso the ‘psycho pyro’ than the ‘slut’. I snapped and… well, it’s no excuse. You've really pulled through for me lately and I do appreciate it. So I'm sorry, and thank you, Blitzø.”

Those glowing yellow eyes blinked out of sync again and he fell silent for a split second. You doubted any of his clients bothered to thank him, you included. “Wow, this mushy motel must’ve sucked all the cunt out of you if you seriously think I didn't do all this shit for money.”

“Oh, come now,” you cooed, poking him lightly in his chest. “I know you have a tiny shriveled heart in there. You pity lil ol’ me and my sadgirl, crybaby backstory bullshit. Admit it~”

Blitzø palmed your face and pushed you away. “Look, you’re welcome, or whatever. You’ve actually been one of my least annoying clients, lately.”

“And not just because I pay you twice as much as the rest of them?”

“No, that's definitely the only reason.”

Chuckling, you squeezed his shoulder and pecked him on the cheek.

His sincere smile matched yours… until he opened his mouth again. “Aww, you're gonna make me throw up in my mouth.”

You lightly pushed his shoulder. “Dickhole.”

“Love you too, jizz breath.”

Smirking, you flipped him off as you headed down the stairwell.

Halfway down, the dimmed lights overhead flickered, and a familiar rush of chilly darkness whipped past you, halting you midstep. Agitated, you folded your arms, turning to find his black silhouette on the wall beside you.

“Yes, Alastor?” you asked, exasperated at the shadow. “You here to tell me you are omnipresent?”

The pause following stretched out into awkward silence. Could one be in a staring contest with a shadow? You were certainly losing, looking into the spaces between darkness where its eyes sat. It tilted its head like a curious animal might, gazed fixed on you. The irritation you held in your shoulders melted away, replaced with intrigue.

You’ve never seen Alastor’s shadow so far from him and this… independent. Granted, you never gave his shadow much thought— you’d assume it merely parroted his feelings when visible, and helped him travel around. It never occurred to you it could be… alive in some way.

Gingerly you reached towards the apparition, and it didn’t pull away. “Alastor, is this you or—”

The moment your fingers graced the shadow’s chest, blackness seeped onto your skin, spreading up your hand like blood down a wall. A silent gasp left your lips, but you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to. You expected it to feel like ice, based on how travelling through Alastor’s shadows felt, but this was warm. So so warm.

Warmth traveled up your arm, past your elbow then your shoulder. It slithered up your neck until heat found home against your cheek.

This was weird. Weird and completely out of nowhere. But that didn’t stop you from leaning into the heat, finding solidity against your cheek. Comfort. It spread to your chest, warming your heart in a way that made your eyes flutter closed.

All at once, ice, sharp and painful, shot through your bones and shredded your nerves like electricity where the shadow wrapped around you. You yelped and recoiled as it fled down the stairwell like a frightened rat.

You turned back to the wall, as if it held any answers for you.

What in the nine rings was that?

Did his shadow go AWOL? Could it do that? You’d assumed it was a part of him, acting of his accord. But the thing had cupped your cheek. Alastor would never— well he had once, but that was an extenuating circumstance, it didn’t count! He certainly wouldn’t do it again.

So then why did his shadow?

Why would it do that?

Why?

You did your best to set aside the… whatever that was from the stairs and enjoy the show.

It wasn’t easy to organize a decent variety of music across all genres that also felt harmonious, but everyone’s combined efforts paid off. Tonight was positively a medley of melodies and a treat for the ears. And while you can appreciate all types of music, you'll also admit not everything was to your taste.

So during one band’s set, you hung out at the bar with Angel, Husk, and Cherri, shooting the shit, laughing at a crude joke Angel made. Husk fixed you a second Tom Collins. Cherri scrolled through her social media, glancing from her phone to you, snickering.

You sipped your drink. “What's funny, Hun?”

She turned her phone screen to you. “Tell me this ain't you.”

You peered at the story she showed you. Big bold text on the VoxNews site read: Purple Fatass Nobody Caught Doing the Walk of Shame from V Tower. Underneath, a blurry image of you exiting said Tower.

You skimmed the article briefly. “Of cooourse, Katie wrote that— That bitch!”

“What?” Angel asked, craning his neck to look at Cherri’s phone.

“She called my club tacky and said that my plays are 'shallow and pedantic.’ Shallow I’ll concede to, but tacky and pedantic?” You huffed and grumbled, “I'll make her ass tacky and pedantic.”

“…what?”

A deep sigh and a count to four later and you were already over it. “Whatever. There's no bad press after all. Anyway, Cherri, I wish you were at the hotel that day. I took Niffty and these two lovebirds out to brunch.”

She laughed, pocketing her phone and picking up her beer. “Brunch? What are you, an elderly lesbian?”

“Mock all you want, but you're the one who missed a free meal.”

“I'm always telling her to check into the hotel,” Angel said. “She's here enough.”

“There’s no rush. Cheeri wants to sow her wild oats and all that.”

Cheeri rolled her eye. ”Oh god, you really are an old lady…”

You shot her a look. Your shared laughter died in the wake of Charlie introducing the next talent to the stage: Moxxie.

Interest piqued, you swiveled in your bar chair to watch his performance on one of the monitors set outside of the amphitheater. Moxxie, with his guitar, pulled up his stool to sit on and cleared his throat.

“This song goes out to my beautiful wife, Millie…”

He strummed his guitar, gentle and light, a song you heard in bits and places during rehearsals. As he said, the song was shamelessly all about his love for his wife.

In his charmingly offbeat voice, he sang of his adoration for her, he sang of the little things: Her laughter. Her strength. How after all this time he still got butterflies when he looked at her. He sang of how his love inspired him to take action— how she found him in a dark place, and loving and being loved helped him heal, grow, and want to be better for him and for her. How it was an honor for him to love her, that he’d kill and die for her.

Raw sincerity coated in every sung line; love seeped into every word, palpable and thick, overly saccharine and pure. And through the magic of music that flooded your heart and soul, for a crystal clear moment, you understood Love.

As soon as the feeling left you, yearning swiftly replaced it. Heavy, painful yearning. Ugly, nasty, rotten yearning that crawled into your chest nearly a hundred years ago and hadn’t left you for even a day. Sometimes quiet, sometimes screeching, its very presence deafened you. The infection spread to every part of your body; a chronic illness you ignored, treating symptoms but never the source.

This song crested over the dam you constructed to protect yourself and destroyed everything you built in a single moment.

You drowned.

“Fuck!”

“You alright there, girlie?”

Cherri’s voice broke you out of your stupor. You blinked your burning eyes, relieved to find no tears were there yet. Your friends stared at you, worry etched on their faces and you realized with horror you had no idea what they saw on yours when your smile faded away.

Fuck…

You forced another smile and messily downed the rest of your drink, droplets of gin splattering on your top. “Right as rain, darlings! I’m—” Your voice skewed in your throat, a golf ball sized lump blocking the words from getting out. “Excuse me…”

You hopped off the stool, not bothering to look back as you rushed to the nearest exit. The look on their faces, more concern than you’ve ever received all at once, would be far too much.

You found safety outside of the venue, music and cheering faded and distant through the walls. Fishing out a cigarette and a lighter, you placed the cig in your lips, the lighter slipping from your shaky hands, landing in a pile of liquor and other unsavory fluids.

A deep, ugly groan left your throat as you slumped against the wall. Chest tight, your hands ran slowly down your face as you steadied your breathing. You blinked back tears. Eyes peaked between your fingers flitted everywhere in a losing effort to focus on anything not the longing in your soul.

“Fuck me…”

”Well, if you’re offering…”

Your shoulders jumped and you looked at the owner of the voice besides you. A familiar hellhound looking sinner leaned on the wall, a lighter in his large hand he flicked to life. “Need a light, spitfire?”

Cooling your expression, you leaned in and lit the cig in your mouth before drawing back with a deep inhale, the act giving you time to pull his name from your memory banks. “Alaric! Long time no see, darling. You came for the concert?”

He chuckled and pocketed the lighter. “I figured since my band didn’t make the cut during tryouts, I could at least see what beat us out.”

“You play an instrument?”

“Saxophone.”

“Very sexy.” You blew out a smoke ring. “I'm sure your band being overlooked was a gross oversight on my part. You should play it for me sometime… Perhaps after the concert tonight?”

“I didn’t bring it.”

Oh, sweet summer child…

You quirked a brow and waited for him to get it.

“Oh… Oh!”

You chuckled and snapped your fingers, summoning your hotel room key and handing it to him. “I’ll be in my room by midnight.”

He took it with a wolfish grin. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

The rest of the concert was beyond stellar. Fizzarolli sang right after Moxxie and he was the highlight of the night, his performance bringing down the house and infecting everyone with raucous energy.

After him, the audience slowly thinned out but more people stayed than left. The few stragglers who stayed behind after the concert wanted to check in, which Charlie and Vaggi were more than happy to do. Husk, Cherri, and Angel hung out at the bar, and Niffty upstaged the clean up crew you'd hired.

With everyone preoccupied and your job done, you managed to slip away, meeting up with Alaric in your room.

He couldn't have appeared at a more opportune time. You needed a distraction in the form of a warm body. You needed someone to overwhelm your senses until you couldn't think about how much you hurt. And it worked.

But only for a little bit.

Between falling asleep on his chest and waking up alone, you felt the utmost disappointment, heavy in the core of your being.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out how you could possibly feel worse than before you rode St. George into the night with Alaric. You felt… gross? You haven't felt gross after sex in decades. And it wasn't Alaric.

It was you.

You rolled onto your stomach and screamed into your pillow, and for good measure you screamed again. Lifting your head, you groaned.

Something white caught your attention in the corner of your eye— a piece of paper folded in half on the pillow beside you. Frowning, you grabbed and unfolded it to find a note, a handwritten note from Alaric: Had to run. Let’s do this again.

You smiled small, a puff of amusement through your nose. Alaric was the sincerest bootycalls you’ve ever had, you’d give him that.

You sat up, and your stomach growled with hunger. Blinking sleep out of your eyes, you considered the benefits of killing one or two birds with a stone.

Sinners overran the hotel in the ones; perhaps six or even seven new bodies took up space in the lobby. Alastor watched Charlie scurry around and greet them from his position on the atrium balcony. Behind him, his shadow crawled along the wall, finally reined in from its vexing wanderlust.

It sought you out yet again for whatever reason. Before, it provided a way to keep tabs on you, checking on you in small doses, but now he couldn’t trust it to behave around you.

How irritating.

And you were all too friendly with the damned thing. He unfortunately could feel the sensations through his shadow, felt the warmth of your touch over his heart, your cheek in his hand, much like the night he spied you laying waste to the man who had taken your life. He hated how your cheek fit so well in his palm. He hated how warm you felt, how soft, how… lovely.

All of it was utterly revolting.

This time, he didn't need his shadow to spot you making your way through the lobby, that Rancor fellow in tow as you happily said hello to Charlie and the new hotel residents before heading to the door. You glanced back at Rancor, then did a comical double take when you noticed Alastor lurking from the second story. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head.

Alastor waved before he lost your attention, waggling his fingers at you with a shit eating smirk. To his surprise you smiled back… then promptly flashed him the V sign with the back of your hand facing him.

How lovely. Whether you knew he knew what the two finger salute meant or not was up in the air.

Alastor chuckled soft and low in the back of his throat. Only he could make you—this woman full of class, wit, and charm—flip him off like a spoiled teenager throwing a fit after not getting her way. Only he could make you crack like that.

He… enjoyed that about you. He enjoyed having access to you and knowledge about you no one else in Hell possessed.

At least before this “ex-husband” of yours sauntered in out of the blue.

Speaking of the man, he’d caught you making such a rude gesture. Rancor gasped with your name on his lips, like a parent more applied than angry. And just like that your attention left him, laughing as the two of you left through the door.

Your lack of attention on Alastor bothered him more than he’d ever admit. He’d meant for this game to draw you closer to the permanent destruction of your mask. Perhaps unwisely, he hadn’t considered the possibility of you pulling away from him so much he had a better view of the back of your head more often than not these days.

He couldn’t make that mistake again.

Fortunately, he already devised a plan to fix that. Your ex could be of use to him.

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♥︎Taglist♥︎

@forbidding-souda @mo-0-o @yummii13 @the--rebel--fae @babesway22 @mullet-mother @fifiyaps @lunatguard

[busines-as-unusual]

Bro if I was going by the original timeline of my fic, Tem and Alastor would've been smooching by the next chapter.

[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 15 - Sour Grapes as Bitter Pills ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

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Your internal clock woke you before 7 a.m., and you hadn't considered an exit strategy.

What started over his desk led to the floor and eventually his bed, which is where you found yourself the next morning. Velvety blankets bunched over your naked lap as you sat up and blinked the last bits of cottony sleep out of your eyes. Hellish morning light bathed the room, washing out the cool blues with fiery oranges and reds.

“Morning there, doll.”

You flinched. Vox, wide awake, stared up at you with his monitor in his palm.

“How long have you been up?”

“Oh, long enough...”

Before you could even process the implications of that, his fingers walked up your arm, his eyes pointedly not on your face. “I didn't hurt you last night, did I?”

You sputtered a laugh, pulling the covers off and swinging your legs over the side. “Did I hurt you? How's your back and, uh… vent thingies?”

Last night's outfits littered the floor. You frowned. As if reading your mind, Vox held out his hand and, in a zap of electricity, summoned neatly folded clothes and handed them to you.

A small knowing smile graced your lips as you took the clothes. “Something tells me you planned on this. What do I owe you?”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t even worry about it. Consider it a parting gift.”

“Was last night not the parting gift?”

He chuckled low in his throat. Cables carried heels over to you — dark blue pumps with red accents on the bottoms. You reached for them, but another cord wrapped around your ankle and slid the oddly cold shoe onto your foot before switching to the next one.

A chill ran up your spine. Your smile soured like milk. “Ohhhh… thank you.”

Your fingers ran over the vlues™ of the folded ensemble. You’d have to do a more thorough check for bugs while Vox wasn’t looking. Alastor’s admittedly justified paranoia tumbled around in your head like a rock in a dryer in the middle of the goddamn night.

Alastor…

For some reason, the thought of him formed a knot in your stomach. Not that you had much time to dwell on it.

Vox snaked his arms around you, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your stomach. “Stay. I’ll have breakfast brought up.”

Surely you were living someone else’s dream: hooking up with one of the most powerful men in all of Hell, having him clothe and feed you and shower you with attention. You knew so many people would murder you for the chance to be in your shoes. Hell, you could name six of them off the top of your head.

But the knot grew, tugging at you to pull away.

“A lovely offer, Vox, dear, but I’m afraid we’ll have to take a rain check. Duty calls and all that. You understand.”

Clawed fingers pressed into you. A long second turned to two then three before he pulled away. “I see. A rain check then.”

“I'll have my gal read over the paperwork, and so long as everything's Jake, I'll sign and officially begin this partnership.”

He sat and stretched, turning his scratched-up back towards you. “Sounds perfect, doll.”

You hadn’t missed the ice in his voice. You always hated this, but you needed to nip this in the bud before things got out of hand, and you needed to do so in a way that wouldn’t threaten his ego.

You closed the distance between the two of you on the bed, hands giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Last night was fun. Really fun. I can see how you got Valentino wrapped around your finger…” Your finger trailed slowly from the small of his back to the base of his neck. He held back a shiver. You smirked. “Very talented fingers, I might add. But I'm... What do people say nowadays? A bit of a thot?”

He did a double-take back at you. “They don't say that.”

A shrug as you sat back. “Well, regardless, I'm not meant for anything more than a casual time. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea —”

“I wasn’t – “

“– good, because I’m not –”

“It's fine. Really dear. This was just… a bit of fun.”

He flashed you a brilliant but strained smile. A handful of interpretations slipped through your fingers. You washed your hands of bothering to understand what he felt. Not your responsibility. You did your part. If he had a problem, he was more than capable of being a big boy and using his words.

You fixed him with a smile of your own and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the wonderful time and the lovely clothes. We’ll be in touch.”

You stood, but he grabbed your wrist a little too hard, halting you. “What’s the rush, doll? At least freshen up before you have to go.”

That charming smile almost made it easy to ignore how trying he could be.

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“I insist!”

Of course you do…

You decided it was simpler to concede. “Well, if you insist, darling, how can I refuse?”

Turning to head to his bathroom, you missed how his smile curdled into the smirk of a man who got his way.

You couldn’t get out of that tower faster.

Not since Roman were you love-bombed so consistently. Vox offered to let you keep the dress and gave you a new phone (a newer model no different from the one you already owned, save the extra lens the new one had), which you couldn’t turn down to his face. He pushed you to take the limo home, but fortunately for you, Valentino interrupted, stealing Vox’s attention away long enough for you to slip away; the only time you were ever grateful for the moth man’s presence.

You caught a cab to the Hazbin Hotel. The knot in your stomach twisted and with a start, you thought you missed Alastor’s broadcast, but quickly you remembered his show didn’t air on Sundays. You let out something between a scoff and a sigh. Here you were, worrying about catching his show and you doubted he even bothered to remember what you got invited to, much less that he cared to watch it. Which he didn’t have to, of course, but it still hurt.

Pulling up to the hotel, you had the driver wait out front. You burst through the door and made a beeline for the bar. Angel and Husk were already present, in the middle of a conversation you felt you were intruding on.

Husk spotted you first and waved, with Angel following his gaze, looking you over with a smirk.

“See, Husk, what did I tell ya? The two of them totally boned.”

“Good morning to you, too. Shall we both loudly discuss our sex lives unprompted?”

“Don't encourage him.” Husk uncorked a bottle of whisky… which you snatched from his hands.

“What the fuck, Tem?”

“If you’re getting drunk, it’s on my dime. You bozos are coming to brunch with me.”

“Isn’t it a little early for brunch?”

“Isn’t it a little early for you to be pedantic about free bottomless mimosas, Bellinis, and Bloody Marys?”

A beat of thought. “Fair point.”

“You know I’m in, toots,” Angel said. “But—“

“I know what you’re gonna say. Don’t worry about cameras. This place is low profile and out of the way, not a VoxTek drone in sight.”

“Why’s he gotta worry about cameras?” Husk asked.

“Tem lied to Val to get me… off the hook last night.” He smiled and winked at you, and your heart melted. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“It was nothing. Now! Let’s shake a leg. The meter’s running.”

Husk flinched and let out a yelp of surprise as Niffty scrambled up his body and onto the counter like a startled roach. “Take me with you!”

“The fuck, Nifft?”

“Of course!” You said. “The more the merrier and all that.”

Angel crossed his arms and looked like he wanted to protest, but he shrugged instead. “Okay, but she’s getting virgin mimosas.”

She stared in confusion with her big, bright eye. “But I’m not—“

“Not what that means.”

You turned to walk towards the door and nearly smacked into a big red wall of irritating flesh. You spun around the obstacle and came face-to-face with Alastor. Your eyes met and your heart froze, as if it wasn’t beating he couldn’t see you.

He looked you up and down, his radio feedback shooting off signaling his disgust. “May I ask where you’re taking everyone this morning in your tackiest outfit?”

You grinned, an almost innocent gleam in your eyes. “Of course you can!” You continued on your way as if he hadn’t spoke.

Alastor appeared back in front of you with the help of his shadow. “I’m afraid you can’t take the entirety of my staff on a little field trip. They have duties to attend to.”

You placed your hands on your hips indignantly. “You work them on a Sunday, slave driver?”

“I’m sorry, is this day of any ontological significance?”

You thinned your lips, not wanting him to see you laugh. Glancing at his antlers, the knot in your stomach pulled tight.

“It’s the weekend, Alastor,” you said, looking everywhere except at him. “I’ll only be taking them for an hour or two to feed them. I’m certain you, Charlie, and Vaggie can hold things down until then. Buuuuuut if you want, we can go straight to Charlie so I can sign waivers promising to return them. And you can personally reimburse me for the cab because you’re running up my fucking bill.”

“Where are you taking them? Anywhere near as licentious as that bar you all love so much?”

“To brunch, Alastor. We’re not going to Chippendales.”

“We’re not?!”

You did a double-take at your friend behind you. “Wha — Niffty, no, we’re — no.”

”Awwww!”

“Oh, boo.” You could hear the shit-eating grin in Angel’s voice. “Can I change my mind? I don’t wanna go anymore.”

“Oh, hush, you.” You waved him off and turned your attention back to Alastor. “Are we done here? I mean, I’d invite you, too, deer, but I wouldn't want you to go.”

A flick of his ears. “I wouldn’t go even if you asked. Wouldn’t want to risk you getting into a situation where you're fighting to control yourself around certain people.”

Your face burned and you lost composure for a second, taking half a step back. The gleam in his eye made you want to throttle him. “Alastor. Sweetheart. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself if I thought you were of that persuasion. But since I am a lady, I’ll simply tell you to ‘piss off.’”

Fuck him yourself, coward~

His brow lowered, as well as the temperature of your immediate surroundings. For a moment you thought you'd finally crossed the line with him. But almost as soon as the darkness crossed his face, it disappeared. “So testy! Well, if you want to go so bad, who am I to stop you? Go and have your fun.”

“Your permission is less than nugatory.”

You motioned for your friends to follow you, not noticing the way Husk and Angel glanced between you and Alastor before following you towards the door.

“Bye, Alastor!” Niffty called out before scrambling after the three of you.

Alastor watched you retreat, chatting away as if he hadn’t stopped you at all. You didn’t look back to shoot him a smug look. As if he no longer existed to you.

The restaurant was a cozy hole-in-the-wall that cost you two arms and both legs, but you were in a good mood and feeling generous. You paid the cab driver and tipped him by gladly handing over your new VoxTek phone.

The four of you ate an indulgent meal of fruit, omelets, bacon, French toast, and more as the drinks flowed as well as the conversation. At your discretion, you regaled them by reading over the more ridiculous parts of the contract, laughing at the absurd terms and conditions.

“Okay, okay, listen to this part.” You cleared your throat. “‘Upon signing, individuals agree that, under no circumstances, bathroom breaks will not exceed more than six consecutive minutes. Violating this clause is punishable by firing in the form of termination or squad, which will be determined at the moment of misfeasance.”

”Jesus Christ!” Husk looked at Angel. “That shit in your contract, too?”

Angel shook his head, sipping ‌his umpteenth mimosa. “Nah, bet you anything he threw it in there to make sure she’s paying attention, see how gullible she is.”

”That old chestnut,” you mused. “Can’t say I haven’t done something similar, but nothing this… intense. Hell, I go as far as to give my employees paid paternal leave. I’m a goddamn saint.”

”Paternal leave? Oh, shit! The Hellborn.”

You nodded. Snapping your fingers, the contract vanished from sight. “There are seventeen clauses in there exactly like that one that I found on my own. The gal who goes over my contracts is thorough; she’ll find all the bullshit and we’ll strike it out before I sign it and slip it back to Vox.”

“Speaking of slipping it to Vox…”

Husk massaged his temples. “Can we… not?”

“When you say it like that, it implies I pegged him, Angel.” You bit your lip in thought. “Actually—”

“Oh, no. Look at that.” Husk turned his mug over, pouring precious Bloody Mary onto his plate. “What an accident. I’ll go get the waiter.”

He flounced from the table. Niffty didn’t wait a second before digging into his disgusting slop, the drink turning half-eaten pancakes and eggs into an abominable claylike concoction.

Angel looked about as disgusted as you did. “Anyway… how was fucking the flat-faced fuck? He at least show you a good time for the trouble he is?”

“‘Good’ is the keyword here. Very, very good, but the man doesn’t know how to slow down and savor things. Almost killed the mood, quite frankly.”

You polished off your drink with an over-dramatic flourish. “Pretty sure he screwed me out of this weird sense that Alastor would give one iota of a fuck and… I don’t know, be bothered with it?” Sighing, you poured yourself another mimosa. “Can you say ‘petty bullshit?’”

Husk returned with half a roll of paper towels, only to see Niffty created a bigger mess than the one he left. He tossed it behind him, the situation not worth bothering with, and sat on the other side of the table, closer to Angel Dust, before claiming the Bloody Mary pitcher for himself.

Angel’s eyes, softened with fondness, tracked Husk before they turned back to you. “Funny how you were waxing all poetic about how much you were in love with Alastor last night and then you go and bang the guy he hates with a burning passion.”

Niffty looked up from her sculpture. “You’re in love with Alastor?”

Who set your face on fire? “I thought you knew.”

“Why would she know?” Husk asked.

You shattered the champagne flute in your hand. “She shouldn’t — she doesn’t! Jesus wept — Look! Alastor does not care about me—he doesn’t even like me, really. If I lived my afterlife like he’s a factor, I’d be miserable.”

Grabbing a napkin, you wiped up the mimosa and blood on your hand. Your heart decided to tap dance at prestissimo. No, no, no. You did not love Alastor. You couldn’t! You couldn’t. Not in any meaningful way. Not like how you loved your friends. Not like how you loved him, the one person on earth who cared about you.

Forget how Alastor treated you like a joke — you knew firsthand how you could love someone who treated you like shit. How could you meaningfully love someone who would never let you get to know them? Who would never be with you?

Despite this — despite knowing better — you had kept the antlers Niffty gifted you.

The box Alastor gave you from her that day at Rosie’s shop held Alastor’s shed antlers, bigger than the prongs atop his head. Under your fingers they felt smooth yet textured, like someone froze a running river, the surface decorated with subtle bumps, ridges, and shallow grooves. You hung them on the wall above your radio.

You shouldn’t have kept them. It was pathetic. Creepy. Full on stalker behavior — a gateway into making an Alastor shrine like some kind of unhinged fanatic, but the thought of getting rid of them made the nerves in your neck flare to attention and choke you with longing. It was a small piece of him you needed to have and keep close. It was the only piece of him you could cherish.

It made your heart sing.

But like hell you’d admit to that. You weren’t drunk enough.

Angel with his knowing smirk glanced back at the ex-overlord. “Husk, chime in on this. You’ve known Freaky Face for a long time.”

“Don’t remind me.” A disgruntled sigh as he put the pitcher down. “Tem, I wouldn’t say he doesn’t like you. At least, he likes you enough to let you get away with mouthing off.”

Before Angel could say anything, Husk shoved the celery stalk from the pitcher and shoved it into Angel’s mouth. When Angel waggled his brows, Husk pushed his chair away with a chuckle, soft and warm.

“All I’m saying is that if anyone talked to him the way you do, they wouldn’t walk away from that conversation in one piece.”

Angel bit off a piece of celery. “See?! That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

“It counts for dick! Harming me will put the kibosh on whatever plans he’s got going on with Charlie, at least for a while, anyway. I’m not worth it.”

The moment those dreaded words came out, you chased it down with another mimosa to get the taste out of your mouth. It didn’t work.

“Besides… he’s a total ass when we’re alone.”

“When have you two been alone?”

If your foot were any more in your mouth, it'd be coming out of your ass to kick it.

You dropped your head on the table and groaned. The knot in your stomach snapped and unraveled, the threads and fibers shedding from the main body of anxiety and entering your bloodstream.

“Alastor thinks you’re pretty.”

Your head popped up to look at Niffty. “Pretty what?” You asked. “Pathetic? Stupid? Easy to mess with?”

A quick shake of her head as she stuck bacon strips into her scuplter to give it legs. “No, just pretty. He likes your tail.”

Unprompted, your tail swished behind you. You stared at Niffty, already reabsorbed into her art project. Did she say that? Did you hallucinate the last few seconds? Was she making a giant roach sculpture?

Angel grinned. “Freaky Face likes your tail.”

You scoffed. You were too old to let that make you feel like a flustered ingénue. “W-whatever. I'm sure to him it looks like a meat skewer.”

“Now you're being ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous if you think that means anything. So what if he thinks I'm… ‘pretty’. Seriously, look at me.”

You motioned to your body as if it were obvious. And it was. You weren't a dish; you were a full-course meal. Angel nodded, conceding ‌your point.

“Besides,” you continued, “that wouldn’t mean anything. I think Husk is fine like top-shelf wine, but my horny ass has never once tried to bag him in the last fifty years.”

Husk spat out his drink mid-swallow, nearly hitting a passing waiter. “Excuse me?!”

“You’re excused, darling.”

Angel laughed in disbelief. “You never once tried to hit this?” He motioned to an irritated Husk, ready to pop a blood vessel. “Seriously?”

“I don’t fight losing battles; I’m not his type… kitty likes to climb.”

“Tem if you don’t shut the fuck up — ”

Needless to say, you didn’t shut the fuck up.

The hotel was in the final week of preparation for what Charlie decided to call “The Showcase for Salvation.” A name about as laughable as the Happy Hotel.

Nevertheless, excitement charged the air. The talents were ready, the stage set. The musicians rehearsed and re-rehearsed on the stage, sharing it with the players of your theater for the showcase's grand finale. You’d spent your time split between your time overseeing the rehearsals at your theater and at the hotel.

And every day you spent working at the Hotel, Alastor watched you receive another gift from Vox.

First came a barge of useless VoxTek gadgets and paraphernalia that would serve better being set to a landfill. It was a small consolation that you were less than impressed by his extravagant gifts. You wasted no time letting hotel residents take their pick of the gewgaws, and they wasted no time descending on it like vultures to a carcass.

Then arrived that tacky outfit you wore the day you swept Angel and his staff to brunch. Alastor overheard you tell Angel you had it dry-cleaned and sent back. Classic Vox, “no” wasn’t in his vocabulary, not when out of someone else’s mouth.

These “gifts” weren’t for you; rather, they weren't about you. Not entirely anyway. But you were a smart woman; paltry displays of love bombing had no effect on you.

The day before the concert came and so far, no unwanted gifts had been delivered to the hotel. Unfortunately, Alastor found you in the presence of another annoyance.

You and Lucifer sat in the lounge’s spacious couch, unable to agree on the set list. Tapping a pen to your chin, you drummed your fingers on the clipboard as you mulled over Lucifer’s suggestion. “Well, I suppose that could work. But wouldn't the night leave a bigger impression if it ended with a bang?”

“I suppose you have quite a lot of experience with that.”

Rather comically, you jumped out of your skin before facing him behind you. Your eyes flicked to his antlers yet again, that charming tail swishing behind you. Alastor hardly noticed Lucifer's sardonic, “Oh joy, it’s you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I'm assuming you're referring to my musicals?”

“What else would I be referring to?”

Your ears twitched. “Do you need something, or are you looking to cause headaches?”

“He’s quite capable of both,” Lucifer quipped.

You giggled, genuine, not like the forced ones he saw you perform on television. Behind Alastor’s back, his fist clenched tighter around his cane, claws digging into his palm.

“As a matter of fact, I figured I'd throw my hat into the ring with a suggestion, since the two of you couldn't come to an agreement.” He swiped your clipboard and scribbled down his suggestions before handing it back to you. “Arranged this way, you end on a big note but save your most energetic piece for the middle. Fewer people are likely to have walked out by then.”

You pursed your lips and nodded, some of your hostility melting away. “No, that’s perfect, actually.”

“A good idea?” Lucifer added needlessly. “You feeling alright, Bambi?”

Again, you giggled. It was getting rather tiresome at this point. “The deer from that Salten book?”

“... who?”

That’s enough Lu for one day.

Alastor’s shadow took the clipboard from your hand and placed it into Lucifer’s hands. “Why don’t you run this to our girl Charlie, Your Highness? I’m sure she would love to see your contribution.”

The short nuisance glared up at Alastor. “I will! But not because you told me to.”

He poofed away in a burst of red clouds, leaving a duck where he once sat. You took it, inspecting it with interest. “You think I can keep this?”

“I wouldn't.”

You slipped the vinyl figure into your pants pocket. “You two are funny. You’d probably get along if you two weren’t at each other’s throats all the time.”

“I’m doubtful.”

“Sure I have my problems with him as a ruler, but he’s not that bad once you get to know him a little.”

Alastor’s eyes twitched against his will. He took a seat in the plush chair across from you. “You're getting awfully chummy with the king.”

“By ‘chummy’ do you mean being ‘polite and friendly’ with a man I'm working with? Then yes, I’m downright gregarious.”

“Would explain your behavior with Vox the other night.”

A flippant wave of your hand. “Oh, you know how that is, playing it up for — wait.” You sat forward, tail swishing behind you. Curious. Hopeful.“ You watched the show?”

Alastor took an interest in inspecting his nails over looking you in the eye. “Not by my own free will, of course. Charlie was rather insistent we all watch to see you and Angel Dust. By the by, your dress? Positively hideous! You looked quite awful.”

You barked genuine laughter, the first he’d cause in a while. “Had I known you’d be watching, I would’ve been a bit more professional.” You had meant it. You didn’t regret sleeping with Vox but you didn’t enjoy how clearly uncomfortable he looked.

“Not that I care at all, dear. I simply… expected better of you.”

The words halted you, punching a pit into your gut. “Excuse me?”

“You're excused, doll.”

That smug fuck! What little pleasantry you had quickly vanished.

“I'm sorry you're so puritanical that knowing whose dick has been inside me makes you feel that way. Is that why you came over here? To shame my sexuality? You can't be that bored.”

Brow furrowed, he corrected you. “I stopped by to check on your progress since it is my job. I'm not at all interested in your inability to have a relationship with a man that isn't based on your sexual proclivities and lack of restraint.”

This petty little bitch needed to let that go…

So what if in an altered state you confessed that he was the only man you deemed worthy to sleep with? Like that meant anything! It was probably because he’s the strongest sinner in hell and your dumb animal saw that as the most important factor. It had nothing to do with feelings.

It had everything to do with feelings…

Maybe it was because no one annoyed you as much as he did. No one else crawled under your skin so deep they made a home in your bones. No one else could unfurl parts of you with a tilt of his head and a glance. No one else made you want to horde parts of him you shouldn't keep. And no one else has ever made you want to…

So he thinks you see him as an unattainable conquest? That's fine. It's fine. You’re fine. Betterhe thinks that than know the truth.

Still, having all your interactions boiled down to your libido insulted you terribly. You had to deal with this maturely. Demurely. Like a lady.

“Eat dirt and die, trash.”

He chuckled, delighted. “Oh my! Such eloquence. Although I suppose that’s what I should come to expect with you, no more, no less.”

“I use my ‘A’ material on people who deserve it.”

Well, this all went to shit in a shit basket. Pulling out your phone, you opened the application Angel helped you set up to check your to-do list and checked off a few items. At least you could feel accomplished while being irritated.

“What the fuck is that?”

Without even so much as a glance at him, you said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I had Angel set me up with someone who could… hack the mainframe?”

“Your ignorance is simply — ” aggravating, adorable “ — outstanding.”

“Whatever it’s called, it's not recording me anymore, so— ”

All at once, Alastor's shadow slithered up behind you on the couch. Smirking like a brat, you wagged your finger at him. “Ah, ah, ah~”

You tugged your shirt open and dropped the device straight into your cleavage.

That frazzled him good, his hair stood on end like a startled cat. He recoiled. Good.

“Forgive me for taking such drastic measures,” you said with faux sympathy, “but I know you have no trouble getting into my pants.”

The room grew cold around the two of you. “Were you raised on a farm? Perhaps with the bitches?”

“Eat me!”

“A tempting offer!”

“Hey, Tem!” Angel called from somewhere beside you, cutting the tension. “Quit flirting with Smiles, there’s a dilf asking bout ya.”

You pulled your attention away, and Alastor noticed how your face instantly fell when you saw the sinner in question, melting into shock and awe.

“Rancor?” Your voice never sounded softer, the lilt of your rarely present accent slipping in.

The man, mauve and hare-like, wore a wide-brimmed hat and held a bouquet of unnaturally blue roses. “Merity,” he said, accent stronger than yours, “it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He extended the garish flowers out to you. “They're not from me, but a delivery man asked me to 'do him a solid.' Heh, never heard it phrased that way.”

Alastor forgotten, you leapt from the couch, discarding the flower onto his lap. Taking the sinner's hands in yours, you beamed with warmth Alastor had never seen in your eyes before. Relief and joy radiated from you in repugnant waves.

”It’s so good to see you! What are you doing here?”

Angel, who’d been watching the entire time, smirked. “Are you two—”

“Angel!” You snipped, already knowing where he was going with this. “No! God no! Rancor is… an old friend.”

”He that husband you were telling me about?”

Whatever was said after that fell on deaf ears as Alastor looked between the two of you. The moment Angel uttered that word, he recalled something he hadn’t thought about in nearly a century. Something that, at the time, hadn’t interested him, and something you didn’t volunteer to share the night you two met: the tan line on your ring finger.

A/N: That pants bit references chapter 7 from May of last year, does anyone even remember that? Alastor grabbed Tem’s phone right out of her pants pocket. I never know what to keep vague and what to go over so y’all aren’t lost. I don’t want to spoonfeed you but I don’t want to be too cryptic. (Sidenote there’s so many references to other shows, movies, and songs in this story. Almost every chapter references lines in songs if they aren’t a reference to a saying or idiom. Maybe when I finish the story I’ll add a chapter going over all of them and explaining my inspirations just for fun) Either way I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s long as hell!

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[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 14 - The Calm Before the Flames ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

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A/N: Chapter 15 was originally part of this one, but I felt like splitting it would work better. Chapter 15 should be done later tonight or sometime tomorrow. There's a long ass note at the end of the story.

It was days after your "incident" before he was able to see you again.

You had fallen, so the story went, so lost in thought you hadn’t noticed the bluff in the woods. You, the girl with your guard up day in and day out because the She-Devil who birthed you never gave you a moment's rest. Bullshit.

None of the help, coloured or otherwise, believed it, of course, not like she cared. They were disposable, their opinions inconsequential and nugatory.

To anyone outside the manor, it would seem as though your mother was merely keeping you humble, as if cramming the heavenly virtues into your developing mind wouldn’t have the vices spilling out of you sevenfold.

Depicting you as flighty and muddle-headed, downplaying your acumen, your wit? Another abusive tactic, more invisible than the other you suffered at her hand. She preferred to keep that hidden behind clothes, makeup, and locked doors.

But this time she'd hurt you in a way that couldn't be hidden.

What had you done to earn her wrath this time? Go out without a footman attending your carriage? Read an improper book? Pass flatulence at an inopportune time?

Creaking the door to your room open, he saw you sitting in your Bath chair, your bright eyes staring at nothing through the window, dull and hopelessly flat, devoid of the usual mirth. Often your parents kept you inside, afraid any drop of sun on you would reveal her sin.

Your long dark hair was pulled into a tight, painful braid, all the curls long since burned away with the heat of a hot comb. A quilted blanket over your lap hid your battered legs.

He spoke your name. You jumped, swiveling your chair to face him. He fought the urge to look away. You resembled her far too much for his liking, but your smile was kind, even when tempered with the anguish she inflicted on you.

His heart broke for you all over again.

“Your mother has called to bring you to the theatre. I’m here to help escort you downstairs.”

“The theatre!” Your eyes — his mother’s eyes — lit up. “Do you know what we’ll be seeing?”

“I believe she said it’s a Doll’s House, Miss.”

“How exciting! This must mean my legs are healing, if Mother is willing to let me out…”

You trailed off, a startling look of concern on your weary face. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Silent tears fell down his face as he stared at you. His. She kept you, selfishly hoarded you, only to treat you worse than a rented mule. She could’ve given you to the people who would’ve protected you. Who would’ve loved you no matter the hardships. People who would’ve let you dance in the sun and let it kiss your skin. He could’ve fought for you, his feelings be damned. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had your mind and body broken by someone who was supposed to cherish and protect you.

He fell to his knees at the wheel of your chair, head lowered in shame.

You touched his shoulder. Trying to comfort him. “Ï̷̱̹̗̈́̀ɿ̶̺̣̈́͜ɒ̶̨͎̩̋̅̽, please don’t cry…. It’ll be okay.”

“She hurt you.”

“I fell — ”

“She’s been hurting you.”

“I-I misbehave!” A lie they convinced you of. “I-I shouldn’t have ran off into the woods.”

“It’s nothing you’ve done.”

He looked up at you; the loving eyes of his mother on the face of the woman he despised. But when he looked for you, searched for you through the ugliness of it all, there you were. Sabbath’s Daughter.

“You don’t make her do anything she don't want to do. If you do one thing for the rest of your life, let it be you never let her convince you that you deserved any of this.”

Watery eyes drifted to your blanketed legs. “Then why does she do it? Why does she hate me?”

He made the biggest mistake of his life that day. He told you everything.

You were too young to know the truth of it, no older than him when he faced it all. You left for the theater in a daze and returned looking like a woman twice your age. A woman full of Satan’s Wrath. And when you decided to unleash that wrath on the people who deserved it most, he helped you. Not for you, but for his selfish, selfish desire for revenge. Revenge he only had the courage to do when he saw your determination.

And for that, he damned you more than they ever did. He damned you to a shortened life, a lonely life. He damned you to Hell.

By either a stroke of luck or a mercy from heaven, he lived another fifty years after you died, not that he knew it at the time. The night of the manor fire was the last time he’d seen you on Earth. He got to start over, settle down, raise a proper family, find happiness. He lived a full life while yours got cut short. And while you never told him how you passed, he could tell it darkened your soul.

In the end, he wasn’t any better than them. The weight of his guilt alone dragged him to Hell.

A/N: Man… season two has made me readjust my plans for the rest of the story. Some things I can keep. Some things are really similar to things that have already happened, which is crazy cuz all my bingo predictions are trash but my fanfic plot points from early 2024 are eerily similar, like okay? There’s one thing I have to drop entirely because of episode 4, but so far I haven’t had to change much. The story was already including way more Vox than I originally anticipated before season two started. There are aspects of this season that I’ll pepper in and allude to moving forward, but as of now we’re vaguely in a post-season one timeline. Don’t worry about, it’s fine (I say to myself)

Anyway, I meant to ask this last time, but would anyone want the sex scene between Tem and Vox? I cut it out because I felt like the details weren’t important and I didn’t really tag this story to be a weird love triangle cuz I didn’t anticipate doing that at the start and didn’t want to blindside people who were here for that. But if some of y'all do, let me know. It’ll take a while, but it’ll be good practice for the smut that comes later.

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If season 2 contradicts anything in the outline for BaU, I’m gonna flip the fuck out, dude

[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 13 - Lying in the Bed You Made ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

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Leave it to Alastor to put you in a position that both humiliated and benefited you. That wonderful, wonderful bastard.

Velvette’s fashion unveiling was a real who’s who of the Pride Ring. Many Overlords, old and new, walked down the electric blue carpet. Even a few Ars Goetia attended; a testament to the Vee’s ever-expanding influence.

And every outfit was as dazzling as the guest who wore it. Your dress, while not your style, was a gorgeous work of art you couldn’t help but admire, and judging by the gasps you heard while passing by, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

Your main complaint: the cameras in your face left a small yet familiar knot in your stomach, the flash burning your eyes. Cameras equaled exploitation for you.

Not that you’d let all of Hell see you sweat, of course. You put on your best Alastor impression and kept a permanent smile on your face as interviewers asked a million questions, most of them more insipid than the last.

“What does a partnership with VoxTech look like for you?”

“Is it true you’re fucking Vox?”

“Do you have an OnlyVans?”

“Who are you again?”

Finally, you got to talk about the Hazbin Hotel and your own ventures before Vox ushered you into the open floor venue and away from the harsh lights. Vox muttered in your ear what an excellent job you did on the blue carpet, his tone akin to that of a parent or pet owner, the condescension hard to miss. Before you could get a word in edgewise, he left to handle something or other behind the scenes.

You took the opportunity to schmooze, socializing and networking to your heart's content. A rare lesson from your father: people love to talk about themselves. It puts them in a good mood. Get them to associate that feeling with you, and you make them more malleable in the future.

This, however, was a double-edged sword. For every amiable conversation, there was one that made you want to go buck wild but with a fillet knife just to end your misery.

Case in point: you ended up in a conversation with Katie Killjoy, stuck listening to her prattle on about the… the gay angina or something? Honestly, you got distracted thinking about knives.

“...aaaaand if they try and convince you there are more than two genders,” she slurred, full of unearned bravado, “they’re either liars or queersexuals!”

You languidly twirled your champagne around in its flute. “Wow, Katie. That…that is certainly—” You glanced behind her and saw your ticket out of the conversation. “Is that the Angel Dust? I need to… condemn his life choices. Toodle-oo, darling.”

You fled, already halfway to Angel before she called out, “Don’t let him get the gay on you!”

Angel’s crowd of fans dispersed with their autographs as you approached with a pained smile. “Save me. I escaped a ten-minute soliloquy from Katie Killjoy.”

“She can’t be that bad.” He blinked. “On second thought—“

“Every time I meet her at a party or an event, she goes on these draining rants about ‘the gays’ — I get it, Katie! You want to overcompensate because we snogged at Tom Trench’s birthday party like twenty years ago. No one’s thinking about that shit but you.”

Angel spat his drink out onto a poor cater-waiter passing by with hors d’oeuvres. “You two did what?“

A dismissive wave of your hand “What? I was drunk. She was drunker. Why does anyone snog anybody?” You sipped your champagne, dry but sweet.

“I didn’t know you swung both ways, toots.”

You shrugged. “When the mood strikes. That’s how I lost my…” You snapped your fingers, trying to recall the word. “What do people call it now? Their V-card?”

“Yeeeah, Tem. That’s what people call it. Thirty years ago.”

You playfully smacked his arm. “Oh, eat me!”

“Hey, now! I don't swing that way.”

The night moved on, and soon announcements called for everyone to take their seats. Your table in particular was smaller than the others, with there being only enough room for you, Angel, Vox, and Valentino. Vox made a show of pulling out your chair and guiding you into it, his claws digging deliciously into your shoulders.

You had to contend with the one thing you hated at these modern soirees: the micro-dick portions of food that ran on the bland side. Mammon and Beelzebub would not be impressed. But you ate your meal for ants as the lights dimmed and the models strutted across the stage, displaying Velvette’s unique designs. Nothing you’d wear when subjecting yourself to modern fashion, but they had their own charm you supposed even if some were far too busy for your taste.

This evening would almost be enjoyable… if Valentino wasn’t pointing at every single model on the catwalk to brag to you about screwing them.

“Fucked her, fucked him, I fucked them, I fucked him. Ooh! Her I fucked twice. I fucked—“

“I think she gets it, Val,” Vox, interjected, an annoyed edge in his voice. Despite their open relationship, Vox seemed vexed about his partner’s sexual tryst. He’d hardly acknowledged Angel’s presence the entire night.

Valentino reached across the table to pinch Vox on his monitor where his cheek would be. “I’m just making conversation. Don’t get jealous, papi. Besides, she likes it.”

Don’t throw up, you need the alcohol to get into your bloodstream…

You poured wine into your mouth to stop the vitriol you wanted to pour out of it. Lucky for you, it wouldn’t interfere with the heat suppressants you popped before leaving your house. No way you’d let that winged fuck do that to you again. If you got horny tonight, it would be because you were a slut, pure and simple.

Valentino turned attention back to you, somehow still under the impression you wanted to talk to him. “You won’t tell Velvette I fucked her models, won’t you?” He winked. “She haaaates when I even look at them.”

He winked at you. You chuckled and stabbed a fork into the back of your hand under the table to keep yourself in check.

“Val, trust me,” Angel said, eyes on his phone, “Velvette already knows. You’re not exactly subtle about—“

Angel winced, cutting himself off. You knew instinctively Valentino squeezed Angel’s thigh to get him to stop talking. Once, that had been Roman’s hand on your thigh, squeezing so hard you still felt the bruises.

You bent the fork at the neck so hard it snapped in two. Jagged metal clawed into the flesh of your thumb. The pain helped snap you out of your more violent thoughts.

You smiled a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and dabbed at your bloody thumb with a napkin under the table. “I’ll keep mum about it. I have plenty of my own sexual conquests, I don’t need to speak of yours.”

As you figured, you pulled his attention off Angel and back onto you. As much as you hated him looking in your general direction, you hated how he treated your friend even more.

“Well? Don’t keep the table waiting,” Valentino said. “I’m sure we’re all dying to hear about your exploits.”

“Goodness, Valentino!” You said in faux shock, keeping your tone light and playful. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.“

Angel’s eye roll was audible from across the table. You shot him a quick look. “I’d sooner tell you my age—”

Angel chuckled. “Bitch, you’re thirty-four!”

“Haha.” You flicked the broken fork at him. “Fuck you very much.”

He caught the projectile and the two of you laughed. A small wisp of relief breezed past as you felt the conversation at the table would finally move on.

And it did.

But for the worst.

Valentino looked at you for far too long, like he was seeing you for the first time. His sickly grin turned your stomach. ”I knew I recognized you, mapachito. It threw me off, seeing a Terpsichorus Girl with all her clothes on.”

Your heart turned to stone and it fell out of your ass. The strident pop song the models strutted to faded away and left you with a hollow, deafening ringing in your ears.

He knew. Of course, he knew. How the fuck did this degenerate fuck know? You destroyed every drop of evidence with the stroke of a match.

Didn’t you?

A glance around the table. Angel clearly had no clue what he was talking about. But Vox had his attention on his phone. He has to know, too, otherwise he would’ve reacted.

“Wow, Valentino,” you forced yourself to say. “Roman was a little before your time. How do you know about… that?”

“I'm not just a pretty face, you know. I do my research.”

“I do your research,” Vox corrected.

“You know what I meant, papito.”

That confirmed your suspicions. Of course, you suspected Vox would look into you, but you’d been so careful when erasing your past. You did everything short of slaughtering everyone involved.

(Okay, you did a little slaughtering, but that was as a treat solely practical.)

Your stomach turned. Scream. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab the candle on the table and burn this entire place to the fucking ground like you did to Roman’s estate.

But tomorrow you’d wake up and feel silly for overreacting.

“I have to say,” you said, nails digging into the meat of your palm, “that’s certainly impressive.”

“It was a necessity, dear,” Vox said. “Your former employer paved the way for Val’s industry to thrive. I make it my business to know everything pertaining to our ventures.”

Vox’s hand crawled onto your thigh, and your breath hitched ever so slightly. You caught the corner of his lip quirk upright when you didn’t push him away, and he squeezed, satisfied.

“It’s a pity the Radio Demon took him out," Valentino said wistfully. “I would’ve loved to have met the man. He was a genius.”

Christ on a crust-covered cock, this alcohol better hold out…

“Genius is a little generous,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Roman wasn’t strategic when it came to his success. He took a more of a ‘throw everything and everyone at the wall and see what sticks’ brute force kind of approach. He wouldn’t take the time to research… anything.”

You should’ve let it go, giggled, and drank your watered-down alcohol. You couldn’t. You couldn’t stomach him praising the man who made you his little dancing pet. The man who hit you and used you and berated you and debased you and mocked you and

When the beat of silence stretched on a little too long, you added, “Not everyone in Hell is as savvy as the Vees, of course. If he were, he could've avoided his fate.”

Vox’s penchant for praise scored you a few points, judging by how his hand on your thigh inched higher and squeezed a little tighter.

Valentino rambled on, “He did run shit so aggressively heterosexual. Why limit your audience and clientele?”

“You know, that was always my main complaint.” Your voice was dry as cheap vermouth you sipped on.

“And docking your tails?” He tsked as if talking about a misbehaving child and not the unrepentant monster who dismembered you over and over. “I’m sure you know having a tail is quite the turn on for many—“

“Roman was shortsighted; he thought tails would unsettle the freshly dead sinners.” You polished off your drink before placing it back on the table with a little too much force. You smiled, bright and sunny and fake. “I would love to get into a historical discussion about the shifting beauty standards of Hell over the centuries, but I need to grab a smoke. Won’t be but a minute, darlings.”

You took your sweet time walking out of the venue– running would be rather suspicious. On your way out you snagged two flutes of whatever from a cater-waiter’s tray and downed them before you even hit the door.

Exiting into the back lot, sulfur and blood hit you like a wave of fresh air. Letting the glasses shatter on the ground, you leaned against the wall, wishing Velvette deemed a purse or a clutch to be an acceptable accessory. You dug in between your breasts, hoping you remembered to sneak a cigarette in your bra. No dice.

You pulled your hand from your cleavage and locked eyes with one of the Vee’s employees, kept out back to do grunt work. He gripped the handle of his cart and leered at you, mouth agape and drooling.

You placed a hand on your hip, eyes narrowed with contempt. “Hold your breath if you’re hoping for a show.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scoffed. “I’m not the one juggling her tits in public.”

“No, but you are the one who’ll be emasculated if you don’t leave ten seconds ago.”

Face scrunched in thought (which seemed like hard work for him), he glanced away for a moment before looking back at you. “Figuratively or literally?“

“Yes.”

He either got the message or decided you weren’t worth his time as he grumbled under his breath and walked away, pushing his cart along. Bullying those who hardly transgressed wasn’t your style, but you were in no mood to be gawked at by mouth-breathing men. Man. He was only one man, not a horde of—

A cigarette danced in your peripheral. “I saw you rummaging for a lung dart in your tits, toots,” Angel said, waggling the precious cylinder. “I got ya covered.”

A sigh of relief. “Thanks, Angel.” You accepted and placed it between your lips.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited.” He held a lighter to light the cig for you.” It’s my last one, so we gotta share.”

You took a deep drag of sweet nicotine, those sweet, acrid fumes coating your tongue and filling your lungs. Exhaling, you handed it back to him so he could do the same. The two of you leave back against the wall, Angel’s heel kicked up against the brick wall.

He blew out a smoke ring and side-eyed you. “How the Hell you plan on getting your knives to emasculate the poor bastard anyhow?”

True, your dress limited your mobility, but you were not without recourse. “Angelic steel underwire in my brassiere."

“Shit, for real?”

“I can call that guy back and show you—”

“No, no. Fuck no.”

“Coward.”

A gentle silence lasted a beat between the two of you before Angel spoke again. “You ran out of there pretty quick.”

“Run? In this dress and these heels?”

“Don’t worry.” He passed the cig back. “Neither of them noticed ya. Val has a bigger head than Vox.”

“Please tell me your twat of a boss doesn’t like me.” You replace the disgust of that sentence with poison.

“He’s totally down for a Devil's Threesome with you and Vox.”

You shuddered. “Nightmare ménage à trois.”

A laugh and another beat of comfortable silence as you handed the cigarette right back. But he didn’t take a drag, his heterochromatic eyes cast down in thought. You watched him for a moment, about to ask him if something was the matter, but he spoke first.

“Hey, feel free to tell me to fuck off with this, but I gotta ask… Did that Roman guy really cut your tail off?”

Oh.

It was your turn to wear the troubled look. You rolled your head back to rest on the wall, unable to look at Angel. “No. He… he made us do it ourselves. Blood grossed him out.”

He handed the cigarette back without looking at you. After a while, he whispered harshly, “Fuck. That’s fucked. Even Val wouldn’t… fuck.”

“Darling, let's not compare asshole apples to douchebag oranges. They're both ripe shite. I was lucky I could still balance after that — that I didn’t end up falling over and splitting my skull onstage.”

“Did he ever…”

He didn’t say it, but you knew what he was asking. A pregnant pause as you finished off the smoke and flicked the butt in the ground.

“He tried. He fucking tried.” You stubbed out the cigarette with a little too much force. “He’d set me up with a John, but every time I'd kill them. Roman didn't care. He already had the money. He spread this rumor that fucking me was so good it would double kill a man. That enticed worse men to try their luck.”

You’re not quite sure what possessed you to share more than what Angel Dust asked for, but it felt… nice to say it out loud and get it out of you. You’ve never even told Rosie about that. But Angel was different, he was where you used to be, where you thought you’d exist for eternity or until your luck ran out. He understood, more than anyone you knew.

“Goddamn, toots. So what? Alastor killed the bastard for ya?”

You scoffed. “That man wouldn’t do shit for me. He killed Roman for himself. I just happened to get out in one piece when he collapsed the entire fucking theater. I had to use a leg to move the rubble off me like a hoe. An actual garden hoe not a… ah, you get it.”

Angel snickered, earning passing looks from people who went back and forth behind the scenes. A soft smile graced your face without you realizing.

“You know,” you said, “it’s dumb, but even though he didn't do it for me, I've always been grateful to him for what he did. He liberated me without even trying, broke me out of the self-defeating rut I was in. Sure, he’s terrifying but he’s also incredible. His power— his freedom. I was struck by the thunderbolt the moment I saw him.”

“Wow, Tem. I had no idea you were… so, so down bad.”

“Ha! In a way that’s pathetic and sad and an affront to God. Not to mention nasty.” You chewed on your lip. “So, so nasty. I don’t have to tell you, you’ve seen his tentacles.”

“Kinky.” A wistful sigh wiped away his smirk. “I need me an Alastor to drop a building on Val.”

“No, you be the Alastor you want to see in the world.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Sorry. I've been drinking all night. I want to be drunk.”

“I’m right there with ya.”

Looking at your friend with concern, you asked, “You’re doing alright tonight? Valentino isn’t being… too much?”

Angel shook his head a little too quickly, and you caught the slight tensing of his shoulders. “Nah… he’s been fine tonight. I think he’s on better behavior since you’re around.”

You’d stomach more nights around that shitstain if Angel could get a break every now and then. If Angel wanted to keep things short and to the vest, you’d let him, so long as he knew you were there to listen to him like he was for you.

Nodding, you stood straight and stretched a little. “We should head back soon before our dates think we’ve run off. Want to see who can get the most sloshed before the night is over?”

Angel grinned, showing off his gold tooth. “You know me so well.”

The rest of the night went off without a hitch, although much of it was a blur through the haze of alcohol.

Velvette seemed plenty pleased, confident tonight was a success. How she measured the accomplishments of a fashion show three hours after it ended was beyond you. She yapped about what was trending and memes and other phrases you only halfway recognized.

The five of you left the venue in a limo so long it had a name and a specialized postal code. Velvette’s attention (of course) was on her phone, meanwhile you sat cuddled up to Vox, practically in his lap, the heat from his screen bathing the back of your neck and shoulders.

“I need you back at the tower.” His breath, lacking in any remnants of liquor, tickled against your skin, making you shudder. “To collect your contract of course.”

You hummed in amusement. “Of course, of course. Si tu le dis…”

Val and Angel’s silent argument drew you out of the moment. They bickered back and forth in hushed tones about a picture Angel posted online, Val’s silent beratement making him shrink in on himself.

Your stomach twisted, and through your alcohol-clouded brain, you said the first thing that popped into your head. “You all would not believe what Katie Killjoy said to me tonight!” You made sure to speak loudly, drawing all eyes onto you. “We- we were discussing all of Vellvette’s wonderful designs, of course, and this woman says to me— tell them what I told you Angel.”

You waved at your friend who blinked, surprised to be volunteered to tell your story. Nevertheless, he played along.

“Something about if a man had been in charge of all our clothes, this whole building would be converted to nothing but homosexuals.”

Vox shook his head in disbelief while Valentino chuckled. Even Velvette looked up from her phone to react to what Angel said.

“For a news anchor, she’s dreadfully out of the loop,” you said.

“That woman, I swear to god…” Vox said exasperated, hand sliding down his monitor. “She’s lucky her face pulls in views.”

You laughed in disbelief, relieved the subject between Angel and Valentino changed, the two now snogging. You couldn’t help but throw in, “Don’t get too carried away, you two. Angel has rehearsals tomorrow, he needs his beauty rest— you know how it is, Valentino. I don’t need to explain things to you.”

Valentino sputtered and conceded, albeit reluctantly. You hated that he liked you but maybe it had its benefits. Angel winked at you and you read it as a thanks. The two went back to kissing; Velvette threw a spare phone out of hammerspace at Valentino, knocking his hat off and shouting for them to knock it off.

No one could hear the soft gasp you let out as Vox dug those claws into the meat of your exposed hip. He wanted your attention on him and he got it.

Glancing behind you, eyes lidded, you whispered, “Yes?” drawing the word out, your voice dipping an octave.

His hand gripped you tighter, thumb caressing exposed thigh as he looked at you with ardent heat. “Did I mention how stunning you looked tonight?”

“You have, but if you’re wanting to say it some more, you’re quite welcomed to, mon cher.”

It happened so fast– was your mind playing tricks on you? Vox’s eyes flashed with an evanescent something your brain failed to pick up on. For a moment after, he looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was he tucked it away.

The limo dropped Angel off at the hotel, and as you said your goodbyes, you couldn’t help but linger on the lights still on in the radio tower. Did Alastor ever sleep? What did he do all night, up there, alone? Surely he worked on his show, and no doubt, he thought of ways to make others miserable for their own amusement, but that couldn’t last him the entire night. You got the feeling he didn’t sleep.

You caught Vox’s eyes on you, his expression cold and mildly displeased, in stark contrast to his earlier lustful gaze. You made sure to lock eyes with him before moving your attention elsewhere. Whatever that meant was curious but otherwise irrelevant to you.

The limo escorted the four of you back to the V Tower, and Vox guided you to his office. You wished this dress came with a sweater, something warm and classy and Velvette approved. You had a deer fur coat back in your living days. You could wear that thing in a blizzard and still break out in a sweat.

As Vox pulled the contract out of his filing cabinet you looked around to occupy yourself. There was a display case with different models of televisions through the years— it wasn’t hard for you to figure out what they were. Various promotional product posters from the Vees’ joint ventures covered the walls. Behind Vox's desk hung a massive portrait of himself. Not a mood killer at all.

”Well clearly you got the fellatio covered tonight,” you muttered under your breath.

”What was that?”

”Complimenting your interior design, is all. It’s very sleek. Modern.”

“I’ll give you the name of our interior decorator, in case you’re looking to update the look of The Temple.” Vox jogged the papers of the contract together and handed them to you.

You flipped through the pages. You’ve done more deals than you can count; you paid someone to count for you. As per usual in situations like these, the two of you made a sort of pre-deal, ensuring no one party could drag negotiations out ad nauseam.

“I'm sure you want to have one of your people look over this before you sign it, make sure there aren't any hidden clauses.”

A snap of your fingers and the papers vanish. “Vox, darling, you think I don't trust you?”

“I know you're a smart woman, is all. A cautious woman.”

“It’s kept me alive so far.”

Vox stalked towards you, like a shark towards prey. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask about your old stage name. Molly Wood?”

You schooled your features to hide your annoyance. “What can I say? Roman thought he was being clever.”

“So am I right to assume Molly wasn’t your living name?”

“Afraid not. Désolé.”

That wasn’t entirely the case. Roman based that silly name off of your real name, but Molly was never something you went by. Although in hindsight that may have been a mistake, if only because your mother would hate it if people called you Molly instead of the name she gave you. She’d have thrown a wobbler.

Vox chuckled, low in his throat. He placed a finger under your chin, guiding your head to look you dead in the eye. “See? Cautious. Giving me nothing.”

“What makes you think I plan on giving you nothing?”

“Oh?”

You yanked him closer by the lapels of his suit, eager to figure out something you’d always been curious about. Luckily for you, Vox was on the same wavelength, so to speak.

His mouth found yours, just as eager and twice as hungry. Vox lifted you like you weighed next to nothing and placed you on his desk. The two of you blew past the business-appropriate flirting and under the table groping. You’d opened the floodgates with Vox and allowed him to devour you unapologetically that night.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

♥︎Taglist♥︎

@forbidding-souda

@mo-0-o

@yummii13

@the--rebel--fae

@babesway22

@maychay

@mullet-mother

[busines-as-unusual]

For the 5 of you who asked for it.

[busines-as-unusual]

Tem’s dress from Chapter 12

Jeez, I gotta learn how to draw her more consistently…

[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 13 - Lying in the Bed You Made ⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Leave it to Alastor to put you in a position that both humiliated and benefited you. That wonderful, wonderful bastard.

Velvette’s fashion unveiling was a real who’s who of the Pride Ring. Many Overlords, old and new, walked down the electric blue carpet. Even a few Ars Goetia attended; a testament to the Vee’s ever-expanding influence.

And every outfit was as dazzling as the guest who wore it. Your dress, while not your style, was a gorgeous work of art you couldn’t help but admire, and judging by the gasps you heard while passing by, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

Your main complaint: the cameras in your face left a small yet familiar knot in your stomach, the flash burning your eyes. Cameras equaled exploitation for you.

Not that you’d let all of Hell see you sweat, of course. You put on your best Alastor impression and kept a permanent smile on your face as interviewers asked a million questions, most of them more insipid than the last.

“What does a partnership with VoxTech look like for you?”

“Is it true you’re fucking Vox?”

“Do you have an OnlyVans?”

“Who are you again?”

Finally, you got to talk about the Hazbin Hotel and your own ventures before Vox ushered you into the open floor venue and away from the harsh lights. Vox muttered in your ear what an excellent job you did on the blue carpet, his tone akin to that of a parent or pet owner, the condescension hard to miss. Before you could get a word in edgewise, he left to handle something or other behind the scenes.

You took the opportunity to schmooze, socializing and networking to your heart's content. A rare lesson from your father: people love to talk about themselves. It puts them in a good mood. Get them to associate that feeling with you, and you make them more malleable in the future.

This, however, was a double-edged sword. For every amiable conversation, there was one that made you want to go buck wild but with a fillet knife just to end your misery.

Case in point: you ended up in a conversation with Katie Killjoy, stuck listening to her prattle on about the… the gay angina or something? Honestly, you got distracted thinking about knives.

“...aaaaand if they try and convince you there are more than two genders,” she slurred, full of unearned bravado, “they’re either liars or queersexuals!”

You languidly twirled your champagne around in its flute. “Wow, Katie. That…that is certainly—” You glanced behind her and saw your ticket out of the conversation. “Is that the Angel Dust? I need to… condemn his life choices. Toodle-oo, darling.”

You fled, already halfway to Angel before she called out, “Don’t let him get the gay on you!”

Angel’s crowd of fans dispersed with their autographs as you approached with a pained smile. “Save me. I escaped a ten-minute soliloquy from Katie Killjoy.”

“She can’t be that bad.” He blinked. “On second thought—“

“Every time I meet her at a party or an event, she goes on these draining rants about ‘the gays’ — I get it, Katie! You want to overcompensate because we snogged at Tom Trench’s birthday party like twenty years ago. No one’s thinking about that shit but you.”

Angel spat his drink out onto a poor cater-waiter passing by with hors d’oeuvres. “You two did what?“

A dismissive wave of your hand “What? I was drunk. She was drunker. Why does anyone snog anybody?” You sipped your champagne, dry but sweet.

“I didn’t know you swung both ways, toots.”

You shrugged. “When the mood strikes. That’s how I lost my…” You snapped your fingers, trying to recall the word. “What do people call it now? Their V-card?”

“Yeeeah, Tem. That’s what people call it. Thirty years ago.”

You playfully smacked his arm. “Oh, eat me!”

“Hey, now! I don't swing that way.”

The night moved on, and soon announcements called for everyone to take their seats. Your table in particular was smaller than the others, with there being only enough room for you, Angel, Vox, and Valentino. Vox made a show of pulling out your chair and guiding you into it, his claws digging deliciously into your shoulders.

You had to contend with the one thing you hated at these modern soirees: the micro-dick portions of food that ran on the bland side. Mammon and Beelzebub would not be impressed. But you ate your meal for ants as the lights dimmed and the models strutted across the stage, displaying Velvette’s unique designs. Nothing you’d wear when subjecting yourself to modern fashion, but they had their own charm you supposed even if some were far too busy for your taste.

This evening would almost be enjoyable… if Valentino wasn’t pointing at every single model on the catwalk to brag to you about screwing them.

“Fucked her, fucked him, I fucked them, I fucked him. Ooh! Her I fucked twice. I fucked—“

“I think she gets it, Val,” Vox, interjected, an annoyed edge in his voice. Despite their open relationship, Vox seemed vexed about his partner’s sexual tryst. He’d hardly acknowledged Angel’s presence the entire night.

Valentino reached across the table to pinch Vox on his monitor where his cheek would be. “I’m just making conversation. Don’t get jealous, papi. Besides, she likes it.”

Don’t throw up, you need the alcohol to get into your bloodstream…

You poured wine into your mouth to stop the vitriol you wanted to pour out of it. Lucky for you, it wouldn’t interfere with the heat suppressants you popped before leaving your house. No way you’d let that winged fuck do that to you again. If you got horny tonight, it would be because you were a slut, pure and simple.

Valentino turned attention back to you, somehow still under the impression you wanted to talk to him. “You won’t tell Velvette I fucked her models, won’t you?” He winked. “She haaaates when I even look at them.”

He winked at you. You chuckled and stabbed a fork into the back of your hand under the table to keep yourself in check.

“Val, trust me,” Angel said, eyes on his phone, “Velvette already knows. You’re not exactly subtle about—“

Angel winced, cutting himself off. You knew instinctively Valentino squeezed Angel’s thigh to get him to stop talking. Once, that had been Roman’s hand on your thigh, squeezing so hard you still felt the bruises.

You bent the fork at the neck so hard it snapped in two. Jagged metal clawed into the flesh of your thumb. The pain helped snap you out of your more violent thoughts.

You smiled a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and dabbed at your bloody thumb with a napkin under the table. “I’ll keep mum about it. I have plenty of my own sexual conquests, I don’t need to speak of yours.”

As you figured, you pulled his attention off Angel and back onto you. As much as you hated him looking in your general direction, you hated how he treated your friend even more.

“Well? Don’t keep the table waiting,” Valentino said. “I’m sure we’re all dying to hear about your exploits.”

“Goodness, Valentino!” You said in faux shock, keeping your tone light and playful. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.“

Angel’s eye roll was audible from across the table. You shot him a quick look. “I’d sooner tell you my age—”

Angel chuckled. “Bitch, you’re thirty-four!”

“Haha.” You flicked the broken fork at him. “Fuck you very much.”

He caught the projectile and the two of you laughed. A small wisp of relief breezed past as you felt the conversation at the table would finally move on.

And it did.

But for the worst.

Valentino looked at you for far too long, like he was seeing you for the first time. His sickly grin turned your stomach. ”I knew I recognized you, mapachito. It threw me off, seeing a Terpsichorus Girl with all her clothes on.”

Your heart turned to stone and it fell out of your ass. The strident pop song the models strutted to faded away and left you with a hollow, deafening ringing in your ears.

He knew. Of course, he knew. How the fuck did this degenerate fuck know? You destroyed every drop of evidence with the stroke of a match.

Didn’t you?

A glance around the table. Angel clearly had no clue what he was talking about. But Vox had his attention on his phone. He has to know, too, otherwise he would’ve reacted.

“Wow, Valentino,” you forced yourself to say. “Roman was a little before your time. How do you know about… that?”

“I'm not just a pretty face, you know. I do my research.”

“I do your research,” Vox corrected.

“You know what I meant, papito.”

That confirmed your suspicions. Of course, you suspected Vox would look into you, but you’d been so careful when erasing your past. You did everything short of slaughtering everyone involved.

(Okay, you did a little slaughtering, but that was as a treat solely practical.)

Your stomach turned. Scream. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab the candle on the table and burn this entire place to the fucking ground like you did to Roman’s estate.

But tomorrow you’d wake up and feel silly for overreacting.

“I have to say,” you said, nails digging into the meat of your palm, “that’s certainly impressive.”

“It was a necessity, dear,” Vox said. “Your former employer paved the way for Val’s industry to thrive. I make it my business to know everything pertaining to our ventures.”

Vox’s hand crawled onto your thigh, and your breath hitched ever so slightly. You caught the corner of his lip quirk upright when you didn’t push him away, and he squeezed, satisfied.

“It’s a pity the Radio Demon took him out," Valentino said wistfully. “I would’ve loved to have met the man. He was a genius.”

Christ on a crust-covered cock, this alcohol better hold out…

“Genius is a little generous,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Roman wasn’t strategic when it came to his success. He took a more of a ‘throw everything and everyone at the wall and see what sticks’ brute force kind of approach. He wouldn’t take the time to research… anything.”

You should’ve let it go, giggled, and drank your watered-down alcohol. You couldn’t. You couldn’t stomach him praising the man who made you his little dancing pet. The man who hit you and used you and berated you and debased you and mocked you and

When the beat of silence stretched on a little too long, you added, “Not everyone in Hell is as savvy as the Vees, of course. If he were, he could've avoided his fate.”

Vox’s penchant for praise scored you a few points, judging by how his hand on your thigh inched higher and squeezed a little tighter.

Valentino rambled on, “He did run shit so aggressively heterosexual. Why limit your audience and clientele?”

“You know, that was always my main complaint.” Your voice was dry as cheap vermouth you sipped on.

“And docking your tails?” He tsked as if talking about a misbehaving child and not the unrepentant monster who dismembered you over and over. “I’m sure you know having a tail is quite the turn on for many—“

“Roman was shortsighted; he thought tails would unsettle the freshly dead sinners.” You polished off your drink before placing it back on the table with a little too much force. You smiled, bright and sunny and fake. “I would love to get into a historical discussion about the shifting beauty standards of Hell over the centuries, but I need to grab a smoke. Won’t be but a minute, darlings.”

You took your sweet time walking out of the venue– running would be rather suspicious. On your way out you snagged two flutes of whatever from a cater-waiter’s tray and downed them before you even hit the door.

Exiting into the back lot, sulfur and blood hit you like a wave of fresh air. Letting the glasses shatter on the ground, you leaned against the wall, wishing Velvette deemed a purse or a clutch to be an acceptable accessory. You dug in between your breasts, hoping you remembered to sneak a cigarette in your bra. No dice.

You pulled your hand from your cleavage and locked eyes with one of the Vee’s employees, kept out back to do grunt work. He gripped the handle of his cart and leered at you, mouth agape and drooling.

You placed a hand on your hip, eyes narrowed with contempt. “Hold your breath if you’re hoping for a show.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scoffed. “I’m not the one juggling her tits in public.”

“No, but you are the one who’ll be emasculated if you don’t leave ten seconds ago.”

Face scrunched in thought (which seemed like hard work for him), he glanced away for a moment before looking back at you. “Figuratively or literally?“

“Yes.”

He either got the message or decided you weren’t worth his time as he grumbled under his breath and walked away, pushing his cart along. Bullying those who hardly transgressed wasn’t your style, but you were in no mood to be gawked at by mouth-breathing men. Man. He was only one man, not a horde of—

A cigarette danced in your peripheral. “I saw you rummaging for a lung dart in your tits, toots,” Angel said, waggling the precious cylinder. “I got ya covered.”

A sigh of relief. “Thanks, Angel.” You accepted and placed it between your lips.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited.” He held a lighter to light the cig for you.” It’s my last one, so we gotta share.”

You took a deep drag of sweet nicotine, those sweet, acrid fumes coating your tongue and filling your lungs. Exhaling, you handed it back to him so he could do the same. The two of you leave back against the wall, Angel’s heel kicked up against the brick wall.

He blew out a smoke ring and side-eyed you. “How the Hell you plan on getting your knives to emasculate the poor bastard anyhow?”

True, your dress limited your mobility, but you were not without recourse. “Angelic steel underwire in my brassiere."

“Shit, for real?”

“I can call that guy back and show you—”

“No, no. Fuck no.”

“Coward.”

A gentle silence lasted a beat between the two of you before Angel spoke again. “You ran out of there pretty quick.”

“Run? In this dress and these heels?”

“Don’t worry.” He passed the cig back. “Neither of them noticed ya. Val has a bigger head than Vox.”

“Please tell me your twat of a boss doesn’t like me.” You replace the disgust of that sentence with poison.

“He’s totally down for a Devil's Threesome with you and Vox.”

You shuddered. “Nightmare ménage à trois.”

A laugh and another beat of comfortable silence as you handed the cigarette right back. But he didn’t take a drag, his heterochromatic eyes cast down in thought. You watched him for a moment, about to ask him if something was the matter, but he spoke first.

“Hey, feel free to tell me to fuck off with this, but I gotta ask… Did that Roman guy really cut your tail off?”

Oh.

It was your turn to wear the troubled look. You rolled your head back to rest on the wall, unable to look at Angel. “No. He… he made us do it ourselves. Blood grossed him out.”

He handed the cigarette back without looking at you. After a while, he whispered harshly, “Fuck. That’s fucked. Even Val wouldn’t… fuck.”

“Darling, let's not compare asshole apples to douchebag oranges. They're both ripe shite. I was lucky I could still balance after that — that I didn’t end up falling over and splitting my skull onstage.”

“Did he ever…”

He didn’t say it, but you knew what he was asking. A pregnant pause as you finished off the smoke and flicked the butt in the ground.

“He tried. He fucking tried.” You stubbed out the cigarette with a little too much force. “He’d set me up with a John, but every time I'd kill them. Roman didn't care. He already had the money. He spread this rumor that fucking me was so good it would double kill a man. That enticed worse men to try their luck.”

You’re not quite sure what possessed you to share more than what Angel Dust asked for, but it felt… nice to say it out loud and get it out of you. You’ve never even told Rosie about that. But Angel was different, he was where you used to be, where you thought you’d exist for eternity or until your luck ran out. He understood, more than anyone you knew.

“Goddamn, toots. So what? Alastor killed the bastard for ya?”

You scoffed. “That man wouldn’t do shit for me. He killed Roman for himself. I just happened to get out in one piece when he collapsed the entire fucking theater. I had to use a leg to move the rubble off me like a hoe. An actual garden hoe not a… ah, you get it.”

Angel snickered, earning passing looks from people who went back and forth behind the scenes. A soft smile graced your face without you realizing.

“You know,” you said, “it’s dumb, but even though he didn't do it for me, I've always been grateful to him for what he did. He liberated me without even trying, broke me out of the self-defeating rut I was in. Sure, he’s terrifying but he’s also incredible. His power— his freedom. I was struck by the thunderbolt the moment I saw him.”

“Wow, Tem. I had no idea you were… so, so down bad.”

“Ha! In a way that’s pathetic and sad and an affront to God. Not to mention nasty.” You chewed on your lip. “So, so nasty. I don’t have to tell you, you’ve seen his tentacles.”

“Kinky.” A wistful sigh wiped away his smirk. “I need me an Alastor to drop a building on Val.”

“No, you be the Alastor you want to see in the world.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Sorry. I've been drinking all night. I want to be drunk.”

“I’m right there with ya.”

Looking at your friend with concern, you asked, “You’re doing alright tonight? Valentino isn’t being… too much?”

Angel shook his head a little too quickly, and you caught the slight tensing of his shoulders. “Nah… he’s been fine tonight. I think he’s on better behavior since you’re around.”

You’d stomach more nights around that shitstain if Angel could get a break every now and then. If Angel wanted to keep things short and to the vest, you’d let him, so long as he knew you were there to listen to him like he was for you.

Nodding, you stood straight and stretched a little. “We should head back soon before our dates think we’ve run off. Want to see who can get the most sloshed before the night is over?”

Angel grinned, showing off his gold tooth. “You know me so well.”

The rest of the night went off without a hitch, although much of it was a blur through the haze of alcohol.

Velvette seemed plenty pleased, confident tonight was a success. How she measured the accomplishments of a fashion show three hours after it ended was beyond you. She yapped about what was trending and memes and other phrases you only halfway recognized.

The five of you left the venue in a limo so long it had a name and a specialized postal code. Velvette’s attention (of course) was on her phone, meanwhile you sat cuddled up to Vox, practically in his lap, the heat from his screen bathing the back of your neck and shoulders.

“I need you back at the tower.” His breath, lacking in any remnants of liquor, tickled against your skin, making you shudder. “To collect your contract of course.”

You hummed in amusement. “Of course, of course. Si tu le dis…”

Val and Angel’s silent argument drew you out of the moment. They bickered back and forth in hushed tones about a picture Angel posted online, Val’s silent beratement making him shrink in on himself.

Your stomach twisted, and through your alcohol-clouded brain, you said the first thing that popped into your head. “You all would not believe what Katie Killjoy said to me tonight!” You made sure to speak loudly, drawing all eyes onto you. “We- we were discussing all of Vellvette’s wonderful designs, of course, and this woman says to me— tell them what I told you Angel.”

You waved at your friend who blinked, surprised to be volunteered to tell your story. Nevertheless, he played along.

“Something about if a man had been in charge of all our clothes, this whole building would be converted to nothing but homosexuals.”

Vox shook his head in disbelief while Valentino chuckled. Even Velvette looked up from her phone to react to what Angel said.

“For a news anchor, she’s dreadfully out of the loop,” you said.

“That woman, I swear to god…” Vox said exasperated, hand sliding down his monitor. “She’s lucky her face pulls in views.”

You laughed in disbelief, relieved the subject between Angel and Valentino changed, the two now snogging. You couldn’t help but throw in, “Don’t get too carried away, you two. Angel has rehearsals tomorrow, he needs his beauty rest— you know how it is, Valentino. I don’t need to explain things to you.”

Valentino sputtered and conceded, albeit reluctantly. You hated that he liked you but maybe it had its benefits. Angel winked at you and you read it as a thanks. The two went back to kissing; Velvette threw a spare phone out of hammerspace at Valentino, knocking his hat off and shouting for them to knock it off.

No one could hear the soft gasp you let out as Vox dug those claws into the meat of your exposed hip. He wanted your attention on him and he got it.

Glancing behind you, eyes lidded, you whispered, “Yes?” drawing the word out, your voice dipping an octave.

His hand gripped you tighter, thumb caressing exposed thigh as he looked at you with ardent heat. “Did I mention how stunning you looked tonight?”

“You have, but if you’re wanting to say it some more, you’re quite welcomed to, mon cher.”

It happened so fast– was your mind playing tricks on you? Vox’s eyes flashed with an evanescent something your brain failed to pick up on. For a moment after, he looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was he tucked it away.

The limo dropped Angel off at the hotel, and as you said your goodbyes, you couldn’t help but linger on the lights still on in the radio tower. Did Alastor ever sleep? What did he do all night, up there, alone? Surely he worked on his show, and no doubt, he thought of ways to make others miserable for their own amusement, but that couldn’t last him the entire night. You got the feeling he didn’t sleep.

You caught Vox’s eyes on you, his expression cold and mildly displeased, in stark contrast to his earlier lustful gaze. You made sure to lock eyes with him before moving your attention elsewhere. Whatever that meant was curious but otherwise irrelevant to you.

The limo escorted the four of you back to the V Tower, and Vox guided you to his office. You wished this dress came with a sweater, something warm and classy and Velvette approved. You had a deer fur coat back in your living days. You could wear that thing in a blizzard and still break out in a sweat.

As Vox pulled the contract out of his filing cabinet you looked around to occupy yourself. There was a display case with different models of televisions through the years— it wasn’t hard for you to figure out what they were. Various promotional product posters from the Vees’ joint ventures covered the walls. Behind Vox's desk hung a massive portrait of himself. Not a mood killer at all.

”Well clearly you got the fellatio covered tonight,” you muttered under your breath.

”What was that?”

”Complimenting your interior design, is all. It’s very sleek. Modern.”

“I’ll give you the name of our interior decorator, in case you’re looking to update the look of The Temple.” Vox jogged the papers of the contract together and handed them to you.

You flipped through the pages. You’ve done more deals than you can count; you paid someone to count for you. As per usual in situations like these, the two of you made a sort of pre-deal, ensuring no one party could drag negotiations out ad nauseam.

“I'm sure you want to have one of your people look over this before you sign it, make sure there aren't any hidden clauses.”

A snap of your fingers and the papers vanish. “Vox, darling, you think I don't trust you?”

“I know you're a smart woman, is all. A cautious woman.”

“It’s kept me alive so far.”

Vox stalked towards you, like a shark towards prey. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask about your old stage name. Molly Wood?”

You schooled your features to hide your annoyance. “What can I say? Roman thought he was being clever.”

“So am I right to assume Molly wasn’t your living name?”

“Afraid not. Désolé.”

That wasn’t entirely the case. Roman based that silly name off of your real name, but Molly was never something you went by. Although in hindsight that may have been a mistake, if only because your mother would hate it if people called you Molly instead of the name she gave you. She’d have thrown a wobbler.

Vox chuckled, low in his throat. He placed a finger under your chin, guiding your head to look you dead in the eye. “See? Cautious. Giving me nothing.”

“What makes you think I plan on giving you nothing?”

“Oh?”

You yanked him closer by the lapels of his suit, eager to figure out something you’d always been curious about. Luckily for you, Vox was on the same wavelength, so to speak.

His mouth found yours, just as eager and twice as hungry. Vox lifted you like you weighed next to nothing and placed you on his desk. The two of you blew past the business-appropriate flirting and under the table groping. You’d opened the floodgates with Vox and allowed him to devour you unapologetically that night.

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[the-literary-lesbian]

writing mood™️

[busines-as-unusual]

I don’t know if it’ll ever come up in the story, but Tem is literally the safest/ most protected sinner in Hell and she has no clue.

[busines-as-unusual]

For the 5 of you who asked for it.