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⤷ unable to stay, unwilling to leave.
⤷ come josephine, in my flying machine.
⤷ do you me still love? (multichapter fic)
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MULTICHAPTER FIC !
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader
5/6 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE, PART SIX
now playing... ♫ | 05. BEEN HERE BEFORE, AND WE'LL BE HERE TOMORROW.
wc: 3.2k+
-> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
fire.
it’s all you could feel.
the flames weren’t just tentative licks of heat that curled like ivy around your body and mind, no—they were furnaces carved into every inch of flesh that it could find to blaze upon.
your head was no exception. in fact, the point of origin seemed to burn from there.
God, it made you want to die.
other than the free trial from hell throbbing behind your eyes and sending rivulets of sweat tracing down your limbs, you—still locked in an albeit sleepy haze—slowly become aware of the newfound Sahara replica inhabiting your tongue and just how dry your mouth feels. a deep-set ache in your muscles accompanies your present misery, almost like a little maraschino cherry on top of the very thoughtful gift basket packed and ribboned for you by the very devil himself.
huh. that’s funny. weren’t you just having drinks with him last night? you muse. an image of charlie’s father unwittingly flashes through your heat-riddled mind.
you let out a tired chuckle under your breath despite yourself, though the humour does very little to quell your pain. thoroughly sore, you settle your head back into your very comfortable pillow—only, you realise too late, it’s not a pillow at all, but rather, a chest.
a very solid, very familiar chest; one that held a heartbeat you had spent a year unlearning.
you feel your blood run cold.
with all the cautiousness of captured prey, you sit up, headache and all, only to discover with growing horror that you’re not wearing the same clothes as you did last night. you don’t even need to hold up the v-neck collar to your nose to know whose it was; the crisp scent of cedarwood you drowned in spoke volumes for itself.
you’re almost scared to look behind you.
training your aching eyes ahead, you scan the room, pointedly ignoring the sleeping body that still had an arm wrapped around your stomach like it was somewhere it still belonged. the room was recognisable, painfully so, and your suspicions are only confirmed once your gaze lands on the piece of branded, cream-coloured stationery lying upon the desk beneath the television.
how the…
the person next to you shifts, and you immediately freeze up, a prayer kickstarting in your head like you’d pulled the string to the voicebox of a child’s toy—please, please, please, please don’t let it be who you think it is—
“(name)...?” his voice is groggy.
it is exactly who you think it is.
the sheets rustle as you feel him turn over, barely awake as he runs a hand up and down your side with a touch that was probably meant to be comforting. instead, you feel your stomach churn; in confusion, in shock, in horror at yourself and what you had gotten into.
what had happened last night?
“s’ so early,” he continues to mumble sleepily against your waist, “go back t’ sleep, honey, y’ll get a headache.”
“...vincent?” you choke out.
“mmm?”
“what… what’s going on?”
his eyes flutter open at that, and he squints up at you—though you know damn well it doesn’t do shit for his bad eyesight. “wh…?” vincent blinks dazedly, before realisation and full consciousness hit him like a freight train, making him shoot up in bed. “oh, fuck.”
vincent’s arm swiftly recoils from your waist as you both stare at each other in silence, equal parts bewildered, though it's obvious that one of you held more memory of the night before. his lips are parted, and you’re sure that yours are, too. his hair sticks up in more directions than you can count, the white shirt he wears is a perfect fit that contrasts the looseness of the blue one on you, and he looks almost older than the last time you remember seeing him.
sober, anyway.
the thunderstruck quiet is broken by a small noise of pain that tumbles from your lips, and you clutch at your head, clenching your teeth together with almost as much pressure as the ache that stabs through your brain.
vincent curses under his breath as he throws the covers off of him and stalks to the desk, snatching a paper bag with a printed pharmacy logo and kicking the refrigerator door open for a bottle of gatorade and a bottle of water. he nudges it shut with his foot and pads back to you, all but shoving the evian bottle into your face after he’d screwed the cap open. “drink.”
“thanks,” you rasp, taking an immediate gulp.
he stops you when you’ve downed over half of the water.
“leave some room for the gatorade,” he mutters, refusing to meet your gaze as he holds out the second bottle. “and i can’t give you the painkillers until you eat a cracker.”
he’s right, you admit to yourself sourly, and you can do nothing but obey.
vincent refuses to look at you as you drink and as you eat, but he stays by your side all the while. it almost hurts, really—how his warmth lingers on your skin more than the heat that prickles beneath it.
once you’ve chewed and swallowed the last cracker, he wordlessly cracks the painkiller lid open, shaking it rigidly until several pills fall out. he lets you pick out a tablet yourself, and he stiffly stands back up to go to the bathroom as you get around to slipping the advil into your mouth.
it’s sweet on your tongue, though you know it would soon melt into bitterness if you let it stay any longer. down goes the pill with the rest of its sugar and what was left in your water bottle, and you hear the tap running on the other side of the wall.
you settle back into the sheets, crinkling the empty saltine cracker wrap as you squeeze it in your fist, digging through the fossils of your memory in an attempt to remember how you ended up here. in bed. with him.
oh, God. what would your friends say?
before you could spiral further, vincent emerges from the hallway, patting his face with a towel. his hair is wet, slicked back with what you assume would have been frantic fingers, and his glasses hang off the low calvin klein waistband peeking over the jeans he’d changed into. you both continue to look at each other in tense silence.
“i…” you mumble. “my phone?”
“it’s dead.” he says curtly. “it’s in the drawer of your nightstand along with the rest of your stuff.”
“where’s my bag?”
“in the closet.”
it becomes quiet again. vincent throws his astigmatic gaze to the floor, studying the carpet. restlessness crawling up your spine, you push yourself up on your elbows, scrutinising him from across the room. “vincent.”
he lets out a noncommittal grunt.
you hesitantly lick at the seam of your lips. “what am i doing here?”
vincent’s eyes snap back to you. both confusion and a lack of surprise is strewn ambivalently across his face, and the tick in his jaw becomes tighter. “you don’t remember?”
your heart drops. “remember what?”
“why am i even surprised,” he mutters under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “damn it.”
“vincent,” you say slowly, growing more anxious by the second. “what happened last night.”
“you texted me,” vincent concedes, throwing you an unreadable look—though the tiniest spark of emotion flickers in his eyes. “you were at a bar for angel dust’s birthday, and got yourself drunk enough to gain the guts and, frankly,” he laughs dryly, “the stupidity to text me.”
“i–” you protest.
he cuts you off, digging a thumb into the furrow of his brow. “and i picked you up. ‘course i did. i couldn’t say no.” vincent turns away from you, heatedly rummaging through his luggage in search of a comb. “besides, you were practically begging me to.”
that makes you sit up straighter. “excuse me? begging?”
vincent whirls back to look at you. “yes, (name), begging. you called me an idiot and you kept insulting me until you finally let up and started fucking crying for me to take you home.”
you blink at him in disbelief. “are you fucking with me?”
“i could ask you the same thing,” he fires back. whatever the gentleness he’d held you with in somnolence was gone, dissipated into nothing but a curl of smoke where an ember used to be. “and i have been asking. but you wouldn’t answer any of my questions last night.”
“i was drunk, vincent!” you retort, rising onto your knees on the bed as you glare at him, “you think you’d get the answers you want from someone who’s under the influence?”
“if i got an unwarranted, drunk, ‘i love you’ out of the blue, yeah, i think i damn well could have gotten an answer,” vincent snarls.
pain continues to stab through your head like brutus himself held the knife, but you don’t let up. “think you’re any better, jackass?” you glower, boiling with rage. “you can’t even say it sober!”
it’s obvious the rebuttal catches him off guard in the way that his recovery holds the slightest falter.
“weren’t you into that whole ‘actions speak louder than words’ bullshit more?” vincent demands, scoffing. he throws his hands up. “just playing off what you want, here, (name).”
“oh, don’t you pull that shit on me!” you fume, pushing off the bed and staggering over to him with a furious finger pointed to his face. your head and your knees protest their weakness, though you stubbornly ignore the pain. “by what i want? what i want? and you think that’s taking me to a hotel instead of my fucking apartment?”
vincent doesn’t shy away from the proximity. in fact, he leans close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin as he sneers, “well, shoot me for playing good samaritan and deciding not to break into your—if i may very fucking kindly remind you—shared apartment–”
“so breaking and entering is a bigger crime than kidnapping in your books, now, is it, whittman?” you interrupt mockingly, an irked smile twitching at the corners of your face. “gods, vincent, do you even hear yourself?”
his mouth opens like he’s about to fire another retort, though nothing but an disbelieving scoff leaves his lips. vincent’s hand shoots up into what little space was left between the two of you as he steps back, affronted, casting his slighted glare to the foyer. “we are not having this conversation.”
you force yourself back into his line of sight, echoing his scoff with a short, offended laugh of your own. “oh, we so are!” you retaliate, jabbing your finger into his chest. “you don’t get to run away from this, vince.”
vincent snatches your wrist, eyes gleaming with fury. “no, you know what, sweetheart?” —he seethes the endearment—“this time, i do.” he throws your hand down and points his own finger back at you. “i do get to run away from an argument when i know we aren’t on equal footing, and right now, we aren’t. this isn’t just like any of my other fucking power trips, (name).” his chest heaves as he struggles to contain his anger, hand dropping to his side. “this is about us.”
“there is no us!” you scream at him. your blood slams harder against your head at the outburst, and you almost regret raising your voice.
almost as much as you regret the look that flickers across his face.
almost.
“there is no ‘us’, vincent. there hasn’t been.” your eyes prickle with tears, though you can’t tell if it’s from the hangover or from the hurt that burns wildly through your chest. “not for a very long time. you made that exceedingly clear ten months ago.”
“...have i, now?” vincent’s voice cracks. he resumes the iron clench in his jaw.
“yeah.” you curl your hands into fists when you feel them shake. “you have.”
vincent turns his head to the side as he runs both hands down his face, index fingers pressing into the corners of his eyes. he goes quiet for a moment, and you can see the way his shoulders tremble as he attempts to regulate his breathing.
your head feels like it’s swimming in molten lava. you’re feverish; hot all over—figuratively and literally speaking. you’re almost convinced that if the dam of your willpower breaks enough to let tears fall over the precipice of your eyelashes, you would cry a newfound river of fire.
“okay.” vincent’s voice is lower now, controlled, though barely so. his usually smooth baritone holds the slightest tremor. “i’m going for a drive.”
“what?” you snap, and so do your nerves—high-strung and taut as a bowstring all over again. the throbbing in your head grows stronger. “vincent–”
“i said, i’m going for a drive,” he repeats, emphasising every word. his gaze is cold as he looks back at you. “i need some air.”
you let out a humourless laugh. “air, huh? is that what they’re calling ‘space’ these days?”
“maybe they are.” vincent turns to storm down the foyer to the closet, snatches his sports jacket from the coat hanger, and throws it over his shoulders with unbridled, barely restrained anger as he stalks back to where you were next to the desk. “maybe they are calling it that.” his words are rapid-fire, so are the gestures of his hands, “maybe they’ve somehow found air in space, you know, those NASA fuckers or whoever the fuck—”
“what? vincent, you’re not making any sense!” you exclaim hotly.
“i’m not making sense?” he echoes incredulously. “look who’s– wow, i really couldn’t fucking tell, (name)!” vincent yanks a drawer open, scrabbling for his wallet keys. “not making any sense,” he mutters under his breath before his voice rises again, sardonic, “yeah, well, neither are you, princess.”
more tears well in your eyes from the sheer volume of his voice. “oh, don’t you fucking call me that.”
“i’ll call you whatever i damn well please,” vincent snarls, clawing through his hair to push it out of his face. “not like you had any issue calling me last night.”
“that’s a completely different thing!” you retort angrily, “i don’t even remember a thing from last night, asshole!”
he snaps his furious eyes back to you. “well that’s just a huge fucking shame, now, isn’t it, (name)? what a goddamn shame.”
“God!” you exclaim in frustration, digging the heel of your palms into your rapidly brimming eyes. “i’m just as upset as you are, vincent. for goodness’ sake! don’t you know how unnerving it is to wake up with no memory of the night before, in some bed you don’t remember falling asleep in, wearing clothes that aren’t yours because they belong to your fucking ex—who, by the way, just so happens to be sleeping right next to you!?”
“some original experience that is,” vincent retorts sarcastically, shoving his glasses deep into the pocket of his jeans. “pop quiz, hotshot, you’re not the only one who’s gone through this shit.”
“that doesn’t make it any less fucked up!” your head feels like it’s about to burst. “you’re just— damn it.”
“see?” he gestures sharply at your sorry form. “this– this is why i don’t want to talk right now.”
you look up at him through pulsating, bloodshot eyes. “so you’re leaving.”
“for the time being!” vincent explodes. he catches himself, taking another deep breath before he slowly speaks again. “i just– i just need to take a drive, need some time, and then i’ll come right back. you get rid of that hangover first, and if you want, if you’re still here when i come back, then we can talk. deal?”
“checkout’s at twelve,” you remind him hoarsely, backtracking until your knees hit the edge of the bed, clutching your head in your hands. “even if i wanted to leave, i don’t even know where my clothes are.”
“fucking–!” he shouts in frustration, swiping the hotel phone off its switch hook and all but smashing the number 0 on the dial before he presses it up to his ear. it doesn’t take long for the other line to pick up. “yeah, hi, front desk?” vincent effortlessly shifts his voice to that smooth-talking-public-image cadence, though his hands still visibly shake with rage. “i’m calling from room 725. is melissa still on her shift? no? okay, well, i’d like to request to extend ou- my stay for one more night. is that possible?” he impatiently shifts from one foot to the other, and you grow drowsier as time passes. the advil was beginning to hit.
“really? oh, that’d be wonderful.” his voice practically overflows with relief. “is it also possible for u- me to keep the same room? great! thanks a lot. yeah, just charge it to the same card. yeah. mhm, that’s right. thanks again, uh, travis, right? yeah, thanks, travis. have a nice day,” he finishes, before slamming down the receiver and reverting back to his earlier mood as his eyes hurl daggers at you again. “there. happy?”
blearily, you raise your head, glaring up at him through wet eyelashes. “expecting a tree planted in your honour?”
“a fucking ‘thank you’ would be nice!” he snaps back angrily. “Christ, woman!”
“fine! thank you, really–” you raise your hands toward him in mock praise. “thanks a lot, asshole.”
“would an asshole do half the shit i’ve willingly done for you in the past ten hours?” vincent scoffs, blindly shoving the rest of his things—wallet, phone, keys—into his pockets with rage-shaken hands. “think again, honey. i’ve got a five-hundred-dollar dent in my credit card statement saying otherwise.”
“fuck, alright, fine!” you cry agitatedly, digging your fingers into your temples. “get out and get your stupid fucking space and just– God! shut up! i can’t think!”
“that's the problem, (name).” each repeated utter of your name gets sharper every time. “you haven't been thinking.” vincent is standing with his back to you, already slipping into his shoes, but his voice isn’t any less scathing as it would have been if he was facing you. “not since last night, and definitely not now.”
“you think i don't know that?” it hurts. everything hurts. your head, your heart, your body—it’s almost too much for you to process all at once.
“no.” he straightens up, turning to look at you again, cold eyes boring holes into your pulsating own. “you're smart enough to.”
for a moment, nothing but the sound of your pained, ragged breathing hangs in the room.
vincent clicks his tongue, already beginning to make his way down the foyer. “i’ll send someone up for the laundry. you go back to sleep and get rid of that hangover and that goddamn… attitude of yours.” you hear him yank the bathroom doors shut. “if you wake up hungry, just get room service or takeout, whatever the fuck, i don't care, it’s fine, it’s on me, just–”
his footsteps halt by the front door. he sighs heavily.
“i need some time.”
tears well up in your eyes, and you feel a sob catch in your throat.
don’t go.
the silence that follows the click of the latch is deafening.
꩜ a/n: surrrrrprise!! six chapters instead of five—that's right, an extra chapter! all for the sake of pacing and bringing justice to the tension; just so i could execute the proper ending this story deserves. and it also kind of just felt wrong to start and resolve the conflict all in one go.
LOLLL YALL HAVENT SEEN THE LAST OF ME
i will say though, there is a chance that the next chapter May Take A Wee Bit Longer so it might not be out by the usual scheduled monday ,, i promise i will do my best to make the wait worth it!
also, so sorry i'm like 21 hours 40 minutes late hahah!! but hey it's still monday i'm technically still On Schedule
but anyways, if you're still here reading, thank you :) i love u and i appreciate u so much. see you in the next one ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
hi chat . chapter 5 may be a teensy weensy little bit late .. i'm afraid i've befallen an illness and my screen time has been limited drastically in lieu of this. but fret not !! it's almost done and will be out by wednesday at the latest. it's just a bit of a hectic time for me rn </3 hope u guys understand! tysm love u all mwah
(got a little surprise for u all with this next release as well !)
okay so i may have not been able to fulfill the 12mn schedule but!! there is a veryyyy big chance i may be able to release ch5 tonight 💕 just a wee bit of a delay with the timing but it's still monday soooo.. ILL BE SEEING YOU GUYS LATER!! muehehehehe
hi chat . chapter 5 may be a teensy weensy little bit late .. i'm afraid i've befallen an illness and my screen time has been limited drastically in lieu of this. but fret not !! it's almost done and will be out by wednesday at the latest. it's just a bit of a hectic time for me rn </3 hope u guys understand! tysm love u all mwah
(got a little surprise for u all with this next release as well !)
haiiihaiii, I just wanna know if ur minors DNI? I wanna follow but I don't wanna cross any boundaries 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ ՞𐦯
hi honeybun! thank u so much for asking, i really appreciate it 𐔌*ˊᵕˋ*𐦯
i primarily write for general audiences, and most of my works are PG-13. although, some of my fics—particularly the Hazbin Hotel ones so far—fall under an R-16 category, and others in the future may as well.
overall, i’d prefer for my audiences to be at least 13+, unless otherwise stated. i don’t think i’ll be venturing too much into the explicits, but i may have some more mature fics intended for a 16+ audience at best.
📺. — WHEN YOU GO TO HELL, I'LL GO THERE WITH YOU, TOO.
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vox x reader
wc: 1.4k words
-> second person pov; fluff and humour; very minor hurt/comfort; vox and reader are married; vox is WHIPPED; slight manipulation; reader is in hell for a reason; smoking
now playing... silver lining by laufey
⤷ in queue :: maggots for brains by olivia rodrigo
vox was always very clear about one thing: never disturb him when he’s working. anything and everything else could be unclear for all he cared other than that—and, well, that he was hot shit.
the hot shit, if you will. it’s imperative to know that. company rules and whatever.
but, oh, woe is the woman who loves! you were just a girl, standing in front of an enormous pair of office doors, yearning for some love and affection from the boy (man(child)) sitting behind them.
you totally did not steal that line from a movie.
sighing heavily, you furrow your brow as you pout up at the floor-to-ceiling doors, unintentionally scrunching up your nose as you do so. it was horrifically late into the night—way later than your husband had promised he’d be—and he was taking ages.
you’d been standing at the entryway for quite some time now, silk nightgown and all, and you can’t bring yourself to believe that there was possibly any chance that vox was absorbed enough in his emails and ratings to not notice the cameras. there was literally one pointed directly at the spot you were standing in!
“oh, damn it all to hell,” you curse, finally making up your mind. “i’m his wife for goodness’ sake.”
you firmly plant both hands on either door, over the horizontal lines that intersected into a V down the middle, and throw them open with a startling amount of strength.
vox’s reaction is immediate.
he turns around in his chair fast enough to give any other person whiplash, screen flickering with fury and completely ready to incinerate who dared to disturb him—until he realises that it’s you.
“oh, honey,” vox splutters, taken aback. “i–” he looks down at his watch, before his gaze flickers back up at you with an indignant flash. “i’m pretty sure i told you not to come in here when i’m working.”
“and i’m pretty sure you also told me that you’d be back at the penthouse by 9,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, where, predictably, his digital eyes zero in on.
“i–” he says again, scrambling for the right words. it’s funny, really, how the smooth-talking corporate media tycoon and the face of hell’s most successful business could be reduced to a stammering mess when presented with the threat of his wife’s inevitable wrath. “look, doll, it’s just a really busy season, you know–”
“neglectful little husband,” you interrupt him, clicking your tongue. your pout deepens. “i thought you loved me.”
vox visibly deflates from across the room. “oh, don’t be like that, baby,” he complains, “you know i do.”
“not enough to come home to me on time, apparently.”
his mouth falls open, disappearing into the border of his screen as it glitches. “it’– (szzt!) not like that!”
“i dunno, vinny, it seems an awful lot like that to me,” you say plainly, walking across the narrow platform and towards him. the double doors swing shut behind you. “i’ve been waiting for hours.”
“babydoll, sweetheart, honey,” vox coaxes, obviously trying to sweet-talk his way out of his predicament. he spreads his arms open as you draw closer. “c’mere. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, which was surprising, given that he was never one for apologising. his ego was too inflated for that.
you take your rightful seat on his lap, though you don’t immediately melt into his hold like you usually did—and you can feel vox tense behind you. oh, he knew you were pissed.
“i’m sorry,” he tries again. “i didn’t mean to.”
“we both know you absolutely meant to,” you huff, arms still crossed. vox nudges the part of his bezel that replaced his chin into the junction that connected your neck and shoulder, and his own arms circle your waist as he hugs you close.
“i just need to finish this one last email, i promise, and i’ll go to bed—”
you let out another disastrously heavy sigh that’s really just meant to toy with him at this point. “there are three of us in this marriage. me, you, and work. in life and in death, huh?”
“oh, no,” vox protests, “no, no, no, no, darling, i promise– oh, you cruel woman.” his screen falls against your shoulder in defeat.
“you terrible, awful man,” you shoot back. your husband is too caught up in his distress to realise that you’ve already begun to settle against him.
“my wicked, cruel, beautiful girl,” he lets out a long, drawn-out whine of despair. “i already told you m’ sorry.”
“look who’s talking,” you huff, turning around to look at him. he looks tired—can TVs even look tired?—and thoroughly disheveled. well, as disheveled as a man with a screen for a face could look. his bowtie is loosened, his top buttons hang open, and his usually pristine blazer is wrinkled way beyond his standards.
“let me make it up to you,” vox pleads, taking your hand in his and gently kissing up the skin of your wrist. “i’ll make you feel good, promise. just let me finish this.”
you roll your eyes, though you allow him to continue showering you in affection anyway. “hmph. i think not.”
“wh- (zzt!) what!?” he halts his ministrations, appalled. “why the fuck not!?”
“you’re exhausted, idiot,” you point out, flicking his forehead hard enough to make the screen distort. “there’s no way you’ll last more than two minutes before keeling over and passing out.”
vox bristles. “i wouldn’t–!”
“but that’s okay,” you finish, smoothing your thumbs over the sides of his frame. “i wasn’t looking for that tonight, anyway. i just wanted you.”
his indignation melts into confusion, and he blinks at you. “...seriously?”
“seriously,” you confirm, twisting around to tug one of his drawers open behind you. your fingers brush against a half-empty box of cigarettes and you pull one out, fishing into your dressing-gown pocket for the lighter velvette had gifted you a few sinsmases back—which was honestly just a blatant rip-off of vivienne westwood’s saturn orb.
you slip the cigarette in between his holographic lips as he continues to look up at you in disbelief, and you unhurriedly set about to lighting a smoke. once fire catches, vox begins to inhale the nicotine out of habit, but you take it away from him before he could take a proper hit.
“hey! what–”
the only response you give him is taking the cigarette into your own mouth and taking a deep, languid drag, before leisurely blowing it into his face. you weren’t much of a smoker, you knew that he knew that, so it doesn’t come across as a shock to you to realise it’s a surprise he’s anything but displeased about.
vox cracks a grin, tilting his head as his claws slide over the silk of your nightgown and settle above your hips. “thought you said you weren’t in the mood?” he says amusedly. “is this a threat or a challenge, sweetheart?”
you take another drag, this time blowing it to the side before putting it out on the armrest of his chair. “a smoke,” you coolly reply.
his expression falters. crumbles, even.
“though,” you continue lightly, “it is definitely an invitation to get into bed with me.”
your husband’s whole face brightens up again, and you hold a finger to his lips before he could say anything. “not like that.”
vox deflates again, mourning the lost promise of sex, though you can tell he deems your offer good enough for him. “i’ll take it,” he gives in, swiping a hand through the air to shut off all his screens and CPUs for the night.
when you give him a questioning look, he merely sighs and says, “ethan has access to the shit i was working on, anyway. i’ll let him handle it.” he then presses a small peck to your temple, standing up with an arm beneath your knees and another supporting your back. “my wife’s calling for me,” he says cheekily.
“as she has been for hours,” you remind him. nonetheless, a pleased smile spreads across your lips.
“yeah, well.” vox positions himself in front of the same security camera you’d stood in front of just earlier, static beginning to buzz around the two of you as he prepares to travel through the electrical system up to your penthouse.
“i’ve got all night to make it up to her.”
꩜ a/n: everybody put their hands together and clap for tumblr user dostoevskya's first ever vox oneshot (yes VOX and not VINCENT)
i really be doing anything but finishing and posting ch5 bruh i literally locked tf in and wrote this in an hour JUST TONIGHT as in i legitimately JUST finished this . all bc i needed a fat break from writing the argument (and ended up making quicker progress with this oneshot than chapter 5) and that stupid 70 minute scenepack compilation sent me into such a state of missing vox and i greatly despise him for it
i'm so convinced maggots for brains is going to be my top song on spotify this year and it's all vincent whittman's fault
waughghhg.... what can i do.... but think of you....
i put on a 70 minute vox scenepack from twitter as a substitute for my usual playlist so i could write chapter 5 better but this compilation has done nothing but made me miss him immensely . like yes i know i miss him Every Day but some days it hits harder and today is one of those days and ougughghghgh it irks me he irks me so much vincent whittman you are such an awful man it grieves me how fond i am of you please go away you are irritating and i love you for it
as time goes on i begin to realise i prefer being on tumblr instead of ao3, both as a reader and a writer but especially as a writer istg people r way nicer on hellsite too bruh there’s been an awful rise of meanies and illiterate fucks on the archive these days
i mean there are illiterate fucks on here as well but that’s beside my point . tumblr just has a better sense of community overall and i love u guys too much
MULTICHAPTER FIC !
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader
4/6 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE, PART SIX
now playing... ♫ | 04. CAN'T DECIDE IF IT'S A CHOICE (ASKING YOU TO STAY)
wc: 4.4k+ words
-> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
the digital clock on the centre console reads 01:15—a quarter after one. vincent stares at it flicker a sad, electric kind of blue, practically rethinking his whole life up until this moment.
he’d had his audi parked and idling outside the bar for a good five minutes now, but he still couldn’t bring himself to turn off the engine. there was no way he would just be able to swagger inside the bar to get you without the risk of one (or all) of your friends jumping his ass. that vaggie girl never did like him much.
and, well, there was always alastor.
vincent grimaces, ultimately settling for the safest option.
“hey, siri? call… sweetheart.”
“calling: sweetheart, red heart.”
he uneasily drums his fingers on the steering wheel, scanning the faces of everyone who walked in and out of the bar. he’d punched the stereo off the moment he pulled out of velvette’s condominium basement, keeping the car heavy with contemplative silence—until he finally hears the other line pick up.
vincent immediately snatches his phone from the magnetic mount, holding it up to his ear like it held the last call left on earth. “hello?” he says almost anxiously, before wincing at the music and bass that boomed through the receiver.
“hhh- yellooow,” you slur through the phone, and vincent swears that if he hadn’t been sitting down his knees would have buckled at hearing the sound of your voice after so long. “v…vinny? s’ that you?”
“yeah, hi, sweetie,” he breathes. “i’m outside.”
he hears you gasp like he’d just said christmas had come early. “really? you-” you let out a little cough. “y’r actually here? like- here, here?”
“i’m here. i-” his pride falters, and he bows his head in defeat. “i’m here, hon.”
“really?”
“i don’t think i can come in, though.” vincent screws his eyes shut, trying to regain his composure. “can you meet me outside? i’m right outside, i promise. you won’t have to look very far.”
“why can’t you come inside?” you ask innocently.
“i told you earlier, remember? your friends won’t be happy to see me.”
“ohhhhhh,” you draw out the syllable. “okay.”
“get your things.” vincent reaches up and flicks the overhead console open to fumble for his sunglasses. “i’ll wait by the car.”
“okay.”
he decides to leave the engine running, then shoots a glance at himself in the mirror to fix his hair. “oh, and, doll?”
“yeeees?”
“don’t tell your friends who’s picking you up.”
“okay,” you say again.
vincent practically deflates in relief. “good girl. don’t keep me waiting.”
“beeeee riiiight theeeereee.”
once the call ends, he exhales sharply, pulling the collar of his sports coat higher to his ears as he exits the car. vincent leans against the door after he clicks it shut, then pushes a pair of ray-bans up the slope of his nose. he tries for a mysterious, aloof stance, going as far as crossing his arms and his ankles as he waits beneath the dim streetlamp.
to his immense relief, you don’t take too long. on the other hand, he wonders which bumbling idiot had been keeping you company and was moronic enough to let you wander out into the street disastrously drunk and alone.
but despite that, he can’t help but notice just how beautiful you look.
clothes wrinkled, lipstick smudged, eyeliner smeared into nothing but shadow around your lashes. you stagger, clumsy and uncoordinated, each step closer a breath of his taken away; somehow aglow in his eyes under the midnight city lights.
still as beautiful as the last time he saw you.
still as beautiful as the day he lost you.
you light up once your unfocused eyes fall on his face, and your steps instantly hasten towards him. “baby!” you coo happily, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in close. your bag clatters against the roof of his car as vincent stumbles forward to catch you, and he doesn’t miss the way you bury your face in his neck to take in his scent.
but God, oh God—he sure missed you.
“hi, gorgeous,” vincent says weakly, cradling your messy-haired head with one hand as he embraces you back. he returns your gesture in kind, nudging his nose against your collar for a whiff of your perfume. you smelled like beer and cigarettes and the club, but the familiar sweetness was still there.
familiar. it was all so familiar. even when it wasn’t supposed to be.
you pull back and cup his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks as you slowly turn his head this way and that. “why’re… why you wearin’ sunglasses, silly? it’s nighttime,” you giggle, moving to gently take them off his face. your happy grin seems to brighten up even more when you finally catch a glimpse of his mismatched eyes. “there you are.”
“had to make sure nobody else would recognise me,” he lets out a small laugh, trying not to let his voice waver. “i’m on a top-secret mission to get you, see. kind of hard to miss this face.”
“i missed this face,” you mumble quietly, tilting your head to the side as you continue to look at him, brushing a thumb across his jaw in a way so tender it almost hurt.
sometimes tender meant something left in pain, anyway.
“yeah?” vincent says softly, feeling his chest twist. “let’s get you home, baby.”
he shrugs off his jacket and carefully bundles you up in it, ushering you around to the passenger side. you were all too happy to jump into the seat, wrapping the coat tighter around yourself and snuggling into the soft fabric.
vincent rounds the audi back to the driver’s side, running a trembling hand through his hair, barely comprehending what was going on. the moment he slides back into the car, he finds you clumsily rummaging through his glove compartment, utterly unfazed by his reintroduced presence.
he bristles slightly at the sight, taken aback. “what are you-”
“there!” you announce triumphantly, clutching something in your hand. you nudge the compartment closed with your knee, and vincent doesn’t realise what you’re holding until it’s right in front of his face.
his glasses.
you haphazardly push the thick, chunky plastic frames onto his face—accidentally poking a corner of his eye with one of the nose guards, though vincent deliberately leaves it unmentioned. he blinks rapidly, squinting as his eyes adjust to the vision grade.
he hadn’t worn these in a while.
you lean back into the seat, giving him a soft, sleepy smile. “tha’s… better.”
vincent looks back at you in disbelief, feeling his heart give a traitorous flip. “i… did you drink anything else before i called you again?”
you hum noncommittally, slipping off your heels and curling up on the seat. “mayyyybeeee… kiiiind of?”
he sighs, rubbing his brow as he shifts the gearstick to drive. “how much?”
the leather chair squeaks when you push the recline lever. vincent watches you slowly descend backwards as you raise your other hand with your thumb and pointer pinched close together. “liiiikeeeeee… thi’ much.” you grin toothily at him.
“and that’s how many drinks, sweetheart?”
“uhhhh. two. i think.”
the audi kickstarts down the road before vincent settles it into a more comfortable speed, feeling his head begin to throb. goodness knows just what was in those drinks. “alright,” he sighs heavily. “settle back. you’ve had quite the night.”
fortunately, you obey without question.
vincent smooths his thumbs over the rest of his fingers, cracking his knuckles as he drives. the car is filled with a comfortable quiet he hasn’t known nor felt since the last time you were across the seat from him, curled up in his clothes just as you were now.
his right hand slides down from the wheel out of habit from driving one-handedly, and he’s met with the feeling of your fingertips gently nudging against the underside of his palm—a quiet question that his muscle memory is anything but unwilling to answer despite his hesitation.
it scares him how it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should have been.
he holds your hand as you fall asleep.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
it’s about ten minutes to the drugstore, and the greatest convenience of pulling up to the 24-hour drivethrough at almost 2am was that no one else was in the line in front of him.
vincent rolls down his window to meet the eyes of a tired-eyed pharmacist, who blandly turns from his phone to stick his head out of the sliding screen.
“good evening, sir. how can i help you tonight?” he drawls.
“a bottle of advil and two gatorades,” vincent says curtly, barely giving the boy a second glance as he gently untangles his fingers from yours to reach for his wallet. you mumble a protest in your sleep, and he quietly shushes you while thumbing through a number of small bills in search for his credit card. “make it the blue ones. oh, and throw in a pack of crackers and some straws in there, too.”
the young pharmacist punches in vincent’s order, promptly checking out everything into a small paper bag with a swiftness that was surprising for the exhaustion that was so evident in his body. “here you go.”
“how much is the total?”
a flash of the payment terminal screen is all the response he gets, and vincent swipes his card with a small flourish before taking the bag and driving off with nothing but a small mumble of thanks.
you’d have punched him for having bad manners, he thinks amusedly to himself.
but then he remembers, and he sighs, trailing back to squeeze your hand with a gentleness that he knew was fated to be temporary.
vincent takes a turn that leads into another avenue—his usual route home. the cars were sparse at this time of night, but the traffic lights still blinked faithfully, shifting from green to yellow and finally red. the timer next to the stoplight begins its 60-second countdown as vincent reaches out to turn on his GPS, but he abruptly pauses before he could click on Home.
everything was already wrong enough as it is. he had no right to be picking you up drunk and alone from a bar at 1am, and much less did he have a right to be taking you back to his place. he just…
vincent tightens his grip on the wheel. he just wasn’t ready to take you home again.
it felt too soon.
“siri,” he murmurs. “set a drive to the peninsula.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
vincent has never felt more grateful to have taken velvette’s advice of keeping a spare change of clothes in the trunk. it was a bit embarrassing to have watched her pack the small suitcase herself, yeah, but goodness, was it a lifesaver now.
the valet driver had given him a strange look as he had carried you out of the passenger seat and tried shaking you half-awake so you could walk properly by yourself, though to no avail. so vincent, with your cheek still propped up against his shoulder, watches his audi glide down the slope of the hotel driveway until the tail lights disappear into the basement.
he turns to the slightly perplexed concierge, offering him a tight smile. “evening.”
“good… evening, sir,” replies the bellhop, eyes darting to your snoozing form. “do you-”
“i can handle her. it’s fine,” vincent cuts in, shifting your head to a more comfortable position. “could use a bit of help with the bag, though.”
“o-oh. yes. of course, sir.”
a crisp, air-conditioned breeze welcomes him into the lobby. the marble foyer was empty, save for a few graveyard shift staff and the bellboy dutifully rolling his navy RIMOWA behind you both. it certainly takes a while to cross the room to the front desk without dropping you.
vincent shoots a fleeting glance at the metal sunburst sculpture suspended across the ceiling dome, feeling a small twinge of nostalgia. you’d had your first date here.
and you always did like that sun the most out of everything in this hotel.
“good evening, welcome to the peninsula,” the receptionist greets him warmly, though her eyes betray the slightest startle at the sight of you. thankfully, she remains professional. “how may i assist you?”
“room for two,” vincent informs her, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “is 720 available?”
she runs a quick check on the computer, then turns back to him with a somehow even warmer smile. “you’re in luck, sir. it is.”
“lovely.”
“for how many nights, sir?” the receptionist asks, clicking on her mouse.
“just one.” the weight of you on his shoulder suddenly feels heavier. “...please,” he adds.
“just for tonight?” she confirms, looking back up at him.
vincent feels his mouth go dry, and the words suddenly seem stuck in his throat. “i…”
the lady holds her patient gaze. she reminds him of his sister-in-law.
“...yeah,” he finally chokes out. “just for tonight.”
“that can certainly be arranged, mister…?” she prompts, manicured nails hovering over the keyboard.
“whittman. vincent whittman.”
the receptionist gives him another gentle smile as she types in his name. “wonderful to have you here, mr. whittman. and your companion?” she glances momentarily at you, though not unkindly.
a ghost? an acquaintance? a mistake? a stranger? some girl he found on the sidewalk outside a bar and decided to play good samaritan with? he couldn’t just say ex-girlfriend, God forbid. security would have him planted against the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back in five seconds flat.
“she’s…” vincent swallows hard. damn it, where was his corporate suave machismo when he needed it most? he forces the lie—half truth, call it whatever you want—to slip past his tongue like a pill swallowed wrong. “she’s my girlfriend.”
to sell the alibi, he nudges his lips through the curtain of your hair to press affectionately against your temple just like he used to do so long ago. “right, baby?” he murmurs. “had a bit too much to drink tonight, huh?”
subconsciously or otherwise, you play easily into his act. your head falls against his shoulder, snuggling into him as you mumble a quiet, “mhm.”
vincent turns back to the front desk lady with a small, charming smile. “friend’s birthday party,” he winks. “you know how it is.”
the receptionist’s gaze softens with compassion. “oh, i certainly do.” she chuckles quietly to herself, resuming her task. “anyhow, i’ll also need to take down your phone number and credit for the deposit. it won’t take long,” she adds kindly, “i’ll make sure your darling gets the rest she deserves as soon as possible.”
it’s the greatest comfort he’s received all night. “thank you,” he breathes out, holding your boneless body closer to him. “i appreciate it.”
“of course, mr. whittman. now, i just need you to sign here…”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
goddamnit, he should have booked 725 instead.
room 720 was a luxuriously familiar sight, sure, with its light carpeted floors, ivory painted walls, polished wooden furniture, and heavy blackout curtains concealing the lights of the city—but vincent halts in the doorway, staring in dismay at what awaited him beyond the foyer.
one bed.
of fucking course.
“is something the matter, mr. whittman?” the bellboy—a different, younger one this time—asks timidly, holding onto the small suitcase in a way that made him look like he was about to cry.
vincent swivels on his heel to glower at the boy, eye twitching. “wasn’t this a twin room?”
“i- y-yes, it was, mr. whittman,” he stammers hesitantly, “but we’ve recently undergone a refurnishin-”
“yeah, no. it's fine. totally fine,” vincent interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “it's no big deal. nothing at all.”
“o-okay, sir,” the bellboy squeaks out. must've been an intern. “let me help you get settled in.”
“just the luggage, kid.” vincent rummages in his pocket until his fingers close around a small bill. bingo. “you can put it over there.” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the closet.
the bellboy obediently hauls the RIMOWA onto the cushioned compartment as vincent settles you down onto the king-size. you don’t budge in the slightest, and his eyes soften the tiniest fraction, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face.
“i-is there anything else i can assist with, mr. whittman?” the bellboy asks timidly.
vincent straightens up, turning around to look at him. “no, that’s all.”
“alright, then, s-sir.”
he walks toward the foyer to escort the bellboy to the door. “thanks, uh…” he trails off, squinting at the nameplate on the boy’s uniform. “ethan.” vincent presses a tip into the young man’s hand. “have a good one.”
ethan slightly bows his head and puts a trembling hand over his heart. “e-enjoy your stay, mr. whittman.”
vincent shuts the door in his face.
well, as politely as he could. he’s had a long night, alright?
sighing heavily for the nth time, vincent trudges into the marble bathroom, rolling up his sleeves to the edge of his forearms before eventually catching sight of himself in the mirror. he can’t help but chuckle at his reflection. dashing and handsome as usual, of course, but damn did he look like he aged twenty years older. and simultaneously… five years younger.
vincent goes quiet as he studies his features, relearning the way his face looked like with glasses on. he’d switched between glasses and contacts as he trudged through his early twenties, until he finally decided to ditch the specs entirely once his career started gaining traction. it felt quite nice to look like he was back in his highschool and university days, admittedly, despite how distasteful his memories of that time were.
he shakes his thoughts away along with his head, and he takes off the black frames and folds them onto the counter.
the faucet turns on with a squeak as vincent places his hands under the running water, splashing it onto his cheeks and running his fingers over his eyelids and up into his hair to comb it back. well, at least it was a relief to know he’d still be hot in two decades. just as he should.
it doesn’t take long for his confident shoulders to sag with another lung-emptying sigh. the silence was getting harder to ignore.
so once again, vincent fills the emptiness with routine.
he pulls the large drawer below the sink open with a firm tug, taking one of the two washcloths from the folded pile. as he nudges the drawer shut again with his hip, vincent unwraps a bar of soap from the complimentary toiletry display, tossing the paper into the bin with no more than a faint rustle. his hands move on instinct—setting the faucet to a temperature warm enough to be comfortable, wetting the towel beneath the stream of water, wringing it out, running the soap over the damp fabric, before repeating the third and second steps as so to keep the suds faint.
it’s even greater instinct to walk out of the bathroom and back to where you lay sleeping. the mattress dips when his elbow presses into it; when he kneels on one knee beside the bed and gently takes your face in one hand as he holds the warm towel in the other.
vincent carefully wipes the skin over your eyes first, leaving behind a trail of glitter and mascara on the white fabric. he turns it over to the other side as he wipes your forehead, your cheeks, and your nose, before going back to the bathroom to rinse the washcloth for a final wipe over your lips and the rest of your face.
time seemed to blur as he went along.
he’d taken off your earrings, your necklaces, and the rest of your jewelry, placing them onto the nightstand next to the side of the bed you preferred. off went your heels, your jacket, your belt—until his hand pauses over the hem of your sleeveless button-up blouse.
did he have a right to?
vincent sighs again. you were gonna punch him either way in the morning, might as well have you sleep comfortably while he’s at it. he was never the caretaker type, or one for tending to needs other than his own, but for you, he would.
he always would for you.
“compromise,” vincent sings dryly under his breath, trudging over to the suitcase to zip it open. “oh, joy.”
again, thank goodness for velvette. there were two sets of clothes.
vincent takes out one of the shirts—dark blue, of course—and one of his double-layer nike shorts. he leaves the luggage open as he walks back to the bed, this time sitting down on the duvet to carefully lift you into an upright position. your head lolls against his shoulder as he sits with your back to his chest, trying to unfasten the first few buttons of your blouse before he pulls the fresh shirt over you. once the shirt was safely through your arms and over your chest, he unbuttons the blouse the rest of the way, tossing it to the other side of the bed as he lays you back down and begins to slide your ankles into the nike shorts. at least the shorts were easier to manoeuvre.
he slides the garter right over your thighs and settles them around your waist, before zipping down your skirt and sliding it off your legs. vincent snatches the blouse and folds it along with the skirt, then heads over to the closet to rummage for the provided laundry bag and tossing it in.
mission accomplished.
vincent checks his watch. it was getting late. early, technically—but it was mere semantics. he should probably get changed first.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
changing out of clothes he’s worn throughout an incredibly exhausting day into a fresh, loose set is the closest thing vincent can compare to rebirth. he feels like lazarus walking out of that tomb as he walks out of the bathroom, a towel over his shoulders while he pats his face dry with one end, clad in a plain white shirt and cotton boxer shorts. his hair is combed back, damp from a quick shower and smelling of complimentary hotel shampoo made in italy.
perhaps it was a little unfair, going to bed thoroughly washed up when you barely were, but vincent does his best to push away that guilt and forces himself to remember that he had already worked with what he had. at least, he reasons, you were already clean enough rather than not.
vincent hangs his towel off the desk chair, gravitating towards the paper bag from the pharmacy. he takes out the two bottles of blue bolt gatorade, popping one in the mini fridge and twisting the other open, before taking one of the straws from the bag and walking to your bedside.
he shakes you gently. “(name)?”
you loosely mumble in your sleep.
“(name), honey, can you wake up for a second?” vincent asks softly, setting the orange cap onto the table and the clear straw into the bottle. “you have to drink this first.”
“dr… dr’nk?” you murmur groggily, barely awake. “vi…nny?”
“it’s me, baby, don’t worry.” he holds the straw up to your lips. “drink.”
you limply comply, sipping obediently as vincent uses his other hand to hold up your head to make it easier for you to drink. “that’s a good girl,” he murmurs, though you detach your lips from the straw about a quarter to the bottom.
good enough.
vincent lets you down onto the pillow again, working the heavy duvet over your boneless form and settling you into the crisp sheets. he screws the bottle of gatorade shut, placing what was left of it into the fridge with the other bottle, before walking around the room to flick off all the lights; everything except for the mood lighting over the bathroom sink.
3:21. he’d finally get to sleep.
vincent crawls into bed, a reasonable distance away from you, kicking his feet beneath the covers. he feels his neck crack, then his back, and his hip, almost like his body was a tapeline slithering back into its case as he finally, finally settles down.
he has half a mind to sacrifice his pillow and put it in the space between you two for good measure, and he’s already moving to take it from behind his head when he hears your sleep-ridden voice feebly ask, “why are you so far away?”
vincent thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“wh… what?”
“you’re s’ far away,” you say again, drowsier this time. “i dun’ like it when y’r… far away. makes me sad.”
he breathes out a weak, helpless laugh. “i can’t, sweetheart. i’m not allowed to anymore.”
“why’n… why not?”
his hand reaches across the bed, finding yours in the dark. “i’m not yours. you’re not mine. this isn’t how it works.”
your fingers curl around his; weak upon skin, constrictive around heartstrings. “maybe…” you whisper, still tipsy, “we can make it… not work that way… t’night.”
“yeah?” vincent hopes you don’t notice the tremble in his words.
“yeah.”
against logic, against moral, against his dignity and pride—he finds himself inching closer to you just as you also were to him, close enough to feel your heartbeat near to his own again.
it’s like clockwork, puzzle pieces falling into place, autumn leaves upon a cobblestone path in november. your head fits into the space below his chin, your hand over his chest, his arm against your back, his leg over your hip.
familiar, his mind echoes again.
vincent dips his face down so your forehead presses against his lips rather than his jaw. you tilt your head up in response, and he can feel your slow, drunken breath warm his quivering chin, until the gravity of both your eyes in the dark finally becomes too much to hold.
“hi,” you say softly, after a moment of silence.
“...hi,” vincent whispers. he holds your hand tighter.
“i missed you.”
“you’re drunk.”
“i still missed you,” you murmur.
vincent goes quiet.
“we… really shouldn’t be doing this,” he exhales exasperatedly. “i shouldn’t be letting you- letting myself, really- it’s-”
“jus’...” you interrupt drowsily, fingers curling into his shirt. “jus’ for tonight. please. one last time.” your breath ghosts across his lips. “y’don’t… even need t’ love me.”
but he did.
he still did.
“…okay,” he swallows.
vincent finally lets himself be selfish once more—reassuming nearly everything he was until you’d called. he slowly slides his hand into the back of your hair, holding you close until you were the very breath in his lungs, even though every ounce of his body other than the muscle in his chest was screaming at him not to.
“just for tonight.”
꩜ a/n: when i got the ending of this chapter first drafted out i was overthinking the whole thing so much cuz it felt rushed so i asked @1ix1n what she thought about it and if it was okay and she very wisely said "in the words of addison rae, 'it makes me want it more'."
go check out her bllk/hq fics thats my goat i love her so much
and and and!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME !!!! YAAYAYAYAYAYAY !!
i hope u guys liked this chapter wuaheuhusfha i meant it when i said that if yall hated me for ch3 you'd hate me even more for this one <3 LOVE U ALL MWAH
also this is ur gentle reminder that the music icons on the top of each post have a link to a four-song playlist curated for every chapter ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
p.s. deactivated tumblr user tuquoque pls come back ... the kids (me and haz) miss you so much......
-> second person pov; fluff; unspecified/unestablished relationship; bickering/banter; reader is batgirl, tim is robin
now playing... stupid song by olivia rodrigo
gotham city rarely knew silence. the gods are not that kind.
the scarcity of their mercy echo loud and far across the skyline; a din of shouts, ear-splitting car horns, and an endless clamour that never hushed with the changing night.
“at least the comms are quiet for once,” tim hums from next to your perch on the roof, almost like he’d been reading your mind.
“yeah, well.” you tuck your knees closer to your chin, eyes scanning the streets below you. “doesn’t make gotham any less louder.”
“patrol must be going well for the others.”
“are you even muted, drake?” you ask amusedly, tilting your head to look at him. “you do know that they could hear you.”
he scoffs out a laugh. “oh, please. i could ask you the same thing, smartass. there are two of us on this roof with comms.” tim reaches out to flick your forehead, then begins to poke it along to each syllable. “and do be careful throwing around that surname, batgirl. we’ve got aliases for a reason.”
you swat his hand away, but it does little to stop his poking. “ti- robin, stop!”
he doesn’t stop.
the two of you keep at it for a few minutes like a bunch of children—poking and swatting and swatting and poking—until you finally snatch his wrist with a snarl, holding him away from you as if you were holding a disfigured fish.
tim, the cunning bastard, uses your tight grip on his wrist to yank you closer to him. you yelp, scrambling to keep yourself upright as he looks down at you innocently, though an impish grin tugs at his lips. “oh, hey. come around here often?”
“cornball!” you retort, hitting his shoulder. he just laughs, and you can’t help but feel your own bout of laughter pull your mouth into a smile. “you make me sick, timothy jackson,” you spit, making sure to use his full name in an attempt to piss him off even more. (it doesn’t work.)
“aliases,” he sings, discreetly sliding an arm around your back to pull you in by the waist. “lovesick, perhaps?”
you could almost imagine his stupid beautiful blue eyes twinkling with mischief behind the domino mask. deciding to humour him, you turn your body around to wrap your arms around his neck. “jury’s still out,” you shoot back, brushing the tip of your nose against his.
above you, the midsummer july moon falls in silver ribbons that paint the city, and you really can’t tell if you want to punch or kiss him.
“happy birthday, boy wonder,” you whisper instead. a giggle bites at your tongue. “i can’t believe bats made you go on patrol on your birthday.”
“m’ not complaining,” tim replies smoothly, and his grin only seems to grow wider. “wouldn’t miss you for the world.”
“don’t you mean this?” you raise a brow, although it probably wasn’t visible behind the cowl.
and in the most quintessentially—annoyingly—tim-drake manner imaginable to man, he simply replies with a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, and you feel him smile against your skin as he murmurs his reply.
“i said what i said.”
꩜ a/n: my shortest oneshot in a while ! just needed this as a palate cleanser and a little procrastination bc i have no idea how to start writing chapter 5 of my other fic
but happy happy birthday timmy baby i still love you so much & i always will
(noooo wayyyy tumblr user dostoevskya writing recurringly for a character that isn't vincent whittman for once?!?!?!?! who would have thought !!?!?!?)
anyw oomfs i promise ch4 of DYMSL will be uploaded when the clock strikes midnight on my birthday ,, which is in about three hours ,,, a lil more patience my frens we r almost there ,,,,
HOPE U GUYS LIKED THIS ONE HUEHAUHRAUH HI DC FANDOM I'M BACK!!!!!
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
this is definitely not inspired by how i kept giggling on july 17 when my cousins and i did a mamma mia marathon and i kept giggling every time sam came on screen because he reminded me of vincent
me putting in lucifer as bill anderson (while charlie is sophie) may or may not be a direct reference to how a lot of people agree that bill is sophie’s real biological father
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
this is definitely not inspired by how i kept giggling on july 17 when my cousins and i did a mamma mia marathon and i kept giggling every time sam came on screen because he reminded me of vincent
me putting in lucifer as bill anderson (while charlie is sophie) may or may not be a direct reference to how a lot of people agree that bill is sophie’s real biological father
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
this is definitely not inspired by how i kept giggling on july 17 when my cousins and i did a mamma mia marathon and i kept giggling every time sam came on screen because he reminded me of vincent
me putting in lucifer as bill anderson (while charlie is sophie) may or may not be a direct reference to how a lot of people agree that bill is sophie’s real biological father
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
this is definitely not inspired by how i kept giggling on july 17 when my cousins and i did a mamma mia marathon and i kept giggling every time sam came on screen because he reminded me of vincent
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
this is definitely not inspired by how i kept giggling on july 17 when my cousins and i did a mamma mia marathon and i kept giggling every time sam came on screen because he reminded me of vincent
yes unfortunately we will initially be sacrificing lucililith for this au . perhaps maybe maybe not . we can always have rosie and lilith as . well . rosie and tanya . it MAY be interchangeable . susceptible to change, if you will. out for jury out for debate blah blah blah blah blah blah
