Amy | 27 | she/her ✦ Hazbin Hotel oneshots ✦
Mostly focused on Lucifer x Female!Reader Minors do not interact — 18+ only
Updates when inspiration strikes
okay so I need to share this because I genuinely made myself laugh writing it 😭
like I was just trying to write something really spicy, nothing too serious, and then this scene happened and I had to stop because I was actually giggling at my own dialogue like an idiot. It was after Adam had a nuclear orgasm that actually broke the room.
I don’t even know if this will turn into a full story or stay as a random chaotic snippet, but it made me laugh way too much to keep it to myself.
so… enjoy the aftermath of a very normal, very reasonable Adam moment 💀
The warm water cascades over Adam's trembling form, washing away sweat, cum stains, and the lingering evidence of their explosive lovemaking. He watches you in awe as you clean him with such tenderness and care—something he never dreamed an archangel would ever receive.
Your hands are gentle as you lather soap over his shoulders, down his arms, careful around his still-sensitive wings. When you clean yourself, he notices the dried cum on your lower stomach and can't help but laugh weakly. "Did I really... spray that far? »``
« You sprayed to the ceiling and i’m pretty sure it fell out of the broken window. Some random guy maybe got sprayed on the street down the building » you chuckled
Adam bursts out laughing at the mental image—an innocent bystander getting showered in his angelic orgasmic fluid.
"Holy shit!" He chuckles, then winces as the movement pulls at his well-used muscles. "I hope that guy appreciated the free celestial baptism."
He shakes his head, grinning. "You know what? I've fought demons, led armies, seen countless battles... but nothing has ever made me lose control like that." He reaches out to gently touch your cheek. "You totally ruined me."
✦ blurb — You were supposed to be a temporary problem—nothing more. But somewhere between control and quiet moments, Vox stopped wanting to let you go. And you’re starting to realize… leaving might hurt more than staying.
You don’t remember agreeing to stay, and that’s what bothers you most.
Not the tower itself—though the Vee Tower is exactly as ridiculous as people say, all glass and neon, glowing like it’s alive, like every surface is watching and recording—but the way it happened. One minute you were across a table from him, negotiating, careful with every word, every glance, fully aware of who you were dealing with… and the next, you were here.
You remember the meeting too well. Vox leaning back in his chair like he owned not just the room, but the outcome. The screens behind him flickering with live feeds, numbers, eyes everywhere. He had smiled the whole time—sharp, entertained, like this was a game he’d already won.
“You’re smart,” he’d said, tilting his head, studying you in a way that felt too precise to be casual. “I like that.”
You hadn’t taken the bait. “Then let me walk out.”
He had laughed. Not loud. Just… certain.
“Why would I do that?”
You should’ve left then. You know that now. But you’d stayed a second too long, pushed just a little too far, and Vox doesn’t like losing control of a conversation—especially not to someone who refuses to play along.
After that, things got blurry. Not unconscious. Not forced. Just… redirected. Doors that didn’t open where they should have. Corridors that led you back instead of out. Velvet voices assuring you it was “temporary,” that this was “just until things were sorted.”
And Vox, always there, just a step behind it all, watching.
“Temporary,” they’d said.
You’re starting to think that word doesn’t mean much down here.
You stand by the window now, arms loosely crossed, staring out over the city. It stretches endlessly beneath you, lights flickering in constant motion, most of it tied—directly or not—to Vox. His network. His reach. His control.
You tell yourself you don’t like him.
That he’s manipulative, invasive, always watching, always pushing. That the way he talks to you—like he already knows what you’re going to say—is enough to make your skin crawl.
And it should be.
But there’s something else under that. Something more complicated. Because Vox doesn’t treat you like the others. He doesn’t bark orders or force compliance. He circles. Tests. Gives you just enough space to think you still have choices.
Like this is a game he’s enjoying.
Like you’re… interesting.
You hate that part.
Behind you, the door slides open with a soft mechanical hum.
“You’re brooding again.”
His voice cuts through the room, smooth and amused, like he hasn’t spent the last few days inserting himself into every spare moment of your existence. Like he didn’t build the cage you’re standing in.
You don’t turn. “I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.”
You hear him walk closer, slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the faint hum of his presence, but not enough to touch. He always does that—hovering right at the edge, like he’s careful not to push you too far, even when he clearly wants to.
“You think too much,” he says.
There’s no bite to it. If anything, it sounds… familiar. Like he’s said it before.
“Maybe if I had actual freedom, I’d have something better to do,” you reply.
You expect the usual deflection, the teasing, the smug answer.
Instead, there’s the smallest pause.
“You do have freedom,” he says, quieter than before. “Within reason.”
“That’s not freedom.”
“That’s Hell.”
You roll your eyes, turning back to the window, but the answer lingers longer than it should. Because he didn’t sound amused that time. He sounded… defensive.
Silence settles between you, thin and uneven.
You know why you’re here. Officially, at least. You’re useful. You know things, see things, move in places Vox doesn’t always have direct access to. Keeping you close makes sense. Strategic. Efficient.
He’s said as much.
What he hasn’t said—what neither of you acknowledges—is that the “temporary” part could have ended already.
There were moments. Doors that could have been unlocked. Conversations that could have gone differently. You’ve noticed. You’re not stupid.
He keeps finding reasons to delay.
And somehow, you’re still here.
“Okay,” he says suddenly.
You frown slightly, glancing over your shoulder. “Okay what?”
“New plan,” he continues, tone shifting, lighter, almost forced. “You clearly hate everything—”
“I don’t hate everything.”
“You hate me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
It’s said lightly, almost like a joke, but there’s a weight under it that doesn’t quite match the tone. He watches you a second longer than necessary, like he’s looking for something specific—some shift, some denial you’re not giving him.
You exhale, tired of the loop, and look away. It shouldn’t matter to him. It definitely shouldn’t sound like it does.
He breaks the moment first, turning from the window and giving you space instead of closing it. “Come on,” he says, moving toward the center of the room. “If I’m stuck hosting you, I might as well fix your boredom.”
“I’m not your guest.”
“No,” he agrees easily. He glances back at you, a grin already in place, sharp and familiar—but there’s a slight delay to it, like it’s covering something. “But you are bored. And you’ve been… off all day.”
You frown. “Off?”
He gestures vaguely, like he’s annoyed he even has to explain. “The brooding. The sighing. The staring out the window like you’re about to write poetry about your misery. It’s—” he pauses, searching for the right word, then settles on something dismissive, “—depressing.”
You almost scoff, but the word catches oddly.
Because it doesn’t sound like a complaint.
It sounds like it bothers him.
Not the inconvenience of it, not the mood in the room—you. The way you’ve been quieter, distant, not reacting the way you usually do when he pushes.
For someone who thrives on control, on reactions, on keeping everything exactly where he wants it… your silence seems to get under his skin more than your attitude ever did.
You hesitate.
You shouldn’t give him that. Shouldn’t make this easier, shouldn’t reward whatever this is.
But he’s already looking at you again, waiting, like he knows exactly how this goes.
“…Fine,” you sigh. “What are you doing?”
His grin snaps back into place immediately, sharper now, but there’s something quick and almost relieved underneath it before it disappears.
“That’s the spirit.”
The lights dim slightly, not enough to plunge the room into darkness, just enough to shift the atmosphere. The neon glow softens, colors bleeding slower across the walls, like the whole space is holding its breath.
You push yourself off the window with a quiet sigh and walk toward him, more out of obligation than interest. Your steps are slow, arms still loosely crossed, expression unimpressed.
“Alright,” you mutter. “Go on. Entertain me.”
Vox’s mouth twitches at that, something pleased slipping through before he smooths it over. He rolls his shoulders once, like he’s settling into something more focused now, less talk, more intent.
“You ever seen real voltage control?” he asks.
“I’ve seen you fry half a room because you got annoyed.”
“That,” he replies dryly, “was intentional.”
You huff quietly, stopping a few feet away from him. “Sure.”
“Watch.”
For a second, nothing happens.
Then the air changes.
It’s subtle at first—a low hum building beneath everything, more felt than heard, like the room itself is starting to vibrate. The lights flicker once, twice, then fall into a steady, controlled rhythm, pulsing in time with something you can’t quite place.
Vox lifts his hand.
Electricity snaps between his fingers.
It’s sharp—bright enough to make you flinch, a quick instinctive reaction before you can stop yourself. The sound cracks through the room, clean and sudden, and without thinking, you shift closer. Just a step. Maybe two.
Closer to him.
You don’t even realize it until you’re there.
The arcs don’t lash out wildly like you’ve seen before. They’re controlled. Precise. Thin strands of light stretching between his fingers, steady, deliberate, like he’s holding something fragile instead of something dangerous.
You narrow your eyes, watching. “What are you—”
Another crack cuts you off. Then another.
But this time… it’s not random.
There’s a pattern.
The arcs extend outward, snapping toward the walls, catching on hidden conductors you hadn’t even noticed before. The hum shifts, deepens, layering over itself until it becomes something structured.
Sound.
Rhythm.
Music.
You blink, your attention sharpening despite yourself. The electricity pulses in sequence now, each crack timed, each vibration deliberate, building something that shouldn’t work—and yet it does.
It’s not smooth, not like a real instrument, but it’s close. Close enough to recognize the intention behind it. Close enough to feel it.
You take another step forward without thinking.
“You’re kidding.”
Vox glances at you, just for a second, catching the shift in your expression, the way your attention has locked in. There’s a flicker of satisfaction there, sharper than before but quieter too, more contained.
“I don’t joke about presentation,” he says, and the arcs brighten, weaving faster now, more confident.
He’s not just demonstrating—he’s performing. Every movement is precise, controlled down to the smallest adjustment, like the entire room is responding to him.
And you can feel it.
The warmth in the air. The way the fine hairs on your arms lift as the electricity snaps just inches away, close enough to remind you exactly what he’s capable of—and how carefully he’s holding it back.
You glance at him again, really look this time. The focus in his expression, the way his attention flickers back to you between movements, quick and subtle, like he’s checking if you’re still watching. Like it matters.
Like you matter.
And it clicks.
He’s not just doing this because he can. He’s doing it for you.
You swallow that thought quickly, but it lingers anyway, settling somewhere deeper than it should. Because despite yourself—despite everything—you are impressed. And he knows it.
The room feels different now, like it’s been reshaped around him, like the walls themselves are part of whatever he’s doing. The arcs move faster, weaving together, the sound growing fuller as he layers each note with careful precision, building something that shouldn’t exist and yet does, right in front of you.
“You practiced this,” you say, unable to keep it out of your voice.
“Obviously.”
There’s no hesitation in it, no false modesty. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, like the answer is beneath question—but you catch the slight shift in his posture anyway, the way his shoulders square just a little more, like he’s aware of your attention.
“For me?”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
That makes him pause.
Just for a second. Barely noticeable if you weren’t already watching him so closely. The rhythm falters for half a beat before snapping back into place, sharper now, brighter, like he’s compensating.
“You’re the only one here,” he says lightly.
Not an answer.
You both know it.
You step closer anyway.
You don’t think about it this time. You just… move. Drawn in by the warmth, by the hum in the air, by the way the electricity snaps and dances just inches away from you without ever touching. Your skin prickles, every sense a little too aware, a little too focused on him.
“You could hurt someone with that,” you say, quieter now.
“I could hurt everyone,” he corrects, and there’s something different in his voice this time. Lower. More honest. “I’m choosing not to.”
That lands.
Because you believe him.
You look at him properly then. Not at the performance, not at the light or the sound—but at him. The concentration in his expression, the way every movement is deliberate, controlled, like he’s holding himself right at the edge of something dangerous and refusing to let it slip.
“For the record,” he adds, glancing at you briefly, “this is me being restrained.”
You almost smile. It catches at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. “You’re showing off.”
“Obviously.”
But it’s softer now. Less sharp.
The music shifts, the arcs thinning, becoming more delicate, less aggressive. He’s dialing it down—not because he has to, but because you’re closer now, because the space between you has shrunk without either of you acknowledging it.
Because you’re still watching.
Because you didn’t step away.
“You hate me less yet?” he asks, and there’s that edge again, but it’s not as certain as before.
“Don’t push it.”
“But that’s a no.”
You hesitate.
And that hesitation says more than anything else.
“…It’s a maybe.”
His grin sharpens, but there’s something warmer under it now, something quieter, like he wasn’t entirely sure what you’d say. “I’ll take it.”
The electricity fades slowly, the arcs flickering out one by one until the hum dissolves into silence and the room settles back into its usual glow. But it doesn’t feel the same anymore. Not quite.
You’re still standing too close.
Close enough to feel the lingering warmth, the echo of energy still hanging in the air between you. Close enough that if either of you moved just a little—
You don’t.
Neither does he.
You exhale slowly, grounding yourself, trying to push past the way your attention keeps drifting back to him, to the way he’s watching you now without the usual performance layered over it.
“That was…” you start, then stop, searching for something that doesn’t give too much away.
He raises a brow, waiting.
“…not terrible.”
He scoffs, but it’s softer than it should be. “Wow. I’m honored.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it this time, and you both feel it—the shift, small but real, settling somewhere between you.
You still tell yourself you don’t like him.
It’s just getting harder to believe.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I plan to improve.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite to it now, the reaction softer than it used to be. You turn away from him and drift back toward the window, slower this time, like you’re not in a hurry to put distance between you anymore. The city stretches out below, still bright, still loud, but it doesn’t press against you the same way it did before.
Behind you, Vox doesn’t follow. For once, he lets the space sit, doesn’t try to fill it with noise or presence. You can feel him hesitate instead, like he’s deciding something.
Then, quieter than before, “You don’t have to like me.”
You glance back over your shoulder.
He’s watching you, but not like earlier. No performance, no sharp edge to it. Just… something more careful. Almost uncertain.
“Yet,” he adds, softer.
A small, reluctant smile slips through before you can stop it. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still here.”
You look away again, but this time it doesn’t feel like an argument. He’s right. You are still here. Not just because you have to… but not entirely because you want to leave, either.
You hear him shift, footsteps turning toward the door. He’s leaving. Giving you the space he pretends not to care about, even though you’ve started to notice he always does, when it matters.
Your chest tightens, just slightly.
You don’t think. You just speak.
“Vox.”
He stops immediately.
Turns just enough to look at you, like he wasn’t expecting that.
You hesitate for a second, the words sitting awkwardly on your tongue. This shouldn’t feel difficult. It’s just a thank you. Just acknowledgment.
But it feels like more than that.
“…That thing you did,” you say, quieter now. “The… electricity.”
You huff softly, searching for the right word, then give up.
“It was beautiful.”
The word hangs there.
Fragile. Real.
For a second, Vox doesn’t move.
And for someone who always has something to say, always has a response ready, he’s completely still. The glow of his screen softens, just a fraction, like the sharpness has been dialed down without him meaning to.
He nods once.
Not smug. Not teasing. Just… quiet.
“I know,” he says, but it doesn’t sound arrogant this time. It sounds… pleased. Careful.
Then he turns and leaves.
The door slides shut behind him with a soft hum.
The moment the door closes, something shifts in him, sharp and sudden. His signal spikes, not erratic, not unstable—just brighter, stronger, like something inside him has been lit up all at once.
His hand tightens slightly at his side, a grin threatening to break through before he reins it in.
Beautiful.
You called it beautiful.
He exhales, something almost like a laugh catching in it, quieter than anything he’d ever let you hear.
“…Yeah,” he mutters to himself, already turning away, energy buzzing under his skin. “I can work with that.”
And for once, it’s not about ratings.
Inside the room, you’re back at the window.
The city still glows the same. The tower still feels too controlled, too careful, too much like a cage dressed up as comfort.
That hasn’t changed.
What has… is you.
Your arms rest loosely at your sides now, no tension in them, no tight grip like before. Your thoughts aren’t circling the exits, the boundaries, the invisible lines he’s drawn around you.
They’re circling him.
The way he looked at you. The way he noticed when you were off. The way he didn’t push when it mattered. The way he—
You exhale slowly.
This is worse.
Because being trapped is simple. You either fight it or you endure it.
This?
This is complicated.
You press your forehead lightly against the glass, eyes flicking over the city below, trying to ground yourself in something that makes sense.
You’re not supposed to feel this.
Not for him.
Not for the one who put you here.
And yet…
Your lips press together, a quiet, conflicted breath leaving you.
It doesn’t feel suffocating anymore.
It feels… dangerous.
In a completely different way.
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
— Adam doesn’t lose control easily—until you’re on top of him, and every small movement threatens to undo him.
✦ pairing — Adam x female!reader
✦ warnings — implied smut.
Adam isn’t used to losing control.
It’s kind of his whole thing—discipline, authority, always composed, always above it. But right now, none of that matters. He’s flat on his back, armor gone, sheets a mess around his hips, and you straddling him like you don’t realize how close he already is to breaking.
Your hands rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat—fast, uneven, nothing like the calm, steady rhythm he pretends to have.
His grip on your hips is tight. Not guiding. Not in charge. Just… holding on.
“Don’t,” he breathes.
You pause, tilting your head slightly. “Don’t what?”
His jaw flexes. His eyes don’t leave your face.
“If I move,” he says, voice low and strained, “I’ll cum.”
It’s blunt. No pride, no filter. Just the truth.
You feel him under you—hard, tense, already right there. Even the smallest shift makes his grip tighten, a sharp breath slipping through his teeth.
“You’re that close?” you murmur, leaning down, brushing your lips along his jaw.
His fingers press harder into your hips.
“You have no idea,” he mutters, heat thick in his voice, “what you’re doing to me.”
So you test it.
Just a slow, careful roll of your hips. Not enough to push him over—just enough to drag, to tease, right where it matters.
His head drops back against the mattress, throat exposed, a broken sound escaping him before he can stop it.
“Stop,” he says, but it’s weak. No real command behind it.
You lean closer, your lips near his ear. “Or what?”
His whole body tenses under you, barely holding together.
“Or I won’t,” he admits, voice shaking now.
And this time, you move just enough to make him lose the battle.
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
✦ general warnings — violence, blood, injury, emotional distress, grief, trauma, religious and moral conflict, strong language and swearing (canon level), mentions of death, war, and loss, slow-burn romance, tension, and angst, as well as occasional suggestive themes.
✦ blurb — Adam died during the battle against Hell, and you never believed it could happen to him. He was your commander, your closest ally, and someone you loved in silence. While you grieve, Heaven begins to crumble after Sir Pentious arrives, proving that sinners can change. Angels turn on each other, lost and angry. Meanwhile, Adam wakes up in Hell, alive but fallen, hiding among those he once hated. When you learn the truth, everything you believe is shaken. Adam is alive… and he is a sinner. Will love change how you see Hell, redemption, and him?
He dragged in a deep, ragged breath, the motion tearing through him as if his body had forgotten how to function properly. The air that filled his lungs tasted wrong—thick, ashen, laced with something acrid that burned on the way down. His chest arched violently, muscles straining as though each inhale had to be forced past an invisible barrier, the sensation scraping along his throat and settling hot and sharp in his lungs.
For a moment, it felt easier not to breathe at all.
A rough, uneven exhale left him, and he staggered where he stood before his strength failed entirely. The ground met him hard as he collapsed back onto it, palms scraping against cracked earth that was far from Heaven’s polished marble. He lay there, struggling to steady his breathing, each breath shallow and uncooperative, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs.
His vision swam, edges blurring into darkness and red haze. The sky above him—if it could be called a sky—shifted and distorted, unfamiliar and hostile. His mind reached for clarity and found nothing.
Memory came in fragments.
A searing pain in his back. Not a cut, but something deeper. Something that had pierced straight through him, a violent rupture that stole the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. He could almost feel it again, the unbearable heat of steel driven between his shoulders, the pressure splitting him open from spine to chest.
And then—
Your voice. Sharp and desperate. Breaking as it tore through the chaos.
You were screaming his name. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went dark.
For a long moment, he remained on the ground, staring up at a sky that felt wrong in a way he could not immediately name. It wasn’t Heaven’s endless blue, radiant and untouched. It wasn’t the battlefield either, torn apart by divine light and infernal fire. This sky was darker, stained in deep shades of crimson and violet, choked by slow-moving clouds that did not drift so much as linger.
Adam inhaled carefully, testing his lungs. The air scraped on the way down, thick and sour, carrying the unmistakable scent of rot and smoke. It settled heavily in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
“What the hell…” he muttered under his breath, the words rough and hoarse.
He pushed himself up slowly, bracing one hand against the pavement. The surface beneath him was uneven and grimy, small fragments of glass biting into his palm. He rose to his knees first, steadying himself against a brick wall slick with something damp, then forced himself upright.
His legs wobbled under his weight.
For a second, the world tilted dangerously, and he had to grab onto a rusted fire escape to keep from collapsing again. His jaw tightened in irritation.
“Get a grip,” he hissed at himself, as though his body were a disobedient soldier.
Memory came in flashes. Lucifer’s smirk. The impact of the ground splitting beneath him. The blade.
God, the blade.
He reached back instinctively, fingers brushing over his spine where steel had torn through him. There was soreness there, a deep and unpleasant ache, but no open wound. No blood soaking through fabric. No divine glow knitting flesh back together.
And then your voice. Clearer now. You had screamed his name. Not an order. Not a command. A scream. Raw. Desperate.
His brow furrowed deeply.
He finally lifted his head and truly looked around him.
The alley stretched out on both sides, narrow and suffocating, brick walls rising high and blocking out most of the sky. Trash bags were piled haphazardly near overflowing bins, the smell of spoiled food and stale alcohol thick in the stagnant air. A flickering neon sign buzzed at the far end, casting sickly pink light over cracked pavement and scattered bottles.
Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.
It wasn’t a normal laugh. It was sharp. Twisted. Wrong.
Adam’s lips curled in disgust.
“Pentagram City,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Of course. The battle must have pushed deeper into the city. He must have taken that hit and blacked out. That was it. He’d been knocked unconscious and dumped here while the extermination continued elsewhere.
Yes. That made sense.
He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders with deliberate control, trying to ignore the lingering weakness in his limbs.
“Lute?” he called out, his voice echoing faintly down the alley. “Form up.”
Silence answered him.
No beating of wings. No armored footsteps. No sharp acknowledgment.
He frowned.
“Enough screwing around,” he snapped, louder now. “Report.”
Still nothing.
Only distant music drifting from somewhere beyond the alley. The clink of glass. The murmur of voices that sounded distorted, layered with undertones that didn’t belong to anything holy.
His chest tightened, but not with fear—with something colder.
Where was his army?
Where were you?
He stepped toward the mouth of the alley, boots crunching over broken glass. As he reached the edge, two figures stumbled past the entrance—tall, twisted silhouettes with glowing eyes and jagged grins, their movements loose and careless.
One of them paused when he noticed Adam standing there.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the creature drawled, voice warped and amused. “Look what crawled outta the gutter.”
The other squinted at him, head tilting. “Nice cosplay, buddy. Exorcist convention in town?”
Adam’s expression darkened instantly.
“Watch your tone,” he said coldly, straightening to his full height, the authority in his voice instinctive and sharp. “You’re speaking to—”
He stopped.
The demon was laughing. Actually laughing at him.
“Oh, this one thinks he’s important,” the first one snickered. “That’s adorable.”
Adam stared at them, something shifting uncomfortably beneath his sternum.
They weren’t afraid.
The demons moved on, their laughter loud and unrestrained as they continued down the street, their voices echoing and then fading into the distance as if nothing about that exchange had been worth remembering. Adam let out a low, irritated growl, his breathing uneven, sharp with something that felt dangerously close to anger—but not quite the kind he was used to.
“What the fuck is this shit?” he snapped, the words tearing out of him as he pushed forward out of the alley, boots crunching over glass and debris, intent on following them, on correcting that mistake, on reminding them exactly who they had just spoken to.
But the moment he stepped out of the shadows, a flickering neon light from a nearby storefront washed over him in a sickly glow, casting warped colors across his form—and he stopped abruptly.
Something was wrong.
His gaze dropped instantly to his body, and for a second his mind refused to process what he was seeing. His robes—his armor, his immaculate white uniform that had always marked him as Heaven’s chosen blade—were no longer white.
They were black.
Not stained. Not dirtied. Changed.
The fabric itself had shifted, dark and unfamiliar, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it, the once-golden details now glowing in a deep, unnatural red that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the surface.
A cold, creeping unease began to crawl up his spine.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, Adam lifted his head and turned toward the nearest reflective surface—the grimy glass of a storefront window, plastered with obscene posters that he barely registered as his focus locked onto his own reflection.
For a moment, he didn’t recognize what he was looking at.
Everything was wrong.
The silhouette was still his—broad, imposing, unmistakably him—but the colors had shifted into something darker, something corrupted. The sharp lines of his armor remained, but they no longer carried the same divine authority. The red accents burned where gold once gleamed, and the eyes of his helmet—
They glowed.
Bright. Violent. Crimson.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, the word quieter this time, less anger and more disbelief bleeding into it.
His thoughts stumbled over themselves, trying to make sense of it, trying to force it into something logical, something that didn’t immediately shatter everything he knew.
Why was he alone in Hell? Where was his army? Where were you? And why the hell did he look like this?
Something cold and insidious began to settle in his chest then, slipping between his ribs and tightening slowly, steadily, like a hand closing around his lungs.
“No…”
The word came out quieter, strained, as if saying it too loudly might make it real.
He needed proof, needed to fix this.
Adam reached up sharply, grabbing his helmet with both hands, fingers digging into the edges with sudden urgency as he yanked upward, expecting the familiar give, the simple motion of removing it like he had done countless times before.
It didn’t move. His grip tightened instantly. He pulled harder.
Nothing.
A flicker of panic sparked low in his chest.
He braced himself and yanked again, harder this time, muscles straining, teeth grinding together as he forced the motion with everything he had—but instead of the helmet coming free, a sharp, searing pain shot through his head, like trying to rip something that was no longer separate from him.
“—fuck—!”
He stumbled back a step, breath catching, but he didn’t stop.
“No, no, no—!”
His voice broke into something rougher, less controlled, as he grabbed at it again, fingers slipping slightly against the surface as he pulled with more force, desperation bleeding into the movement now, the pain intensifying with every attempt.
“This isn’t possible!”
His pulse roared in his ears, vision flickering at the edges as the realization pressed harder, heavier, suffocating in its implications.
It wasn’t coming off. It wasn’t something he was wearing anymore.
It was part of him.
“I…” he murmured, the word barely forming as his hands slowly dropped away, fingers trembling slightly as the pain faded into a dull, lingering throb.
He stared at his reflection, and for the first time since waking up, something in him gave way. His shoulders sank—not in weakness, not quite—but in something heavier. Something closer to resignation pressing down on him before he could stop it.
“I can’t be…” he tried again, breath uneven, the words dragging painfully out of him as the realization forced its way in, piece by piece, no matter how much he resisted it.
But there was no twisting this into something else. No reframing it into a tactical error, a temporary setback, a situation he could command his way out of.
Reality stood there in front of him, reflected back in red and black.
“I’m a fucking sinner.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, final, and for a second the entire world seemed to go quiet around him, as if Hell itself had paused just long enough to let that sink in.
Then the noise came rushing back.
Laughter in the distance. Music pounding from somewhere deeper in the street. Voices overlapping, arguing, flirting, shouting. The city moved on, alive and chaotic and utterly indifferent to the fact that Heaven’s former executioner had just fallen into its streets.
Adam didn’t move.
His gaze stayed locked on his reflection, as if staring long enough might force it to change back, might snap something into place and undo whatever cosmic mistake had just been made.
It didn’t.
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, sudden and jagged.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand down over the front of his helmet as if that would help somehow. “That’s— that’s funny. Real funny.”
His jaw tightened.
“No,” he went on, shaking his head once, more forcefully now, trying to push back against the thought before it could settle. “No, that’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”
His voice rose slightly, gaining edge, slipping back into something more familiar—authority, certainty, even if it was forced.
“Angels don’t just—” he gestured vaguely around him, frustration snapping through the movement, “—end up here after dying. That’s the whole fucking point.”
His chest rose sharply with another breath, the air still burning on the way in.
He turned abruptly away from the glass, like looking at himself any longer would make it worse, pacing a few steps before stopping again, agitation building under his skin with nowhere to go.
“This is a mistake,” he said, more firmly now. “Some kind of glitch. Cosmic bullshit. Whatever.”
That had to be it.
Because the alternative—
His thoughts cut off abruptly.
Because the alternative meant everything he had ever believed in was wrong.
And that—
No.
Adam clenched his fists tightly at his sides, grounding himself in the familiar tension of it, forcing his breathing to steady through sheer will.
“Alright,” he muttered, tone shifting again, sharper now, more controlled. “Fine. Doesn’t matter.”
If this was Hell, then there were rules. Even if they were twisted, even if they were wrong, there were still rules.
And he could work with rules.
His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing behind the glowing visor as he scanned the street more carefully this time, actually taking in what was around him instead of just reacting to it. Demons passed by in loose clusters, some glancing at him with mild curiosity, others not even bothering. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting everything in shifting colors, signs buzzing and crackling, music spilling out from open doors.
No one saluted.
No one moved aside.
No one cared.
His lip curled faintly.
“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s gonna change.”
If he was stuck here—temporarily—then he wasn’t going to stand around having an existential crisis in the middle of some shitty alleyway.
He needed information.
He needed to understand what the hell had happened.
And then he was going to fix it.
But as quickly as that instinct rose, something colder followed, sharper, more controlled, the kind of awareness that had kept him alive through centuries of exterminations. Adam stilled, his gaze sweeping the street again, this time not with arrogance, but with calculation. He had slaughtered demons for ages, cut through them without hesitation, without mercy, and if even a fraction of them recognized him—if word spread—this wouldn’t be confusion or mockery anymore. It would be a hunt.
His jaw tightened.
“Right,” he muttered more quietly, the edge in his voice lowering into something more deliberate, “maybe don’t announce yourself to the entire fucking city.”
He forced himself to relax his posture, just slightly, enough to dull the immediate authority he usually carried without thinking, enough to blend—if that was even possible looking like this. The red glow of his visor dimmed faintly as he tilted his head down, angling it away from the brighter lights, instinctively seeking shadow rather than dominance.
Observe first. Act later.
It felt wrong. It felt like stepping backward instead of forward, like yielding ground he had never once considered giving. But this wasn’t Heaven, and he wasn’t at the head of an army anymore.
The thought hit harder than he expected.
He wasn’t at the head of anything.
A flicker of irritation flared in his chest, quick and sharp, and with it came another realization, quieter but far more bitter. No one had come for him. No recall, no retrieval, no divine intervention ripping him out of Hell the second he fell. Nothing. Just… silence.
Adam scoffed under his breath, the sound dry and humorless.
“Figures.”
Of course they hadn’t planned for this. Of course Heaven hadn’t even considered the possibility that something could go wrong. To them, the exterminations were routine, controlled, inevitable. Adam went down, Adam came back, rinse and repeat, an eternal cycle they didn’t have to think about because he handled it for them.
And now?
Now he was here.
And they weren’t.
Something darker settled beneath his irritation, something heavier, edged with resentment he hadn’t expected to feel, not toward them. Not toward Heaven.
“They didn’t even think about it,” he muttered, quieter now, more to himself than anything else, his gaze unfocused for a brief second. “Didn’t even consider I might not walk back through that portal.”
Not one of them had prepared for failure. Not one of them had planned for what happened if their weapon broke.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
Then, unbidden, your face surfaced in his mind.
You.
His second-in-command. His most trusted soldier. The only one who could keep up with him without being told twice, the only one who didn’t hesitate when he pushed harder, demanded more, expected perfection and got it. You had always been there—at his side, just behind his shoulder, moving when he moved, thinking the same way, anticipating the same outcomes.
His… friend.
The word felt strange, unfamiliar in a way that made something in his chest tighten slightly.
Adam exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before letting it fall again.
“You made it back,” he muttered under his breath, more certain of that than anything else. You were too good not to. Too fast, too sharp, too stubborn to go down that easily. If anyone had survived that mess, it was you.
The question wasn’t if you had lived.
It was what you were doing now.
His brow furrowed slightly.
You had seen it. Him going down. That blade. You had been there at the end.
How had you reacted?
The image tried to form—your expression, your voice—but it slipped just out of reach, replaced instead by that last memory, your scream cutting through the chaos, raw and desperate in a way he had never heard from you before.
His jaw tightened again.
“Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now. “You wouldn’t just let that go.”
No. You weren’t the type to accept it, to bow your head and move on like the rest of them probably would. You were loyal to a fault, relentless when it mattered.
You’d want answers.
You’d want blood.
A faint, sharp smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything.
“Good,” he said under his breath.
Because if you were angry—if you were pissed enough—you wouldn’t stay in Heaven. You’d come back down. You’d tear through Hell looking for whoever did it, looking for Lucifer, for anyone involved.
And if you did…
His gaze lifted slightly, something more focused settling behind the red glow of his visor.
Then he wouldn’t be alone for long.
“Just gotta not get killed again before that happens,” he added dryly, rolling his shoulders as he pushed himself fully into motion, steps slower now, more measured as he merged into the flow of the street, keeping his head down just enough to avoid drawing too much attention while his eyes tracked everything around him, exits, groups, behaviors, patterns.
Information first.
Survive long enough to use it.
Then fix the rest.
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
may we have an adam fluff oneshot where he carries his tired partner to bed after an eventful day and they get all snug in bed? I’m very eepy and sore from a long long day at the beach
oh this is so soft, I’m absolutely taking this 🥺
adam + tired partner + carrying them to bed?? yes, immediately. I’ll write you something cozy and comforting, you deserve it after a long day like that.
Hi. This is my first time requesting anything since coming back to tumblr. I love your writing! If you're still doing your 500 follower drabble event, could you do #5 “even now, after everything, there’s still nothing i wouldn’t do for you.” with Lucifer. Please and thank you. Have a lovely day ☺️
Hi! First of all, thank you so much, that’s really kind of you 🥺
I’ve been pretty absent lately, so I’m not doing my 500 followers drabble event anymore. But if you’d still like a Lucifer story, you can absolutely send me a request and I’ll be happy to write it!
Summary: Adam died during the battle against Hell. You never thought that could happen — not to him. Since his disappearance, you’ve been devastated. You were his second, the one he trusted most, the one who stood beside him through everything. Deep down, you knew your loyalty went beyond duty, but you never had the courage to tell him how you really felt.
While you mourn him, Heaven starts to fall apart. The arrival of Sir Pentious has thrown everything into chaos — angels are angry, confused, and divided. A sinner has risen toward redemption, but no one realizes that at the same time, one of Heaven’s own has fallen.
Far below, Adam wakes up in Hell — changed, lost, and forced to hide among the very creatures he once condemned. He refuses to believe what he’s become, clinging to the idea that this is just another test.
Driven by grief, you and Lute want revenge on Hell, determined to restore Heaven’s order. But everything changes when you discover the truth — Adam isn’t dead. He’s alive… and he’s a sinner now.
Will that make you see Hell differently? Will it change what you believe about redemption?
And when you finally stand before him again, will you have the courage to tell him what you never could before?
Word Count: undetermined
Warnings: violence, blood, injury, emotional distress, grief, trauma, religious and moral conflict, strong language and swearing (canon level), mentions of death, war, and loss, slow-burn romance, tension, and angst, as well as occasional suggestive themes.
A/N: This story was inspired by Gravity from Hazbin Hotel season 2 — that song hit way too hard and sent my brain straight into overdrive 😭 It’s what sparked the whole idea behind For the Love of the Fallen, and I’ve been obsessing over it ever since.
If anyone wants to be tagged when the chapters start coming out, please send me an ask (not a comment — they get lost way too easily down there 😅).
a few fics i’ve read and loved recently.
i’ll be sharing some of them here, from time to time.
if something catches your eye, go give them the attention they deserve.
── .✦ Almost — @redvexillum
Three little words. One heart spilled. The other froze.
➤ Beautifully written and absolutely heartbreaking. Lucifer is soft, tender, and vulnerable here, and the ending twists that gentleness into pure devastation. It left me aching in the best way.
── .✦ Forked Tongue — @safination
Lucifer has a mouth. Lucifer uses that mouth. Good times occur.
➤ Hot, intense, and deliciously unholy—this fic takes full advantage of Lucifer’s forked tongue in the best possible way. The mix of tenderness and sinful hunger makes it impossible to look away. Absolutely scorching.
── .✦ Untitled — @rosen-und-mondlicht
Failed Assassination Hurt/comfort
➤ Equal parts tender and devastating, this fic shows Lucifer at his most protective and vulnerable. From the raw panic of almost losing you to the soft intimacy that follows, it’s a beautiful mix of love, fear, and devotion that lingers long after reading.
── .✦ Lucifer x overthinker!reader — @swagyalastorwife
➤ Tender, reassuring, and full of love—this fic captures Lucifer’s softer side so beautifully. His gentle comfort during a panic attack makes the bond between him and the reader feel all the more precious. 💕
awestruck ◇ — You were a friend of Charlie’s, doing your part to keep the Hotel running. You’d always been curious about Lucifer, but you never expected to meet him face-to-face in the middle of a hallway… while you were covered in goo. What a first impression.
letters to Heaven ❖ ✧ — While tidying Lucifer’s abandoned office, you stumble across a drawer full of unsent letters — desperate, furious pleas to Heaven written after his Fall.
the field of dreams ◇ ✧ — Nostalgia weighs heavy on you, until Lucifer shows you he would bend reality just to see you smile.
when the devil fall | pt. 1 pt. 2 ◇ ✧ — Lucifer is wounded in battle, and you’re the one to tend to him. But his powers spiral out of control, and suddenly you’re pulled through his memories—moments of him as a father, as a husband, as someone who once believed.
hold him gently ❖ ◇ — He’s been abandoned, broken, and left behind by Heaven itself. But when his walls finally fall, you hold him gently — and he learns that maybe, even in Hell, love can still save what’s left of him.
the heat of defiance ✦ — You’ve never met anyone who could match your wit — until Lucifer decided to test your patience. One sharp word led to another, and soon the King of Hell was proving that his mouth isn’t just good for talking.
unmasking ✦ ◇ — You never planned to outshine the Halloween decorations. But when Lucifer showed up dressed as the Phantom of the Opera, you couldn’t resist becoming his Christine. One look from him under that porcelain mask… and suddenly, you weren’t sure who was haunting who.
one little spell ◇ — On Halloween night, you joke about summoning a demon while reading aloud from a strange, dust-covered book you found in a forgotten antique shop. You expect nothing more than a cheap thrill — until the candles flicker, the air turns warm, and the Devil himself answers your call. Lucifer claims he’s here to “grant your wish”… but the way his golden eyes linger on you says otherwise.
pour me a drink ✦ — When Husk takes the night off, you end up running the Hazbin Hotel’s bar alone. The crowd is loud, the lights low, and you’re barely keeping up—until Lucifer strolls in, all charm and wicked smiles. He says he wants a drink, but you soon realize what he’s craving isn’t on the menu. It only takes one wicked smile—and then he’s gone from sight, leaving you breathless behind the counter.
diplomacy in hell — Charlie’s biggest dream is for everyone to get along — including her dad and Alastor. So she asks you (the one person both men seem to tolerate) to help them find common ground. It sounds simple enough… until you realize these two are physically incapable of spending five minutes together without trying to one-up, mock, or magically outshine the other. You accept for Charlie’s sake. You regret it almost immediately.
for my little star ◇ — Charlie announces she’s marrying Vaggie. Lucifer’s initial reaction is pure joy. But as reality sets in, his joy turns into anxious perfectionism. The King of Hell must ensure the most celestial wedding Hell has ever seen… and you’re the poor soul he ropes into helping him.
scorched ❖ — You’re spending a quiet day in the Pride Ring while Lucifer’s attending a meeting with one of the Sins. You're both talking on the phone and verything’s normal — until an explosion tears through the city. Lucifer hears the blast through the phone and freezes, horror flooding him.
the ride home ✦ — Lucifer takes you to a grand gala in the Pride Ring — a night of glitter, champagne, and too many eyes watching. By the time the night ended, the air between you was electric. He offered you a ride home — how could you refuse the King himself?
the duck room ◇ — You and Lucifer have been seeing each other for a few weeks now — stolen kisses, teasing, lingering touches. he’s confident in everything… except letting you near his room. Tonight, you finally slip past that boundary and discover his secret: an entire suite dedicated to rubber ducks.
holy rivalry | pt. 1 pt.2 pt. 3 ❖ ✦ — Humiliated by Adam, you storm out of Heaven and decide to hurt him the only way that’ll sting: by taking Lucifer to bed. What begins as spite turns dangerous when the clueless King of Hell starts treating you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Suddenly, revenge isn’t the problem anymore — your feelings are.
the devil you know — No one knows you’re the Radio Demon’s sister—and you prefer to keep it that way, mostly so you can torment him in peace. When Charlie sends Lucifer to find you, he walks straight into you undressing and forgets how to breathe. What starts as embarrassment turns into dangerous chemistry, and suddenly annoying your brother might come with some very tempting perks.
── .✦ 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴
sexting — you teach Lucifer what is sexting.
just right ✦ — Lucifer fingering you with precision.
no more appart ✦ — Lucifer's been gone, now he's back and you never want him to leave again.
reunion ✦ — when to lovers reunited, it leads to heated moments.
wet dream — you caught Lucifer having an interesting dream.
panic attack ❖ — Lucifer always know how to calm you down.
worship ✦ — you got to worship Lucifer's body
bickering — Lucifer and you can't stop bickering
do that again ✦ — You find out Lucifer's wing are sensitive in bed
apple scent ◇ — A cozy moment with Lucifer while decorating for Halloween
no trick, all treats — Lucifer and you decide to eat all the Halloween candy.
a treat for the devil ✦ — When he show up at your door on Halloween night, you can't behave
stop being horny — Lucifer sends you text when you're about to go in the shower
fright night ✦ — Lucifer confort you when you're scared of the horror movie, in spicy ways...
rest my king ◇ — You help Lucifer find sleep when he can't
lazy morning ◇ — You just want to stay in bed with Luci.
helpless ❖ — When you’re attacked, Lucifer is forced to watch, powerless, and realizes that even as King of Hell, he can’t always protect you.
relax, let me take care of you ◇— Lucifer keeps saying he’s fine—but his wings tell a different story. And somehow, you’re the only one who knows how to calm him down.
— You hadn’t meant to draw his attention—but the moment you did, it became impossible to look away.
✦ pairing — Vox x female!reader
✦ warnings — none.
The party is loud in the way Vox likes—expensive, controlled, every detail planned. The bass hums through the floor, lights shifting between deep blue and violet, his logo flashing across the screens like a constant reminder of who owns the room.
You’re halfway through your drink when you feel it.
That look.
Across the room, Vox stands perfectly still, one hand in his pocket, posture easy. Anyone else would think he’s relaxed. But the glow of his screen is a little too bright, the signal around him just a bit unstable.
You laugh at something someone says—nothing special, just polite—and that’s when he moves.
He doesn’t rush. He never does. He crosses the room like he already decided how this ends, people stepping aside without even realizing it.
He stops right in front of you, close enough that the noise fades a little.
“Why were you talking to them?”
His voice is low, controlled—but there’s something tight underneath.
You blink. “Because they were talking to me.”
His jaw shifts. The light on his screen sharpens.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?” he asks, leaning in just enough that no one else can hear. “Because it’s working.”
That… wasn’t planned. You can hear it.
You look at him properly then—the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch at his side like he’s holding himself back from grabbing you and pulling you away.
So you step closer instead.
“I wasn’t trying to,” you say quietly. “But I don’t mind that you are.”
For a second, he slips.
His hand finds your waist, firm, steady, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t care.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because next time, I won’t be this subtle.”
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
