✧✦ 7:13PM

꒰ 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝔞 𝒘𝒓𝒂𝒑 .ᐟ ꒱ 

[pxldth]

꒰ DARKEST LARIAT ꒱ admin info ‿‿‿ seven / nik(ita) ♱ he/she 8teen intp internet hermit oddball horror luvr 5w4

⤷ hazbin side blog, semi (as in barely) active writer

© pxldth 2025 • please do not plagiarize, reupload or translate any of my works without my consent.

[maersiel]

I would like to award you the highest honour I can bestow (makes you my dress up doll)

[maersiel]

let her dress him pls 🙏 (continuation of this)

[virophage-exe]

this post by @a-small-lemon was funny so I drew it

Val is one of those people who ask if you still loved them if they were a worm etc. Those people are so annoying and prove dumb guestions do, in fact, exist.

more mermaids

[lovetrouble123]

Busy Woman

Synopsis: Y/N is one of the most popular pop stars across the Pride Ring, except after a security guard refuses to let her into the venue—Vox shows up to help her out

TW: suggestive nsfw content

A/N: Once again, I got carried away with this. Was gonna add smut, but ehhhhh

Masterlist

Y/N had preformed in thousands of venues across Hell since her arrival. The last place she expected to end up was in Hell, but after too many drugs, alcohol and sex, it started to become less of a surprise.

Every venue she preformed at was different than the last. Some were really nice and clean, others consisted of a small stage located in some shady bar where she was lucky to make it out alive. But tonight, she would be playing within the Vee’s territory for the first time ever…and security had been the scariest part.

“No ID, no entry.” The security guard said, arms crossed and blocking the backstage door.

“Dude,” Y/N blinked. “I am the concert!”

“And for all I know, you could be some crazed fan trying to get their hands on Y/N.” The guard replied, “good try. Now scram.”

A groan escaped from Y/N’s mouth, although it was more like she was baffled as she pointed at the poster outside the venue. “That is literally my face! You can’t make this shit up.”

The guard looked at the poster and then back at Y/N. “Listen, I can’t let you in. And I’ll call for back up if you don’t leave.”

A strangled, frustrated noise left her mouth again. She tapped her phone screen checking the time—sound check would be starting any minute now, and she needed to get in there.

“Dude. My guy, I just walked out for a smoke break!” Y/N exclaimed, “what can I do to show you that I’m not bull shitting you?”

“You can leave. That’s what.”

A surge of blue electricity appeared in between them, making Y/N take a step back in fear. Then, the Technology Overlord appeared, looking back at her with a smirk. “Is something the matter, my dear?”

Y/N blinked up at Vox, brows furrowing in confusion. “I don’t—why are you here?”

“I own the building, sweetheart.” Vox replied before looking at the security guard. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re refusing to let our star in. If you value your life, you’ll let her in.”

The security guard nervously laughed and stepped aside. “My a-apologies, Mr Vox.”

“That’s what I thought.” Vox turned back to Y/N, “come along, my dear.”

Y/N followed behind Vox because…what else was she supposed to do? He literally materialized out of thin air and saved her from killing that dumbass security guard without a thought. Though, in hindsight, he doubted that the Overlord would have cared.

The halls of the venue were cold and filled with blue LED lights that seemed to flicker as if bowing to him like a sentient being.

Vox didn’t speak right away, just walked ahead of her like her own personal escort. His hands were behind his back, his suit practically glowing neon under the dim lighting.

“So, uh, do you always stalk your employees like that?” Y/N awkwardly asked.

“I was just checking the perimeter.”

“Why?”

“I own the building.”

“Really? I figured an Overlord wouldn’t care if some pop star had their reputation ruined.” Y/N admitted.

“I have a brand to uphold.”

“And it has nothing to do with the fact I’m preforming here for the night?”

The lights flickered as if confirming her suspicions, making her smile. “No way..!”

Vox continued to walk ahead of her.

“You’re a fan!” She exclaimed, running after him.

“I am not—.”

“Yet you materialized out of thin air!” She countered, “any other Overlord would have left me.”

“Like I said, I have a brand.”

“You threatened his life.”

“I’ve been having issues with him. Besides, Valentino and Velvette would lose their shit if their favorite celebrity were late,” Vox nonchalantly said.

“So, what’s your favorite song of mine?” Y/N curiously asked.

“I don’t have one—.”

“Is it my debut?” She pressed. “A lot of people like that one because of my vocal range.” She then perked up, “or is the one where I’m moaning about—?”

A spark of electricity fizzled at his claws making Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, it is!” She then laughed, noting the blue flush on his screen. “I’ll have to play that one tonight, just for you.”

“Do it, and I’ll ruin your reputation,” Vox threatened.

But Y/N didn’t believe him, silently noting that she’d do a surprise song just for him.

•••

Velvette and Valentino stood in the VIP section by the stage, screaming and losing their minds as Y/N preformed on stage. But Vox only stared, his screen blank as he watched Y/N sing and dance for every sinner in the venue.

“Did you piss her off or something?” Velvette asked over the music, “because she keeps looking over here!”

Vox glanced at Velvette before replying, “I just helped her out earlier. Some asshole refused to let her in. That’s all.”

“Damn, I wish she’d stare at me like how she’s staring at you.” Valentino said, “because she’s literally eye fucking you.”

Vox’s screen glitched, a blue hue coming to his screen as he looked at Valentino. “She is not—!” He sighed, “she is not ‘eye fucking’ me, Val. She’s just being humble or whatever.”

Velvette loudly laughed as Valentino raised a brow. Needless to say, the two of them hardly believed anything Vox said, especially when he looked like how he did.

The lights in the venue cut out as the screams grew louder as one of her songs finished.

“Outfit change?” Velvette perked up, reading over the comments on her livestream. “I think so. I’ve been staying away from spoilers.”

“How much more can she lose?” Valentino asked, “she’s already wearing—holy shit, you think she’ll come out naked? Fuck, that’d be hot.”

“Gross.” Vox replied, looking at the stage with a silent anticipation.

A minute later, a single spotlight came on, illuminating Y/N who stood in the middle of the stage, wearing a new outfit, something blue and much more revealing than the last one.

She smiled, microphone to her lips as she spoke to the crowd like it second nature. “Alright, Hell, as you all know, this venue is owned by the Vee’s! As a thank you to them for letting me be here tonight,” her smile turned into a smirk as she looked over at Vox. “I thought I could bring back one of my songs for the night~.”

Velvette squealed in anticipation, waiting to hear the surprise song. Valentino blew Y/N a kiss, one of appreciation and Vox froze…well, until the music faded in of his favorite song that made his screen glitch.

Immediately, everyone began to sing along as Y/N seductively danced and moaned on stage, all while keeping her eyes locked with Vox’s.

A moan escaped her lips as she sang making Vox twitch.

“Are you seeing this shit, Vox?!” Velvette exclaimed, “holy shit! Are you glitching?!”

Valentino laughed, “she’s trying to fucking kill him! Are you sure you're just a casual fan like you claim?"

As Y/N dropped to her knees, Vox's eyes followed her, screen glitching again with a shade of blue.

"She's killing him, Val." Velvette smirked, "you might have competition now."

Valentino would've gotten possessive in any other situation, but this was one of the Pride Rings most popular pop star. "I don't care. She's practically unobtainable."

Another moan into the microphone made Vox come back to reality from his delusions about some twisted fantasy. "She's just being dramatic!"

As the concert came to an end, Y/N hauled herself up in her dressing room, wiping off her makeup as she muttered to herself about some much needed sleep. But a blue current of electricity appeared behind her, causing Y/N to scream and tumble out of her chair.

"What the hell, Vox?!"

"What the fuck was that out there?!" He barked out, voice and screen glitching.

Y/N got up off the floor and looked at him, "what do you—?"

"You know exactly what I mean." Vox argued, taking several steps toward the pop star. He towered over her, eyes peering down at her. "You played that fucking song, while looking at me the entire time and got on your god damn knees—!"

Y/N laughed, a brow raised. "Yeah? It's called preforming." She walked back over to the vanity, eyeing him through the mirror. "Don't tell me—," she gasped and spun around to face him, "did you get hard out there?!"

"W-What?!" He stuttered out, eyes wide, screen flushed with a blue color.

She gasped. "You did!" Y/N laughed again, "if you wanted me that badly, all you had to do was ask~."

Vox screen and expression stilled. "What..?"

"You heard me. I'm a pop star, babe." She smiled, "I don't get free time often. And hey, I've never had sex with an Overlord before."

Vox's screen glitched again, the blue shade fading from his screen within seconds and replaced with a smirk. "Are you offering?"

"More like asking," Y/N shrugged.

"Fuck it." Vox said, stepping closer and kissing her.

Y/N's fingers found the lapels of his suit, holding them tightly as she returned the kiss. "You really are a fan."

"I am not." Vox said, pulling away.

Y/N's laughter bounced off the walls, and Vox hated to admit how much he adored the sound of it.

Vox smirked, looking down at her, claws on her chin as he made her look up at him. "If I asked—..?"

"Would I get on my knees for you?" Y/N interrupted with a smile, "what do you think?"

His screen glitched, the blue hue returning to his screen again. "I think you want to just as bad as I want you to."

[pxldth]

Indomitus • Alastor

➜ SUMMARY ⋮ alastor finds his greatest challenge in a seamstress who hates him a little less than they pretend to.

➜ CONTAINS ⋮ alastor x gn!reader, the word seamstress is used but it’s neutral, reader has hair long enough to tie up tho, ooc alastor probably but it’s my fic so idc, he’s pathetic and ravenous excuse my freakness, so much tension but no actual canoodling my apologies

➜ WC ⋮ 2.1k

a/n ⋮ first time posting fanfic and i cant believe it’s for hazbin hotel. 🙂‍↕️ i kinda hate this but i need it out of my drafts, happy holidays !

Pointed dress shoes click along the pavement of a bustling shopping street, sinners warily skirting past the enigmatic demon in red who hums a jaunty tune under his breath like he wasn’t a feared Overlord who incited whispers everywhere he went.

Alastor turns a corner and feels his pulse thrum beneath the skin, fluffed-up deer ears hooking on the sound of busy chatter he can already make out from the building along the next stretch of walkway.

Before him was a boutique. It was a quaint little establishment that looked just as it did the first time he’d stumbled upon it freshly out of the grave nearly a century ago. Almost opulent in a way that nothing in Hell ever really was, like whoever owned it took great pride in their business and the appearance with which it presented itself. Someone of taste in this dreadfully barren wasteland of hopeless sinners.

There’s thorny bougainvillea crawling up the exterior walls, curling around sleek, ivory pillars until they can’t possibly grow any taller. The doors, large, mahogany things with shining golden nobs, glint with lamplight from the lanterns fixed to the overhang above it.

Grand was the only word for it. Even in its humble size. It wasn’t such an eyesore like Velvette’s own fashion department up in Vee Tower. The one you’d lamented so many times before.

With a burst of magic, the doors sweep open and Alastor steps over the threshold, but not a soul turns to look his way. For a moment, the Radio Demon doesn’t even seem to exist.

The ceilings around him are tall, more so than they seem from the outside, and hang with rose-petaled chandeliers that cast warm light across the room.

Alastor’s shadow darts off somewhere, blending into the shaded corners of the room like it’s lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to stir up trouble. Every so often, a candle's flame flickers with its presence.

He points his gaze outward, watching your assistants sweep about carrying billows of fabric and lacy finery bundled in their arms, close to toppling over completely. They talk so fast that Alastor can’t make out a word of it, not that he cares to try. He’s used to their gossip enough to drown it out on instinct alone, whispering about him, about you, about the two of you or what he wishes you were.

Crimson eyes sweep the room before landing promptly on your back, You, who stands amidst the calamity like a lightning rod catching sparks with your clothes immaculate and your posture poised, but the minor cracks in your facade don’t escape his notice.

You’ve got that crease between your brows from the frown that permanently worries your lips, and spirals of hair fall free of the normally pristine updo he sees you don often. From a glance alone, Alastor could tell you were focused, busy.

And he just couldn’t have that.

He steps forward, long legged strides winding through the hustle of worklife with careless ease, and taps his microphone along the floor tauntingly. That golden grin is stuck permanently to his face, but it always looks more genuine here, even when he’s up to no good.

Especially when he’s up to no good.

“How fares Hell’s most ambitious seamstress?”

It’s like clockwork, how you lock up before relaxing with that weary sigh Alastors heard so many times before.

You clutch your pen just a bit tighter, turning to him with a glare that could levy entire mountains. A shiver runs up his back, that tingling kind that coiled at the base of his spine with something like sadistic satisfaction.

You don’t waste time, narrowed gaze trailing down the list in your hand with a flexed jaw.

“I’ve got four alterations, one Goetia party gown and a dozen wedding dresses to tailor by the end of next week. Did you know winter is wedding season in Hell? Me either.” You seem out of breath, but more than that, irritated, eyes cutting up to him with hellfire sparking at the corners.

“Tell me, why have you decided to forsake me with your presence today, Alastor?”

Alastor’s grin curls wider if at all possible. He enjoys the way your words bite, the way you treat him like you would any other sinner to walk through those doors. Like you weren’t scared.

He found that in all the years he’d known you, you weren’t frightened of much. No boogeyman nor cryptid creature could shake your nerves of steel. Alastor often asked why you’d no interest in being an Overlord. Your response? It was childish.

He props his hands upon the microphone and digs it into the ground in a way that makes your eye twitch when it grates on the floors you’d probably had polished the day before.

“Oh, I was in the neighborhood. I seem to have found myself in a bit of trouble and ended up ripping a sleeve in the commotion, fabric is such a fragile thing.”

Your eyes narrow, briefly darting to the torn sleeve in question. He could fix it himself. You knew it, so did he. Alastor was only here to annoy you.

“And I suppose this trouble came in the form of a certain Media Overlord you no doubt picked a fight with?” You accuse, almost sneering at him.

Alastor rests a clawed hand over his undead heart, so very appalled. “Me? Stir the pot? Never.”

You give him a sour look.

“Either way, I require your expert assistance, I can’t very well walk around looking any less than my best, now can I?”

Chest puffed, your brows furrow in dismay, gripping the notepad in your hand so hard the open page rips. You stare intently as though silently willing him to spontaneously burst into flames.

“It is the busiest week of my entire year and you decide with what little sense that you have remaining that I must be free for a torn sleeve? Must you always be such an inconvenience, Alastor?”

He hums. “Only on days ending with Y.”

Vexed, you turn your back to him, sauntering off with the aggravated click of your shoes along wood floors.

“There’s a thousand other tailors in Hell, piss off and find one.”

“Oh, come now, my dear,” He beckons with a jolly laugh, following after you like some lovestruck puppy. Or, as you may call him, a fly that needs swatted. But Alastor knows you, and he knows exactly which strings to pull.

“A thousand others, but none as capable as you. Spare a moment for a loyal customer who so adores your craftsmanship?”

You stop, sharp, with shoulders raised up to your chin, and Alastor can hear the internal stream of curses you don’t dare utter.

Praise, as it would have it, was your Achilles heel.

A second, then two, before you raise a hand and whistle sharply into the room, flanked by a nameless assistant in the next moment.

You shove your notebook into her hands, ordering something Alastor doesn’t care to listen to before the demon— and all other staff, for that matter— scurries off. The room is emptied in five seconds flat. You ran a tight ship.

“Come. Before you cut into my lunch break.” You don’t look back to make sure he’s following you, but the telltale click-clacking of Alastor’s hooves answer that query fast enough.

He lets you lead him along, close enough to feel the annoyance in each step you take, but not enough to risk maiming, and when you swivel around with an about-face, he tips his head in feigned cluelessness. Always pushing.

You frown. “Must you stand there like an idiot? Your jacket. I can't mend it if you’re still in it.”

Alastor smiles wider, almost daring. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

You don’t seem to appreciate that much, and to avoid any workplace accidents involving fabric scissors or anything of the like, Alastor sheds his jacket with little more than a soft hum of enthusiasm, hand hanging limply when you snatch it from his claws with a huff.

Like a pampered house pet, he makes himself comfortable, leaning against your workstation with sleeves rolled high and scarlet irises glued to your every move.

“I’m charging you extra, for the attack on my patience.”

“As much as you wish, my dear.”

You sigh wearily.

He watches you like that, annoyingly present and ever so attentive to every last twitch of your fingers as you pluck a spool of thread and a microscopic needle from the pin cushion next to it. You preferred to do it the old fashioned way. Alastor often teased that the two of you were kindred spirits in that manner.

Until you threw a mannequin at him for that comment.

“If you’d let me outfit you with something better, the torn sleeve wouldn’t matter. Your idea of fashion is positively suicidal.” You mutter with a grimace, lithely guiding thread through fabric to mend the torn shoulder ripping a hole in his outerwear.

“It’s the opinion of most that the customer is always right, dear.” He muses with light laughter.

You scoff, focused. “Like hell they are.”

Often times, it was your way or no way with you. Something others might’ve found less than palatable, and yet Alastor had always found it impossibly entertaining.

“Perhaps one day I’ll allow your creative mind to run amuck with my aesthetics,” Says the ruby-eyed sinner, claws tapping against the desk beneath his hand. “In exchange for a night out on the town with yours truly.”

Blank, your eyes look up, before returning to the garment in front of you. Almost bored. It was about the twelfth time he’d asked, and that was just this month.

“Oh, Alastor. My afterlife is not mine to enjoy. I live in service of the people.” You drawl sarcastically.

“Hm, how valiant.”

It’s an excuse, one you’d used several times before. You’re too busy, you renounced his taste in restaurants, you had nothing to wear. Alastor thought you just liked to be chased, almost as much as he liked to chase.

No sooner than the last stitch being tugged taut and tied off does Alastor’s sentient shadow reach its claw out from the depths, tugging the leg of your chair until you’re brought face to face with the Overlord before you.

Strangely, the closeness seems to soften your edges, if only enough that you don’t immediately jump to bite his head off for the maneuver.

“I confess, I’m not only here for a measly tear.”

“I surmised.” You confirm.

He grins, strained and a sort of pitiful that only the Radio Demon could pull off.

“How ravishing you are when you make me beg.”

You exhale through your nose, the closest sound to a laugh he’d ever gotten from you, and stand from the chair with ease, so close he can feel every even breath you take.

“I’m not so easily charmed, Alastor, you know that. You’ll be begging a long time.”

His heart pumps in a way it hadn’t since he was alive. You set his senses on fire, nerves alight with a bleeding heat that wanted nothing more than to have you. Alastor had always been a greedy man, but this greed was new, different. It bloomed beneath the chest and caged around his organs like ivy, clutching tighter with every leap and hurdle you led him through just for the pleasure of knowing you.

Alastor chuckles a sound low in the chest, his voice a long suffering sound. “My dear, you are so very cruel.”

With eyes glued to his, you swing the jacket over his sturdy shoulders and slip each arm through their sleeves, nimble fingers running down his front to straighten the lapels and drag over each individual button like a taunt.

“We are in Hell, after all.” You hum, like a siren's lure to a bewitched sailor.

You pull away much quicker than he’d like, but not before brushing a hand along his chin, lingering just long enough to leave tingles behind. “Fee’s on your tab. Make an appointment next time, Alastor, I don’t take walk-ins. Even for loyal customers.”

Past his jaw, down his neck, all the way across the right shoulder. And then gone.

He supposes he’s meant to feel scolded, but Alastor only feels reborn. The slightest inkling of interest from you was enough to keep him going for the next century.

Eyes like rubies follow you as you go, lingering along your silhouette as hot as a brand that only fades once you’re out of sight.

The boutique kicks back up around him, beckoned to life like it’d finally been given permission to exist, and Alastor is left burning a hole through the door you’d exited out of with his eyes.

Yes, he did adore this quaint little shop.

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Imitation of an Angel, picture of holiness

Pairing: Alastor x f!reader

Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent in hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven.

You had loved him without knowing.

That had been the cruelty of it.

In life, he had been a gentleman. Charming, polished, well-spoken. The sort of man neighbors admired and trusted. The sort that old ladies complimented and young couples tried to imitate. He held doors, kissed your knuckles, brought home fresh bread on Sundays, and danced with you in the kitchen when the record player crackled to life.

He never raised his voice at you.

Never raised a hand.

And he never told you what he did when he left the house at night.

You only found out after he died.

They found him in the woods, mistaken for a deer by some drunk hunter, they said. Wrong place, wrong time. A clean shot. He died alone, not in your arms, not in his bed, but in the dirt, with leaves sticking to his blood.

The papers came after.

His name was everywhere.

Not just as a victim.

But as a monster.

Headlines snarled about him. Serial killer. Missing persons. Decades of unsolved cases suddenly stitched together like a grotesque quilt, and he was the thread running through all of them.

And you were his wife.

“Did you know?” they asked you.

Again and again.

That question haunted you more than his smile ever had.

Did you know?

Did you know?

Did you know?

You didn’t.

But you had stayed.

Even after courtrooms. Even after stares in the streets. Even after his belongings were torn apart for evidence.

You kept the ring.

And when you died, long after the world had decided what he was — you didn’t wake to pearly gates.

You woke to fire.

To red skies.

To screaming.

You woke to Hell.

Alastor had never imagined you would follow him there.

He hadn’t expected Heaven, of course, not for himself. But for you? You had been an angel walking among mortals. You had smiled at strangers, treated him with kindness even when the world had turned on you because of his sins.

You should have been rewarded for that.

But Hell had a twisted sense of humor.

He spent years convinced you were safe somewhere above: untouchable, unreachable, forever beyond his bloody hands.

He missed you anyway.

Sometimes, when the Pentagram City chaos dulled just enough, he imagined you walking through clouds instead of ash. Imagined you laughing again. Imagined you learning peace without him dragging it down.

He told himself that was better.

Even when it burned.

Even when it felt like rot.

Then one day, Hell buzzed.

Not just with violence, that was constant. No, this buzz was different. Excited. Greedy. Sharp.

A sinner had landed.

Not just any sinner.

An angel-looking one.

Whispers traveled faster than gunfire.

“She’s got wings,” they said.

“Not exterminator wings,” someone muttered. “But close.”

“She looks like Heaven but smells like Hell.”

The Vees heard first, of course.

They always did.

Vox saw a brand. A spectacle. Something new to broadcast and twist into entertainment.

Valentino saw profit - flesh and fantasy dressed in false holiness.

Velvette saw a trend - something unreal, something dangerous, something that would make Hell click “share.”

They crowded around you like vultures in designer clothes.

And you stood there, confused, shaken, white-feathered wings trembling behind you, still dressed like a soul that hadn’t realized it was damned.

“You wanna be safe?” Vox asked, his screen flashing blue and red. “You stick with us.”

“You’re a walking fetish, sweetheart,” Valentino purred, smoke curling from his fingers. “We’ll make you legendary.”

“We can make you untouchable online,” Velvette added, smiling sharp. “But you gotta play smart.”

They framed it like an offer.

But you could feel the leash already tightening.

And that was when the air changed.

The static came before he did.

A low hum. A familiar crackle.

Like an old radio station sliding back onto a long-lost signal.

The crowd shifted.

They always did when he arrived.

Red eyes. Antlers. Smile too wide to belong to a sane being.

Alastor stepped through the parted crowd like he owned the ground beneath it.

And when he saw you?

For one terrible second, the world stopped.

Not in a poetic way.

In a violent way.

The air warped.

The shadows froze.

His smile flickered, not gone, never gone, but strained, like cracked porcelain trying to hold.

“…Darling?” he said softly.

You stared.

Because you knew that voice.

You’d heard it across dinner tables. Through laughter. Through lullabies hummed when the world felt too loud. Through radio, most importantly, because now his voice carried static on its own.

“You,” you breathed.

His gaze traced you: your face, your hands, your wings.

Wings.

The irony was cruel, even by Hell’s standards.

“I always knew you had a touch of the divine,” he said lightly. “I didn’t expect Hell to agree.”

Vox recovered first. “Whoa, whoa, whoa...you know her?”

Alastor smiled wider.

“That,” he said, “is my wife.”

Silence cracked.

Valentino blinked.

Velvette stilled.

Vox’s screen glitched.

You didn’t have time to react before a cane tipped up, his shadow curling unnaturally, and the space around you bent.

One second, their voices were in your ears.

The next, everything vanished.

You were inside the Hazbin Hotel.

An old couch. The warm colors. The fake hope clinging to its walls.

He had set you down carefully, like you were made of something fragile rather than dead.

“They will not touch you,” he said immediately. “Not while you’re here.”

You stepped back. Your wings rustled.

“Don’t,” you said. Your voice shook now. “Don’t pretend like nothing happened. I know what you were. I know now.”

His smile softened, just slightly.

“I had hoped,” he admitted, “you’d never have to find out.”

“You let me mourn you,” you snapped. “You let me defend you when they called you a monster.”

“And I will let myself burn for that,” he replied calmly. “But not let them have you.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it because you want to own me.”

His eyes darkened.

“You were never owned.”

He stepped closer.

“But you were loved. Are loved. And Hell doesn’t get to take that from me as punishment.”

“You killed people,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed, without flinching.

“And you never told me.”

He tilted his head.

“No,” he said. “Because I wanted at least one thing in my life to be innocent.”

Your throat tightened.

Your wings stirred behind you, unsure.

“And now look at you,” he added gently. “Hell’s little joke. Giving you feathers when all you ever did was bleed for me.”

Silence wrapped around you.

He didn’t reach for you.

Just stood there, as he always had, waiting.

“I don’t trust you,” you said finally.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he answered. “But you will stay. The Vees won’t let a creature like you go without trying again.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile regained its edge.

“Then I shall continue fussing over you until you’re tired of fighting it,” he said cheerfully. “Just like I used to with your cold feet in winter.”

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

…He remembered everything.

“Come now,” he added more softly, offering his hand. “Let your monstrous husband keep you safe a little longer.”

And even with all your fear.

Even with the truth clawing at your heart.

You still recognized the way his thumb hovered at your knuckles, just like it always had.

The lobby had gone silent when he led you down the staircase.

You didn’t remember ever walking beside him feeling so much space between your bodies.

Even in life, when you argued, when doors slammed and pride stood tall between you, there had always been something warm tethering you together. A gravity. Something unspoken that kept pulling you back.

Now there was distance laced with danger, curiosity, fear.

Every eye in the Hazbin Hotel followed the two of you.

Charlie froze mid-sentence, smile softening with surprise.

Vaggie’s hand drifted instinctively closer to her spear.

Angel Dust looked you up and down, whistling low.

Husk blinked slowly from the bar like he was trying to decide if you were real or another hallucination from cheap booze.

Niffty had already practically teleported next to you, sparkling-eyed.

Alastor gestured to you with a flourish of his cane.

“Everyone,” he announced, voice carrying through the room like a radio broadcast from an older, more dangerous era, “this is my dear wife.”

Dead silence.

Then...

“Well, isn’t this just precious,” Angel drawled. “Didn’t know you were the marrying type, spooky.”

“Only once,” Alastor replied pleasantly.

“You’re his what?” Husk muttered.

“Was his wife,” you corrected automatically, voice dry.

“Is,” Alastor returned smoothly. “Death is merely a minor inconvenience in that regard.”

Charlie blinked, then brightened instantly. “Hi! Hi, oh my gosh, hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Charlie. I own the hotel and...and we’re trying to help people get into Heaven. Redemption and all that!”

You hesitated.

Something inside you tightened.

Because that…That had struck something painfully human in your chest.

“Heaven?” you repeated.

“Yes,” she said warmly. “Some of us believe sinners can be redeemed. It’s not impossible.”

Your fingers curled slightly.

You thought of your life.

Of the people you forgave instead of fighting.

Of the way you stood beside him even after the world collapsed around you.

“I don’t think I belong in hell,” you said quietly.

The room went still again.

And this time, Alastor didn’t interrupt.

Charlie’s eyes softened.

“Well,” she said gently, “that’s exactly why you should stay.”

You swallowed.

And then Alastor spoke again, far more casually than the moment deserved.

“She will be,” he said, “staying in my room.”

The silence was no longer shock.

It was alarm.

Angel choked on his gum.

Husk raised a brow.

Vaggie’s eye twitched.

“In your...” Charlie started.

“My room,” he repeated. “It is already sufficiently large. And significantly better protected.”

You stiffened beside him.

“And what if I don’t want that?” you asked under your breath.

“You do,” he murmured back. “Even if only temporarily.”

His smile stayed fixed, polished, controlled, but there was something just beneath it that hadn’t existed before. Something desperate.

Charlie hesitated only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Um. That’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable.”

You weren’t. But you also weren’t about to continue arguing in public. So you just nodded once. And he guided you away.

His room smelled strangely familiar.

Like old paper. Like dust caught in sunlight. Like static after rain.

The same tidy precision he always carried with him extended here, books stacked, cane placed perfectly against the wall, gramophone resting like a relic of another world.

Except now there were claw marks in the furniture.

And shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.

You stood near the door, wings shifting uncertainly behind you.

They felt…heavy.

And wrong.

You tried to fold them, but the unfamiliar weight threw off your balance. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the back of a chair.

Alastor was instantly there.

“Careful now,” he said, hands hovering just close enough to catch you without touching.

“I don’t know how to use these,” you muttered.

“Well,” he replied, “I have had to adjust to antlers, hooves, and an infuriatingly expressive tail. You’ll manage feathers.”

Still, his voice softened.

“You never cared much for balance in dancing either,” he added, teasing gently. “Yet you always insisted on leading.”

You huffed a weak laugh despite yourself.

“You complained about that forever.”

“And I survived,” he said. “A small miracle.”

You tried folding them again.

Slower this time.

They trembled.

Your hands moved instinctively to smooth them, fingertips brushing along the feathers as if checking if they were real.

They were.

“You think I don’t belong here,” you said quietly.

He stilled behind you.

“I think,” he answered, “Hell is inefficient at deciding who deserves what.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying their system is broken.”

He chuckled softly, the sound layered with static.

“I always told you bureaucracy was the greatest evil of all,” he replied.

Then, after a moment:

“You do want their little redemption plan, don’t you?”

You nodded hesitantly.

“I don’t want to spend eternity surrounded by murderers and…other demons,” you admitted.

A grin curved his mouth.

“Well,” he drawled, “that ship has regrettably sailed, darling.”

You glared slightly over your shoulder.

“I meant worse ones.”

He laughed.

A real one this time.

You turned more fully toward him. He looked different, monstrous, taller somehow, sharper around the edges.

More honest.

“You’re trying very hard,” you said.

He tilted his head.

“To do what?”

“To show me you’re the same man.”

His eyes softened just a fraction.

“I am,” he said.

Then his gaze darkened.

“I merely look closer to the truth now.”

You swallowed.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Oh, I rather enjoy it,” he replied. “It’s quite liberating, actually. No more polite pretending. No more hiding the mess beneath the suit.”

Then, more quietly:

“You loved me before you ever knew.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And now you know everything,” he continued, stepping closer, careful not to crowd you. “And I will not force you to love me now.”

A long beat of silence.

Then, softer, almost hesitant:

“But I will still take care of you. Whether you deserve Hell or Heaven.”

Your wings stilled.

You searched his face, the familiar smile, the unfamiliar monster, the same eyes that once watched you across candlelit dinners.

“…You’ve always been like this,” you said. “Doting, I mean.”

“I prefer the term devoted,” he replied.

Representative. Elegant.

Terrifying.

And heartbreakingly, horribly yours.

He reached up slowly, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, and gently tucked a stray feather back into place.

His touch was careful.

Like he was still afraid you might disappear.

“And until Heaven decides it wants you,” he added quietly, “you’ll have me.”

Read part 2 here ! Part 3

[9kaytor7-deactivated20260322]

HEAR ME OUT!!!! I talked about vox x deer!reader given how they resemble Alastor. But let’s turn the tables!!! What about ALASTOR x SHARK!reader?!?!?! THE PARARELLS!!!

BUCKLE UP EVERYBODY! :DDD *cracks fingers*

The road for Alastor to even stand near shark!reader without wanting to choke them to death is LoooOOOOOong! Firstly because, ofc they remind him of Vox, and secondly cause they think Vox sent them to the hotel to fuck with him.

But you don’t even know who Vox is, hell you don’t even know who Alastor is! You are this energetic sandpaper-textured puppy that jumps around the hotel trying redemption out cause “Why not!” :))

From the moment you stepped into the hotel, Alastor knew.

Every instinct he possessed flared sharp and immediate, the way it always did when something deeply inconvenient entered his territory.

Your silhouette alone was enough to set his teeth on edge: broad shoulders rolling with careless confidence, a fin cleaving the air behind you like a blade, and that grin- too wide, too effortless- that scraped against old nerves and dragged Vox’s smug, static-laced face straight to the forefront of his mind.

His eyes narrowed at once, beckoning Charlie aside, pupils tightening as he leaned down toward her with a smile that was all polished sugar and buried violence.

“That one,” he murmured, voice low and syrup-thick, the anger beneath it unmistakable. His cane tapped sharply against the floor as he pointed to the exact spot where you had been standing only a heartbeat ago. “Care to explain?”

Charlie followed the gesture, then paused. She blinked once. Then twice.

“Who?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Alastor turned back toward the lobby, A muscle in his jaw jumped...

You were gone.

Down the hallway, the answer to that mystery revealed itself in the form of chaos. You were sprinting full tilt after KeeKee, laughter ringing off the walls with the unrestrained joy of someone who had clearly never been prey in their entire existence.

“KITTY, WAIT! PLEASE!-” you shouted, skidding around a corner far too fast.

Your foot caught on your own tail, momentum betrayed you, and you went down in a spectacular sprawl, crashing face-first into the carpet with a thud that made the floorboards shudder.

KeeKee shrieked, phased through the wall in a puff of spectral smoke, then reappeared seconds later. Just in time for you to sit up, triumphant and grinning, scooping her into your arms like you’d planned it all along.

You flopped back onto the floor with a breathless laugh, hugging her to your chest as she purred contentedly. Your tail thumped against the ground in wide, enthusiastic arcs, each impact rattling the bottles behind the bar hard enough to make Husk glance over with mild concern.

Alastor stood perfectly still.

Charlie laughed, bright and easy. “See?” she said, gesturing helplessly in your direction. “Not a danger!”

He did not respond.

He simply stared, his smile frozen in place as something sharp and irritated crawled behind his eyes.

You noticed him then and lifted one arm in an enthusiastic wave, KeeKee tucked securely against your side, her purring growing louder as you scratched under her chin.

Alastor’s smile tightened, just a fraction- enough to betray him to anyone who knew how to look.

And for reasons he could not yet name, that grin of yours felt far more dangerous than any weapon.

After that, Alastor had a mission.

It settled into him with the certainty of a verdict, sharp and absolute: you would be executed.

This was his hotel- his carefully curated stage, his sanctuary of rules and order- and he would not allow shark filth to roam its halls unchecked, grinning and thumping your tail like you owned the place! Whatever game Vox thought he was playing, it would end here, and it would end with you gone.

Or so Alastor told himself.

What he failed to notice, at first, was how quickly intent began to rot into fixation.

Hours slipped away without his awareness as he lingered in shadowed corners, whispering calculations beneath his breath, red eyes following your movements with unnatural precision.

He began timing your routines down to the second, counting your steps as you paced the halls, memorizing the uneven rhythm of your tail as it struck walls and floors- thump, thump, thump- until the sound embedded itself into the hotel’s heartbeat.

He told himself it was preparation, necessity, professionalism, yet the truth curled uncomfortably close: he was learning you.

Each trap grew more elaborate than the last, layered with curses and mechanical elegance, every detail engineered to be flawless and, more importantly, deniable. Charlie could not suspect him-not when you finally met your end, not when the body disappeared, not when the hotel returned to peace.

And yet, impossibly, you dodged every single attempt.

A falling fixture missed you because you stopped to hum to yourself. A rigged doorway snapped shut inches behind your tail as you doubled back, distracted by a stray stain on the carpet. Poisoned food went untouched because you forgot it entirely, too busy enthusiastically explaining something to Angel that made no sense to anyone involved.

Each failure chipped at him, slow and maddening.

Who the fuck were you?

What should have been a clean execution devolved into something far messier, a prolonged game of cat and mouse in which you did not even realize you were being hunted.

Alastor stalked. You wandered.

He schemed in silence. You laughed loudly, utterly unconcerned, blissfully ignorant of the death stalking your shadow.

On the rare occasions he confronted you directly, attempting to loom or threaten or bare just enough teeth to remind you what he was, your response was always the same.

You would blink up at him, wide-eyed and unbothered, head tilting slightly as though you were trying to decipher a joke that had gone over your head.

Then you would laugh:

“Oh my god,” you’d say, waving him off. “You really are a goof!”

And you would walk away, tail swaying cheerfully as you went off in search of Charlie, leaving him standing there with his eye twitching violently, ears pulled tight against his head, fingers clenched around his staff so hard the wood groaned under the pressure.

Goof? GOOF?!?!?!

The cycle repeated. Again- and again. And again-and againandagai-

And somewhere between the planning and the stalking and the countless failures, Alastor failed to realize the most dangerous truth of all-that this was no longer about killing you.

It was about the chase.

And that realization, when it finally came, would threaten his dead heart far more than you ever could.

Shark!reader and Alastor in a nutshell:

[fenjime]

Can you do vox reacting to extreme ego boosting? Like I mean 24/7 praise and then suddenly stoping for like a day (most likely stopping because of work or being busy/stressed) 🥺

“ You’re Forgetting Something . . . “

╰┈➤ Summary: You always gave Vox your utmost attention. He was your darling husband, after all. That, and he needs it to survive. It’s like you’re his personal cocaine. But, one day, you were particularly stressed and didn’t have time for coddling Vox.

╰┈➤ Tags: fluff, vox being a megalomaniac (per usual), vox being egotistical (per usual), g/n / fem reader

╰┈➤ (a/n: thank you so much for this submission! this is such a cute idea<3 hope i did it justice!)

Although you were married to one of the richest sinners in Hell, you still had a job.

Not because you needed one, of course, but simply because you wanted one. You needed something to pass the time, and you couldn’t just rot all day at home. Plus, you did feel a little bad about Vox funding practically everything. It took a shit ton of convincing, but you two settled on you working from home. Good enough. Vox was always possessive, wanting you to stay as close as possible and being tucked away from the world. A part of you was aggravated that you didn’t have freedom anymore, but a part of you also didn’t quite mind. It was Hell, so outside of Vee Tower was just drugs and despair with the occasional hooker. Even when you were alive you didn’t go out much when there was more to the world.

You work at a small marketing firm, and you mostly just meet with clients through calls, fill out paperwork, and answer emails. It didn’t pay much, but you weren’t necessarily working for the cash. Vox paid for everything you could ever want and more.

One thing about your husband, though.

He needed your constant attention.

It wasn’t one of those situations where your partner was just clingier than the average person, no, he would have full breakdowns if you didn’t reassure him.

You were working in bed with your laptop as your doting husband walked into your shared bedroom and started taking off his suit jacket. As he did, he started venting to you about some work thing.

“God, that meeting was fucking horrible. Do you know how moronic these people are? One of the guys said he wanted a whole segment on baking. Who the fuck watches baking shows anymore?”

As you type away on your laptop, you give him a brief ‘uh huh’ without glancing in his direction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Vox approaching your bedside.

“But, y’know, I do excellent work. So I got him off my ass.”

You kept writing your email to your client without really paying much attention to what he was saying. He’ll just see that you’re busy and talk to you another time. Emails are egregiously obnoxious to write. It’s difficult finding the correct professional terminology for telling your client to fuck off. Actually—can you just tell them to fuck off?

“… Did I tell you about that new jewelry store popping up? Really expensive… Reeaaal nice… I just bought a shit ton of stock from them. It’ll turn a pretty penny.”

How should you phrase it? “Please refer this to lower management”? No… that doesn’t have enough aggression… “This conversation is no longer productive, and I will not be responding to further emails on this subject”? Is that good? You felt like that got the message across. It’s got a good bite to it.

Vox suddenly slammed your computer shut. You threw your arms up in response and whipped your head up to look at him.

“What the Hell! I was writing something! You better hope it saved.”

He unexpectedly kneeled down, wrapped his hands around your waist, and put his head on your stomach.

“I’ll make that job fire you. Listen to me when I talk.”

Vox said his words sharply, but in a low, gentle tone. His screen flushed cyan, and you could hear the sound of his internal fans cooling him off.

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can.”

You gingerly placed your hand on top of his head, and softly ran it across his perimeter.

“Fine. What were you saying, hun?”

“It’s not like you give a fuck, anyway.”

Oh brother. Here he goes again…

“I give so many fucks. What is it?”

Vox looks downwards, and you tilt his head back up to make him look at you.

“There’s a nice, new jewelry shop I want to take you to. Best in Hell.”

“What if I don’t find anything I like?”

“I’ll buy you something, and you’ll like it, and you’ll wear it.”

He was always so very picky about your appearance. Your husband wanted you to look your best, wearing the newest brands and the latest trends. You weren’t sure if he just enjoyed seeing you dolled up or if he just wanted things to reflect good onto him. But, nevertheless, you complied. Who would say no to an offer like that?

“Okay, hun. Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Vox quickly got up, cleared his throat, and you could see the digital flush vanish from his face.

“I-I just wanted to… check on you before my next meeting. To make sure you weren’t dead or whatever.”

“I’m already dea—“

Before you could finish your sentence, he already grabbed his suit jacket and was out the door. Vox gets embarrassed far too easily.

[vincent-shittman]

if you know what dr. pepper fans are like you'll understand exactly why I believe to my core that vincent whittman would be a dr. pepper drinker.

[lovetrouble123]

In Another Life (pt2)

Synopsis: Y/N is living in V Tower, and Vox has been keeping a close eye on her for…no reason in particular

TW: blood

A/N: Here’s pt2!! People kept uh…demanding? Asking? Anyway, here’s part 2!!

Masterlist

part 1

@bjd260 @9kaytor7 @cherryblossofestival @lalalandincraz

Y/N Whittman had adjusted to her new life with an unnerving ease. She had learned the layout of V Tower within days, memorizing which elevators led where and which hallways to avoid. She had greeted each staff member under the Vee’s with polite words and kinder smiles, and Vox watched all of it through the camera system.

He watched her through the security feeds, constantly having one hologram open with a live video that followed her around. He listened to her when she spoke to employees and would apologize for bumping into them even though they always ran into her. He’d watch her from the moment she rose to the moment she fell asleep in her own penthouse that he provided.

He kept her happy by keeping her kitchen stocked with food and even supplying her with a personal chef which she quickly turned down. Vox made sure that her closet was large and filled with pastel colors, with everything designed by Velvette but chose by him.

He told himself that what he was doing was nothing more than to have control over someone from his past. But deep down, he knew why he had done this.

Vincent missed his wife.

For a man who had been dead for decades now, the longer Y/N floated around V Tower like a guest, the more he wanted to scratch the itch and confess.

Vox sat in his security room, a large monitor in front of him displaying Y/N’s movements in her kitchen. She wore a frilly white apron around her torso as she hummed a sweet melody. He wasn’t sure what she was cooking, but he didn’t entirely care. Or so he told himself.

He missed her cooking. He missed the days he’d return from work and the two of them would stand in the kitchen making dinner together. It was domestic. Something Vox wasn’t.

“Shoot!” Y/N squealed, jumping back as a measuring glass shattered against the floor. “Ohhh, that’s not good.” She said to herself, “I knew I should have moved it away.”

Vox watched, casually leaning forward in his chair to get a better look of her panicked expression.

Y/N let out a sigh before she reached for a paper towel and crouched down onto the floor. She picked each shard of glass up and delicately placed them on the towel, but when a piece of glass slipped, a deep cut found itself on her fingertip.

Y/N winced, jerking back as she assessed her wound.

Suddenly, the static in the room increased and Vox appeared in a current of blue electricity.

Y/N jumped, startled by the bright blue light in the room as she looked up to find Vox standing over top herself. “Vox? What are you—?”

“You’re hurt.” He said, “and you’re shaking.”

“It’s just a little cut.” Y/N replied, “my nerves are all over the place from it. I’ll be fine—.”

Vox reached a hand out for her. She took it and he pulled her up before cutting on the sink and placing her in front of it.

Y/N gasped as the water ran into her cut. She wanted to pull away, but Vox had already grabbed some soap and began applying it to her finger.

“It’s just a little cut,” Y/N repeated. “You don’t need to sterilize it.”

“It’s a deep cut.” He said, “it would be a shame if you had to lose a limb.”

Y/N stared at him before laughing, her cheeks turning a shade of red and her smile brightening. “It’s like a paper cut!” She said, “I won’t die from a paper cut or a small cut like this!”

Vox didn’t say anything, but his chest felt tight as a memory clawed its away into his mind.

A memory of them from a time when they were both happily alive, in the kitchen cooking together. Y/N had been cutting some meat when the knife cut her hand open. Of course, Vincent had freaked out as he tried to keep his crying wife calm.

“I cut myself on a knife when I was alive,” Y/N suddenly said, bringing Vox back to reality. He hadn’t realized it, but he had been running a clawed finger over the scar. “Me and my husband were cooking dinner one night.” She smiled fondly as if remembering the same memory. And maybe she was…but she didn’t remember him or the details.

Vox didn’t reply, he only cut the sink off and pulled out a first aid kit from under the bathroom cabinet. He wrapped a blue bandaid around her finger.

“I was making meatloaf,” she began, “a homemade recipe. Would you like to stay?”

Vox hesitated, desperately wanting to agree—. “No.” He said, “I have work to do.”

•••

“Y/N is so adorable, Vox!” Velvette exclaimed, “she apologized for something she didn’t even do!”

Velvette had found her way into Vox’s office once again, animatedly chatting about Y/N’s behavior while being Velvette’s model.

“It makes me want to write up a contract.” She admitted, “it’s been so long since I’ve had someone this obedient.”

“You’re not forming a contract with her, Velvette,” Vox stated.

“Why not?” Velvette sassed, “it’s been a whole fucking month! She’s well acquainted with this shitty place by now. You’ve given her free fucking housing, you’ve given her nice clothes and you guard her like her personal security.” She crossed her arms, “honestly Vox, it’s sickening. I think I prefer your bullshit love story with Val.”

“Y/N could be a reliable asset in the end,” Vox explained. “She just needs to trust me.”

“So showering her with gifts and affection is going to make her trust you?” Velvette scoffed, “because from where I’m standing, you like her as more than just an ‘asset.’” She then gasped, “are you doing all of this to fuck her?! Ugh! Ew! Gross, Vox! TMI!”

A blue flush appeared on his screen, and for a moment, he entertained the idea. It wasn’t like they hadn’t had sex before, but in Hell? …why was the idea kinda—?

“Don’t be vulgar.” He snapped. “This has nothing to do with sex.”

Velvette blinked and loudly laughed. “Oh my god! You’re offended!”

“Y/N is a clean slate here.” Vox stated, “that kind of thing is rare in Hell.”

“She told me you saved the day when she got a cut on her finger. Care to explain that, grandpa?”

“Injury leads to vulnerability, and vulnerability leads to exploitation.” Vox simply said.

“I didn’t see you coming to the aid of one of my model when she got stabbed,” Velvette admitted.

“She was replaceable—.”

“And Y/N isn’t?”

Vox froze for a moment, but it was long enough for Velvette to smirking—knowingly. But Vox spoke up anyway. “She trusts me…and that makes her cooperative.”

“Or dependent.”

“Which is useful.”

“You sure you wanna lie to me, babe?”

A sharp silence fell over the room.

“You sound like a jealous boyfriend.” Velvette added, “what? Am I wrong? Is this gonna turn into another Alastor fetish?”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Those are entirely separate matters.”

Velvette’s smirk only widened. “Is it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re one breakdown away from putting a ring on her. finger.”

“That’s absurd.”

Velvette tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she already knew the solution to. “You don’t let Val near her. You won’t let me contract her. You’re monitoring her like she’s classified information.” She shrugged. “Sounds pretty intimate for a ‘business decision.’”

Vox turned slightly, angling his body away from her, pulling up a hologram of analytics that he didn’t actually read. “I’m preventing unnecessary risk. Hell preys on the weak.”

“And you’ve appointed yourself her personal watchdog.”

“I’m the most qualified.”

Velvette laughed again, sharp and delighted. “You always say that when you want something all to yourself.”

“This isn’t about possession.”

“Then why does it bother you so much?” She pressed. “Why does the idea of her signing my contract piss you off so much?”

Because she’d be gone again.

He already abandoned her once. He couldn’t bear to do it again.

“She’s under my protection.” Vox simply said, “end of discussion.”

•••

The migraine hit without a warning, starting as an intense pressure behind her eyes that made her vision blur.

Y/N had been making her way down the hallway toward her penthouse after a long day of modeling for Velvette. Never in her life (or after life) would she had considered being a model, and yet here she was.

What would her husband think if he saw her?

Her knees gave out as she stumbled forward, her hand flying out to catch herself, but Vox had caught her before her fall and before she knew it, she blacked out.

When she came to, she found herself resting on blue bedsheets, accompanied by a sweet, melodic voice that haunted her mind like a broken record.

“Y/N, my sweetheart, you’re far too kind for this world.”

She sat up, chest aching and head spinning like that time she got drunk back when she was alive.

Y/N glanced around the room, panic setting in until Vox entered the bedroom, hands behind his back like an untouchable man.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

She opened her mouth before closing it, the voice from her unconsciousness returning. This all sounded…familiar.

“I heard my husband’s voice,” she softly whispered.

Vox’s posture stiffened, but he tried not to show it. “Did you now?”

“Mhm.” She nodded, “he…he almost sounds like you. Silly, isn’t it?”

He wanted to say 'no,' and tell her that he was her husband from decades and a lifetime ago. But he didn’t.

“Very.” Vox agreed, “I’m sure your head is still fuzzy after passing out. You must be very discombobulated.”

“I-I…I suppose so.” Y/N agreed, “he would be in Heaven, wouldn’t he?”

Vox didn’t know what to do, because this wasn’t Heaven. It was purgatory.

“Wherever he is, I’m sure he misses you.” Vox suggested as he made his way over to the bed, “but you shouldn’t dwell on such matters. It will only make your head worse.”

Y/N swallowed, her fingers curling into the sheets beneath her. “I don’t remember his face,” she admitted quietly. “Isn’t that awful? I remember how he made me feel safe. Although a little smothered at times,” she added with a weak smile, “but loved. I just…can’t see him.”

“That’s not awful,” he said after a moment. His voice was steady, careful. “Memories can degrade. Especially here.”

She looked up at him, her brows knitting together. “You say that like you know.”

“I know how Hell works,” Vox replied smoothly. “It takes what matters most and blurs the edges. Keeps the ache, discards the details.”

“That seems cruel.”

“It’s efficient.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh at that, then winced as her head throbbed again. Vox was there instantly, one hand hovering just above her shoulder—not touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth.

“Easy,” he said. “You pushed yourself today.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint Velvette.”

“You didn’t,” Vox replied, a little too quickly. Then, he corrected himself, “and even if you had, it wouldn’t matter.”

Her gaze softened at that. “You always say things like that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She hesitated, then asked, “did I say anything while asleep?"

“You called out for someone.”

Her breath hitched. “Him?”

“Yes."

She nodded, accepting it without question, and that trust—so easy, so willing—made something ugly coil in his chest.

“I think he used to call me sweetheart,” she murmured. “That word feels warm.”

Vox’s fingers curled slowly into his palms behind his back. “He had good taste,” he said.

“He did, didn’t he?” She frowned, “he worked so hard all his life just to be labeled as a cult leader.”

“It was more of a movement,” Vox corrected.

She looked at him, “what?”

“Ah,” he said smoothly, far too smoothly. “That was a poor choice of words.”

Y/N’s brows knitted together, confusion replacing the softness in her expression. “You said it like you knew him.”

“I deal in information,” Vox replied, already pivoting, already correcting. “Rumors. Records. Hell loves to mythologize people from Earth. Especially men with influence. ‘Cult leader’ is a convenient label. It’s easier.”

She studied him for a long moment, head tilted slightly. There it was again—that look she used to give him when something didn’t quite add up.

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “I don’t remember a cult or anything. I just remember him being sweet and caring…a loving husband. But…I feel like I’m missing something. Like there’s a door in my head that I want to open, but I can’t.”

You aren’t.

“And you shouldn’t try to.” Vox assured. “Digging into your past here is dangerous. Hell has a way of weaponizing nostalgia.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I just want to understand.”

Understanding would ruin everything.

“You’re doing well here, Y/N. You’re stable. Comfortable. Protected.” He gestured subtly to the room and the tower beyond it. “That didn’t happen by accident. You’ve been through enough. Let the past stay where it belongs.”

[audimanrium]

workplace entanglement [chapter two]

pairing — vox x employee! reader 

summary — you are one of velvette’s trusted designers. when vox comes knocking and needs a new wardrobe line for him and the broadcast team, who else other than you could handle it? 

warnings  — semi-slow burn, typical Hazbin nonsense (death/murder/drugs/etc.),  use of pet names/terms of endearment, no explicit name or gender mentioned for reader, female body though, canonically queer reader, eventual smut (MDNI!) not in this chapter but eventually

word count  — 4.2k

author’s note — read part one here if you'd like! also, i'm adding a taglist — please let me know if you want to join the list!

tag-list —  @diabeticgoth

cross-posted onto ao3

vox masterlist

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The past few days working for Vox had been shockingly uneventful. With how much stress he seemed to put on Velvette about getting a designer now, you thought he wanted to launch the new public line faster than the pace you were slugging along at. 

You did, however, hate the constant looming that Vox would do as you worked. Every step, every move, everything you did was carefully surveyed by your new boss. Even if he wasn’t presently in the room with you, you could feel a red-eye target glowering into your skull from the cameras. 

By the end of your fourth day working under Vox’s boot, you had collected the style profiles for his main broadcasters and drafted up a few crude concepts. 666 News tended to get a bad wrap for being an insufferable team to work with — as claimed from numerous on-set crew and editors. Working with them thus far had been a breeze with no hiccups along the way, but this latest experience did make you realize that all of that expressed grief was solely because of Katie Killjoy. 

Normally you wouldn’t refer to any woman by this term, but God she was a bitch. 

You were down in the studio trying to catch all the hosts to show them the general stylistic choices you’d be giving them, all pre-approved by Vox himself. The other hosts were shockingly compliant and helpful, letting you pick and prune them as you draped different fabric colors on them and force them to stand still while you took their measurements. 

By the time you got to Katie, you felt like shooting yourself with an angelic bullet. Every idea you threw at her got insulted, berated, torn apart, and absolutely trashed on. Katie wouldn’t even let you take her measurements for said putrid ideas, smacking your hands away as soon as you brought the tape even near her. As she was on her ranting rampage about your “shit-for-brains ideas”, you were already typing away on your vPhone. 

Normally you weren’t the type to cry to Papa, but you knew only one monster could placate the torment that was Miss Killjoy. And Vox did say, “If you run into any trouble with the team, shoot me a message and I’ll be on my way.” 

hi sir. could you step in? katie’s being … difficult 

In the instant you sent your text, Vox came zapping through your phone and pixelated into full-form between you and Katie. While he was slightly shorter than her, his presence was still overwhelming and powerful. Katie immediately folded, her previous yapping muddled into a girlish giggle.

“Oh! Hello there, Mr. Tall, LED, and Handsome,” Katie flirted, batting her deliciously long lashes toward her boss. “What brings you down into my dressing room? Finally decided to have a quickie before I go live?” She bit her lip and tossed her flowy bob. 

“Are you giving our new designer some trouble, Katie?” Vox immediately cut in, expression flat and exhaustive on his face. While he completely ignored her suggestion, your face burned with prudence. You were still not very well-adjusted to the provocative outbursts of the sinners down here.  

“No, of course not,” She disingenuously hummed, a fangy grin cutting from ear-to-ear. Katie's neck bent at a sharp 90° angle, every bone cracking loudly as she unenthusiastically turned back to face you. She sent a not-so-subtle vicious glare your way.

“So what were the designs you wanted to show me again?” Katie clasped her hands together, gripping so tight you could hear the tiny crackles of each fingerbone.

You tried to keep the rest of this interaction as brief as possible, hastily flipping through the lookbook and noting down Katie’s personal notes. While you were working, you had zoned out the presence of your looming boss watching over your shoulder. You were solely focused on finishing up with Katie then getting the fuck-out-of-dodge. You thought he had left ages ago.

If you had been keen to Vox’s existence, you would’ve felt the holes he bore down your entire body. He examined you very closely, noting the pristine professional you maintained in your appearance — despite the obvious weight of exhaustion that smeared under your eyes. Your shoulders carried a lot of tension, not a day of respite has graced you in a while. You’ve been working to the bone for a long time and it was not going to get any easier with him. 

Silently — and unbeknownst to you — Vox was taking observational notes on you, storing all of his information up in his pretty RAM; it was slotted into an extensive file with your name plastered all over it. From the past few days of getting to know each other, he already had quite the collection on you. 

As soon as you were finished jotting down the final measurements, Vox flickered to your side. All the hairs stood up on your neck, his sudden appearance startling the daylights out of you. He drew an arm around your shoulders, claw curling around your arm. 

Vox was getting real comfortable with touching you whenever, not that you necessarily minded. Even if you did, it’s not like you would say anything about it. You didn’t know if you’d be able to. 

Vox started to rattle off some excuse to Katie and gave her a curt departure, dragging you along with him. Katie’s ego shattered as the pair of you left, immediately devolving back into her bratty and crude self. As you both slid out of her dressing room, you could hear Katie let out a mighty roar followed by the clattering of miscellaneous objects. 

“Could I rely on you to work extra diligently these next few days? I want to debut some of your pieces by Wednesday’s broadcast.” Vox’s hand was still wrapped around your forearm, squeezing tighter. You could feel the sharp angle of his claws digging into your bare skin. This motherfucker was threatening you.  He was expecting at least six new suits within 3 days time, which wasn’t impossible, but it absolutely wasn’t reasonabe. You regretted even thinking that the work was quiet and light for these past few days. Dumb fucking idiot.

With a candied smile, you gently pat the claw that was tightening around your arm. “Of course, sir,” You complied through clenched teeth. Vox immediately let go of your arm, but still keeping his hand hovering behind your back as he ushered you into the elevator. 

“Good, glad I can count on you.” A little electric shock leapt from his finger and onto the buttons of the elevator, immediately shooting the two of you up into the highest floor. The rest of the elevator ride was awkwardly silent. You were still steaming with frustration, feeling your ears turn red hot. You were mentally babbling off to yourself the lingering list you’d have to make in order to make the deadline on time and be able to have flawless execution as well. 

Sinners didn’t need to sleep, so maybe you could use this as your advantage to grind out the work as soon as possible. In the back of your mind, you were hoping that this would be the first and only time he would demand such an incredulous deadline from you. Reasonably, knowing Vox, you were going to get pushed over the edge with due dates. 

“I want you to work at my place for the next few days. I’m interested in knowing your … process,” He chose carefully. You didn’t like his choice of words, it left a poisonous taste in the back of your throat. The pair of you stepped out of the elevator, immediately finding yourself in Vox’s penthouse. 

“I’ll have all of your supplies brought in here. There’s a spare room you can work in, or choose the living room — it’s all the same to me,” Vox held the elevator door open for you, letting you enter his home before him like a gentleman. In the brief amount of time you spent with him, you realized that he was such a curated persona. But that’s the bare-minimum charm everyone falls for.  

And you weren’t necessarily … not falling for it. 

The inside of the penthouse was as gorgeous as you expected it to be: high ceilings with a large chandelier hanging from the center, the latest VoxTech integrated into every aspect of the living quarters, and the absolutely mouth-dropping view of the district. Despite the ire that was billowing inside your stomach, you still felt a sense of envy and wonder while looking around his home.

Maybe if you were lucky, you’d be able to continue exploring the intimate view into this man’s life and live to tell the tale. 

“Make yourself at home,” Vox began to take off his jacket, leaving it to hang on the coat rack by his door. You kicked off your heels and began wandering around the foyer, finding a good spot to make yourself comfortable at. As terribly as you wanted to be nosy around the privacy of his home, you had a task to stay hypervigilant on. The minutes were already ticking on by the longer you stood around like a dolt. You sat on the plush rug in front of his couch, hunching over on the coffee table and droning away on the sketch pad. 

“Could I fix you a drink?” Vox had asked from the kitchen. Your brows knitted together, looking toward his direction with an air of suspicion clouding your judgment. With each passing hour, your wariness of him continued to rise. He was being too hospitable. 

“No thanks. I gotta stay focused here,” You deflected, immediately returning to making broad strokes on the paper with your pen. 

“C’mon, loosen up a little,” Vox insisted, chuckling to himself as he began to make himself an Old Fashioned. 

“Easy for you to say,” You retort. “You’re not the one doing all the work here.” As soon as those words escaped your mouth, you felt like clamping your jaw shut — regretting the rude tone you were giving. There was nearly not enough built up camaraderie between the two of you that would constitute banter; at least that’s what you had learned from working with Velvette. 

Vox let out a heartier laugh, an electric buzz radiating out from his screen with little sparks accompanying the merriment. Okay … this was strange. It was not long ago that he was subtly threatening you and now he was casually cackling at your intrusive response. 

“You’re right.”

What? No fucking way. 

“I’m sorry?” You were genuinely flabbergasted, mouth hanging so low you’d catch flies. There’s not fucking way he just told you that you were right. Vox continued to laugh, a sound so full of real elation, all to your dismay. Every iron gate protecting your frail life and ego stood upright, weapons at the ready. Your grip on your pencil tighted, daring to snap the wood in half. Was he mocking you? Possibly … 

You didn’t know it then, but he found you endearing. 

“I know you’ve heard all the stories about me,” Vox chided, pouring out his mix into a chilled glass. He briefly looked up at you from his task, slyly smiling at the dumbfounded expression you still held. 

“They’re all true, of course,” He began to undo his bowtie, letting it hang loosely from under his collar. Vox flickered into the lights, appearing right before you once again through the abandoned phone on the table. 

“But I’m not a bad guy. I’m on your side. I want you to be successful —but I still expect you to obey me.” Vox took a quick swig from his beverage before plopping onto the couch behind you. 

“Trust me,” Vox purred into your ear. He knew that he didn’t need to hypnotize you to bend to his will. You were already a good, dutiful pet — you just needed to let your skepticism go.

You could feel his warmth radiating onto the back of your neck, tensing sharply at the close proximity you both shared. He reached around and past you to lay his drink on the coffee table. If you leaned back just a little you’d knock into his firm chest. 

Being in his home. Being this close. Being this casual. 

You couldn’t tell what you were feeling. It swayed somewhere between fear and/or arousal. 

The rest of the evening was spent trying to ignore Vox’s presence on the couch. Fortunately, he was generous enough to not bother you — mostly scrolling away on his phone and answering emails on his laptop. The idea of him doing menial office work was comical to you, especially as you saw his half-lidded expression on his screen as he trudged through the boring slate of messages.

Closer to the end of the work day, Vox put on a movie in the background to play while he finished answering the last collection of messages. While you’d never admit it outloud, this dynamic was … nice. You weren’t actively fearing for your life and Vox was being extremely accommodating for everything you needed. With a snap of his fingers, he’d bring you whatever supplies you needed without even having to stand up. 

Despite your better judgment, you dared to think that this arrangement would fare better than the one with Velvette. 

“Is it ever weird to watch something on a TV?” You broke the silence between the two of you, focusing intently on cutting out the lining fabric for the suits. 

“Given your, uh, condition,” You teasingly added. 

“Eh, sometimes,” Vox laughed, taking a sip from his 4th drink this evening. He closed his laptop and set it off to the side of the coffee table, stretching out on the couch. “I try not to think about it too much.” He admitted, glancing over your shoulder to check-in on your progress. 

“How’s the work coming along?”

“As quickly as I can execute it, sir,” It was your turn to let out a little giggle, marking lines with chalk on the fabric. “If I keep at the pace I may actually be done midday Tuesday.” 

“Give yourself a break,” Vox drawled, shaking his drink as a ploy of temptation. “I’m telling you this as your boss,” Even though Velvette wasn’t in the room with you, you could feel your soul-bond chain to her tighten around your throat. 

“Okay, okay,” He didn’t have to tell you twice. You stood up from your place on the floor and dusted off your pants. “What spirits do you have?” Before you could travel toward the kitchen, Vox snatched you by the hips and drug you down onto the couch. 

“Please, let me,” Vox demanded, keeping you pinned against the plush surface. “You’re my guest, I’ll take care of it,” He leaned over you, making sure you weren’t going to follow him into the kitchen. Vox gave you a pat on your knee and disappeared into his phone. 

Your face burned, completely caught off-guard. Okay, yeah, your feelings may be leaning toward arousal. But it was just because of stupid close proximity, right? 

You wanted to bury your face in your hands, splash some cold water on your face, tear your hair out — literally anything that would bring you back to your reasonable senses. Maybe a drink wasn’t the worst idea. 

“What are you craving?” He had zapped out of the goddamn VoxTech oven. 

“Hmm, espresso martini?” 

“Ask and you shall receive,” Vox immediately began to make quick work of your beverage. As he was crafting your drink, you took this break as an opportunity to wander around his place. 

You shuffled over to the floor-to-ceiling windowed wall he had in the back of the penthouse. You opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, immediately getting whipped with the chilling winds that found you at this elevation.

Your arms cradled your body as you peeked over the edge, seeing the little ants of sinners perusing the streets of the Entertainment District. The bright lights of the city were stunning — the towering buildings in full-display of whatever advertising Vox was churning out — an absolute spectacle to behold. 

Before your afterlife, you were never really a city person. You enjoyed the soft comfort of a less urbanized area — small, intimate towns where everyone knew one another. There’d be closer knit relationships and bonds to be formed with customers that would frequent stores, or people you crossed paths with while sharing a similar path schedule. 

The big city was cold — devoid of the camaraderie that came from neighbors protecting one another. Maybe you were biased, or maybe it was just because Hell continued to be so bleak and idling in its ways that you found this particular district to be so … disappointing. 

“Beautiful,” Vox mused aloud. You turned around quickly, seeing Vox standing in the doorway with two drinks in each hand and his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His dress shirt had been partially undone at the top, daring your eyes to travel down and dive past the cut. 

That dreaded temptation of arousal kissed the curve of your neck, feeling heat rising into the most vulnerable parts of your body. The apples of your cheeks dusted with a rosy color — whether it was from the biting cold or the way Vox drew out ‘beautiful’, you couldn’t tell. 

“The city’s beautiful at this hour,” Vox continued. You fucking idiot, he wasn’t talking about you. Your blush turned into a reddened embarrassment, practically snatching the drink from him to save yourself any further humiliation. Taking a hefty swig, you cleared your throat, turning back toward the city skyview. 

“It is,” You dumbly spat out, swallowing your pride down hard along with another chug of your martini. “I’m sure having all of this to yourself makes you feel mighty powerful,” You leaned over the edge of the balcony, sighing wistfully at the sight. 

“Oh it certainly does,” Vox chuckled from directly behind you. You could feel his towering, looming presence. A tempting part of you wanted to feel his hands latch onto your hips again and have him draw you closer to his chest. Anything just to feel his warmth combat against the cold you were feeling. 

“What more can a man want when he has everything?” You hummed against the lip of your glass, sharp nails tapping along the cold metal of the balcony railing. 

“There are still a few things,” Vox replied smoothly. He was no longer looking at the city skyview, instead his gaze traveled to something more tangible. Someone more tangible. 

“Care to share?” 

“A man can have his secrets,” Vox chuckled, smiling against the rim of glass as he took a swig. He shifted from behind and stood next to you instead, his arm bumping into your own. Glancing down at you, he noticed that your free hand had rubbed your other arm in a futile attempt to relieve yourself from the cold. 

“Boo, how are we supposed to build a good employer-employee relationship when you’re being all mysterious?" You half-heartedly teased, looking up at Vox. 

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” Vox grinned, extending the glass of his whisky toward yours for a clink. You returned the gesture and tinked the edge of your glass against his. “I haven’t wanted to kill you yet — so I say you’re doing alright,” He jested, sending a quick wink your way. 

“I, uhm-“ Before you could stammer about even an outline of a response, Vox had draped his suit jacket over your shivering body. “Oh, thank you,” You swallowed hard, cheeks deepening in its crimson color. His hands smoothened over the silky fabric of the jacket — subsequently caressing up and down your arms. 

You couldn’t even finish your thoughts, mind trailing off from giving a response and focusing more on the idea of him. The way he attentively looked into your eyes, a slightly buzzed grin bore on his screen. And the way he was delicately caring for you.

Was it caring? Or something more akin to a manipulative plan he was conjuring up in that database of his. 

You took another long sip from your martini, trying your best to swallow down your feelings with your drink. 

“You’ve got …” Vox trailed off, laughing lightly at the little bit of espresso cream you had lingering on your bottom lip. Without further comment, he grabbed the bottom of your chin and swiped his thumb over the little white splotch. In the back of his mind, somewhat more sinister thoughts stirred. 

God, he was killing you. 

“T-thank you,” You shoot out. You needed Hell to swallow you whole, or for the next extermination to happen right here and right now. The longer you stayed out here with him, the more your judgement became hazed. 

The infamous charm was certainly working on you, and you knew he was being deliberate with his actions. Certainly, he was doing this as a ploy to catch you off-guard, waiting for a moment for you to act on something certainly regrettable. And as soon as you did something? He’d fire and kill you. 

“Are you not cold out here?” You tried subtly suggesting, holding his jacket around your shoulders. “Let’s go inside,” You murmured, quickly skittering away from the balcony and Vox. The warmth of Vox’s home was the perfect respite from the cold, and focusing on your work would be a good respite from him. 

Distraction was never something you enjoyed indulging in, it kept you away from what you should be focusing on. And right now, you need to keep your mind and body in check. You had a job to be focusing on — the career that you so painstakingly worked hard at and killed to have. No matter how tempting the fruit was, it would be your demise. 

“I should keep working,” A knot tied itself in your shoulder blades, preemptively dreading the spinal pain you’d go back to feeling. At this point, however, you’d much rather be hunched over at your work than even look toward Vox now.

On the surface, nothing about the way you were feeling was complicated. You were just a young, stupid sinner fawning over someone who was basically an idol. It was just like being in the proximity of any bare-minimumally-attractive celebrity. It didn’t mean anything. 

As soon as Vox bid you a good night and retreated into his bedroom, you exhaled the air of stress that bundled itself up in your lungs. It hadn’t even been a week since you started closely working for him and now you were genuinely contemplating resigning from this position. 

You were very grateful for the opportunity. You got paid more, more renown among the fashion world and throughout all of Vee Tower. But it was at the expense of your own mental anguish. Vox’s flirting was getting to you, and no matter the result this could end up messy. 

Your anxious brain swirled with various scenarios that could play out for you if you did or didn’t leave this position. 

You were caught between a rock and a hard place — no matter what you did, you were damned. 

If you cried to Velvette and resigned from being Vox’s designer, there was no guarantee that she would keep you. Especially because you would’ve (likely) upset her business partner and that was not a great reputation to have on your resume. She could always train a new sinner, get someone to replace you so easily. 

But she could keep you, and that ending may not be so bad. 

However, there was also the risk of Vox straight-up killing you if you decided to leave the position. Your leaving would stir up a setback for Vox and Velvette — all of the VoxTech company really. 

If you continued being Vox’s designer, there would be a few possible endings for you. 

His incessant teasing would continue to distract you from the task at hand, baiting you into ruining your own reputation and you’d be marked as the whore that slept her way up to the top. Even if you didn’t lean into his toying, the public loves a rumor. Just a lingering hand of his on you could start a wildfire in the company. Whether or not Vox would pursue anything with you, it didn’t matter — you both were public figures. People expect a scandal from him; you, however, do not get rewarded the same luxury. 

Alternatively, if you played into this Biblical temptation, Vox could kill you for any reason. He could say that you’re a liability for the work relationship — that you’re getting too caught up in the ‘relation’ part of work relations. He could get bored of you and boot you to the curb, finding a younger, brighter, newer designer for him to leech off of. 

Maybe you just needed a good lay with someone that wasn’t your boss to placate your attraction to Vox. 

The rest of the night you continued to diligently work on constructing the suits. Maybe, at the very least, you could finish this first assignment without difficulty and you could lay these ideas to rest. It would be then that you would think about the implications of this work more thoroughly. 

[audimanrium]

workplace entanglement [chapter one]

pairing — vox x employee! reader 

summary — you are one of velvette’s trusted designers. when vox comes knocking and needs a new wardrobe line for him and the broadcast team, who else other than you could handle it? 

warnings  — semi-slow burn, typical Hazbin nonsense (death/murder/drugs/etc.),  use of pet names/terms of endearment, no explicit name or gender mentioned for reader, female body though, canonically queer reader, eventual smut (MDNI!) not in this chapter but eventually

word count  — 2.8k

author’s note —this is the fic that’s based off the headcanons here! this will be a few part series that can be read as a stand-alone to the others!

for context, this chapter is basically the intro into employee! reader starting to work with vox

cross-posted onto ao3

vox masterlist

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Working for the Vees is a criminal offense that you would never wish upon any sinner in Hell. It’s a nearly impossible task to please them accordingly, but in the many dangerously lucrative years you’d been working in Vee Tower you’ve managed to at least satisfy Velvette. 

Working under her boot was a position that you willingly gave your soul toward. And so long as she had a tight grip on your chain, you’d bend and bow to every whim of hers. She loved your compliance, obedience, and willingness to please.

And it certainly helped that you weren’t bad at your job either. While many people worked in Vee Tower, not all of them necessarily passed through the screening process with bright colors. They needed as many bodies working for minimum wage as they could, but that also lends to many sinners being … let go. So to speak. 

It took a chunk of your hell-life, but you steadily climbed your way up the corporate ladder. Starting as a feeble intern rushing to get coffees for Velvette and her entourage of fashionable demons then being permitted to select fabric and ribbons for the brand line. You built a portfolio accrued from the left over scraps and your bright ideas, filling the thick binder will designs that you were proud of. 

The next time another designer got skinned and thrown out the tower, you were waiting adamantly for approval from Velvette. She didn’t love your designs at first — she doesn’t love anyone else’s designs other than her own anyway — but she signed you on as one of her very own designers. 

The climb to being a designer was already a treacherous journey, but the one that led you to where you were now as one of Velvette’s own protégés was even worse. Your peers kicked you down; they bit, scratched, and killed for the taste of some recognition and limelight.

As did you. 

The business was ruthless, but you were steadfast and desperate for appraisal. And that desperation willed you into shaking off the stragglers at the bottom of the ladder. In more explicit terms, you shed as much blood as needed to get to where you are. 

Now, you were one of Velvette’s top designers in the tower. 

At this point in your career, you’ve gotten the opportunity to style some of the idols and celebrities in Hell. Still with Velvette’s guidance, of course. She even entrusts you with helping her get dressed for business parties and galas. Velvette tends to rely on her own judgment for getting glossed up, but you’ve shown yourself to be of value. You would softly suggest alternatives for certain cuts and jewelry for her. And more often than not, she’d take your advice. 

Velvette was tolerable as an employer — especially as you worked your way into her good books. However, like her other compatriots, she could be an absolute nightmare once itty bitty interferences start to pop-up. 

Especially the day that Vox came down to her sect of the tower. 

“Vox, are you FUCKING kidding me?” Velvette screamed. Hundreds of eyes were now shyly trailing over towards the unfolding scene. Every model and designer attempted to continue working at a diligent pace, but the obvious squabble took up the air in the room. It was silent among the employees. 

You felt the hair raise on the back of your neck, fear lurking under your skin — unsure of how the conversation between the two Overlords would devolve. Hopefully no one was going to get dismembered this time. You kept your gaze down, zeroing in on pinning pieces onto the mannequin you were working with. 

“Sweetie, you know how important it is to keep our company image cohesive,” Vox kept a cool air about him, smiling snidely at the raging doll that was fighting to not rip her hair out. 

“Well yeah I know that, fucker,” Velvette groaned, hands tightening into fists around her pigtails. “But you can’t just throw this on me at the last minute! My strings are already pulled so tight here,” In her stress and anger, she started ripping and tearing the disgusting dresses that were prepped on some spare mannequins.

“I’m in the middle of getting ready for the show. Which, by the way, is in TWO WEEKS,” Velvette screamed. “I can’t just drop everything and make new outfits for your stupid fucking team AND Valentino’s whores,” She was starting to get fired up, numerous scissors floating around her and pointing directly at Vox. 

Vox was unbothered by the tantrum Velvette was throwing . In his mind, his request was not unreasonable — especially since her abilities were catered for exactly this purpose. While she had her clothing manipulation ability, it was still not enough time to curate brand new wardrobes for each person that would be seen by the spotlight. Velvette was always busy, and there would never be a time where she’d be free to do all that shit for them. 

“Ask your assistants, then,” Vox pointedly said, glancing around the room. The moment his eyes started drifting around, everyone’s heads turned away and down — pretending to be busy. You played with fire and stole fluttered looks their way, silently hoping in the back of your mind that Vox wouldn’t turn your way. 

The clatter of all the metal scissors dropping to the ground filled the otherwise silent room, the panging echo encouraging the tension of the situation. Velvette started stomping around her station, resisting the urge to send a flying fist in the middle of Vox’s flat face. 

“But I need them—” She started. 

“You’ve got plenty of them. Surely you can spare at least two for little ‘ol me and ‘Tino,” Vox grinned at Velvette, clawed hands reaching out to grab Velvette’s shoulder. “Please, for us,” His tone drips with saccharine insincerity. 

“How long do you need them for?”

“Indefinitely, but they’ll still report to you. Valentino and I will only need them here and there, but we want them as our designated designers,” Vox grins. He looks past Velvette and hones his eyes on the sheepish employees that were avoiding his fierce, scrutinizing gaze. 

You glanced over at one of your co-lead designers from across the room — both of you sharing the silent understanding that two someones from your team would be appointed to this sudden position. Working for Velvette already felt like leaving your still-intact head on the chopping block and waiting until the executioner finally kills you for looking at her the wrong way. But for the other Vees? You’ve heard stories all around the tower of how Valentino’s short and dastardly temper could be, and Vox was another terror you were afraid of even getting into. 

Vox was like an apex predator, constantly observing his prey to see who would make a hearty dinner for him — plucking out bugs that threatened the integrity of VoxTech. He was nearly impossible to dodge no matter what section of the tower someone worked in. His eyes were everywhere, and he was always watching. Vox kept his intercoms open for any acts of defiance, deviancy, or general incompetency. 

You’ve heard whispers of past employees taking a “sudden leave of absence” and those sinners never turning up around the Pride Ring after. Whether they were actually exterminated or treated like the town pariah, you wanted to avoid fading out into obscurity off of a tiny mistake. You fought fairly to get from the streets of Hell to living lavishly in the Vee Tower, and you were not going to squander the afterlife you’re living now. 

“I can figure something out,” Velvette huffs, rolling her eyes. “Give me like thirty minutes.” Vox’s toothy grin was wide, another satisfied gleam crossing his screen. 

“Thank you, Vel. You don’t know how much of a solid you’re doing for me,” Vox babbles, sparks fly off from the wiring around him. His large claws clasp around Velvette’s hand, enthusiastically shaking it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t fucking mention it,” Velvette groans, snatching her hand away from his grasp. “I’m still fucking irritated at you. You owe me big time, you ass,” She sneers, waving him off to leave her be.

Velvette summons five distinct portfolios, flipping through the pages quickly before moving onto the next one. In the haste of her 

“Call your little boy toy up here,” Velvette demanded. “I want him here to feel out the vibe of his new designer.” Her attention is focused on the rest of the room. 

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind about which pool of designers Velvette would grab from. Despite her stress with the fashion show, she knew that she could only give Vox and Valentino the very best. 

As she scans over you and your other co-designers, her brows crease and she hums in frustrated thought. She snaps her fingers and summons the five of you over toward her. Without a word, you all set down your progress and scurry over toward her. The five of you lined up, head held high and spines straightened. This was a dreaded moment for everyone. No one wanted to suddenly uproot their good standing to be the new whipping bitch for the other Vees. 

The sound of Velvette’s heel tapping on the ground was deafening. You didn’t dare look over at the other designers, and neither did they. If it was quiet enough to hear, you’d be able to hear the beads of sweat trickle onto the linoleum floor. 

The next moment was like a blur. You don’t even notice who was the other designer chosen, your gaze tunneled in on the finger pointing directly to your chest. The next few minutes felt like a car crash — ears ringing, gaze glazed over, and head pounding with pain — you followed behind Velvette as she led you to where Vox was seated. 

He was sunk into the deep burgundy couch in the studio, leaning back with his arm up on the back. Vox looked you up and down with a scrutinizing glare. He sent chills up your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. Standing before him felt like you were exposing the most intimate parts of you, a wave of insecurity crushing your windpipe.  Still, you kept your eyes affixed on him, even if you weren’t fully registering him in your glossed vision.  

“Nice to meet you,” Vox had extended a claw out to you, not even giving you the formality of standing up to greet you. You begrudgingly took his hand, limply returning the gesture. 

“My pleasure, sir,” You spat out, the words left a desert on your tongue. Your mouth felt granular, swallowing felt impossible. You averted your eyes away from his screen, feeling uncomfortable with looking at him longer than you had to. 

A sudden spark tased the underside of your jaw, shocking your attention back onto him. Did … did he just fucking zap you? Your eyes were wide when you looked back toward him, catching a glimpse of a blue spark puttering off his claw. 

“Can I see your portfolio? I want to see what kind of artist I’m working with,” Vox leaned forward, gesturing for you to sit next to him on the couch. “Let’s talk — collaborate — we better get a move on with my project.”

Your jaw tensed hearing his words. My project. What a pompous asshole. Obviously, you knew what entailed working so closely with Vox — doing all the work for none of the credit. But still, the audacity of him to even say that to your face. 

Without a word, you nodded and returned to your station to collect the binder filled with the latest designs you had sketched and the numerous photo clippings of Velvette’s models in your clothes. You didn’t feel it when you were standing before him, but now as you were tucked in the safety of your station — there was a notable tremble in the back of your knees. 

As you were collecting your things, the elevator to the studio dinged. All eyes darted toward the latest guest coming to join the party. Of course, it was hedonism-incarnate that strutted out — Valentino. As he entered the room, he had a starving smile outstretched across his face. His monstrous height left an intimidating impression on the room, all necks craning up to see him in all of his glory. 

All of the color in the face of Valentino’s new designer had drained from her. It was as if her soul was ripped out from her and astrally floating above in the clouds. God, that poor girl was going to get eaten alive. 

“Voxxy, baby,” Valentino purred as he floated toward the couch. Immediately, he crawled up on the other Overlord and stroked a skeletal finger up-and-down his blazer. “Thank you for getting Vel to agree.” 

“Of course. Anything for VoxTech,” Vox lightly dusted Valentino’s hand off of him. There was obvious disappointment in his response that irked Valentino. You supposed Vox wasn’t necessarily … the romantic type in their relationship, nor did it seem like he even liked his alleged boyfriend. 

“Go on — go play — I want to meet with my new designer,” Vox continued to gesture for him to go away.  Valentino groaned, leaving a solemn kiss on the corner of Vox’s screen before slinking over to the other Overlord. 

Valentino was more than eager to meet his new play thing — he always loved having a new bitch to whip around. Despite the pure fear you felt, you did not envy your peer. You’d rather receive a death threat and a backhand from Vox rather than experience the public humiliation that Valentino would put someone through. That man loves a scandal. 

With your binder tucked in between your arms, you went to join Vox on the couch. You sat a decent distance away from him, practically sitting on the total opposite side of the couch. You were still finding the courage to cool your jets and even speak to him, even sitting so close to him might make you implode. Vox frowned at the disparaging space between the pair of you. He crawled over to your end, drawing closer to you. He paused just shy of a few inches away from you, his towering height still encroaching into your sat space. 

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” Vox’s voice dipped low, gruff and garbled with static. Your heart stopped beating. You felt it rising into your throat. He draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you even closer to him than you already were. “You’re Velvette’s pet, not mine. You have nothing to be worried about. I won’t bite unless you want me to,” He winked. 

Vox’s words were of no comfort. Nothing to be worried about? Your life could potentially be on the line. He may be cordial now, but you’d never know when his switch would flip and he’d be a roaring bull unleashed upon you. Even with his baseless flirty behavior, you knew it was the classic Vox false sense of niceties. The charm that enraptured most of the Pride Ring. You sharply inhaled what was left of the air around you, apprehensively opening your binder to show him your designs. 

“These are some of the designs I did for the latest Hell Gala,” You pointed out some of the various suit designs you had crafted. Stylistically, your work for this line stayed within the realm of “suits” but with inspiration from numerous movements you recalled from Earth — such as Black Dandyism and La Sape. And of course some of the other suits you had designed leaned more on the “plain” side; ranges of pinstripes and tweed, double-breasted suits and gaudy colors. 

“I figured you want to keep the image you’ve already crafted,” You steadily chose your words, pushing on Vox’s egotistical buttons and making sure they were properly attended to. 

“We’ll keep the professional newscaster aesthetic but I want to integrate more bold colors, more of … your elements. Something that screams VoxTech,” His knees knocked into yours as he leaned closer in, taking a deeper look at your portfolio. You hurriedly scooted your legs away from him, feeling a heat rise to your face out of sheer embarrassment. You’ve barely stood in the same room as Vox before, and now you were speaking so closely to him.

“What VoxTech needs is unity. Something that makes all of Hell think that we stand together,” 

“I can work with that,” You quickly respond. “Whatever you want, I will make your vision come together.” 

‘Whatever you want’

Vox mused over those words, pleased to hear how pliable and subservient you were willing to be for him. His eyes lit with a unique kind of fire, something deeply laced with a sense of thrill and elation. 

“I’m very excited to be working with you,” 

[unnatural-happenings]

You're not the favourite!

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Hazbin Hotel x Reader

●○ You've been missing for some time now. Over two weeks. You're not one to just vanish into thin air, so your suitors are starting to get a little worried.

A oneshot based on this tumblr post by @a-small-lemon! I saw it and immediately started writing this lol The Reader character isn't really in this, but they are the main focus!

[Masterlist] [AO3]

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Alastor slips through the shadows of V Tower at a pace he'll deny is ever frantic. Every crack and hidden corner is checked and double checked, not a single desk left unturned in his hunt. He methodically makes his through the tower, peering into every single room available before coming to a halt at Vox's office.

You still weren't anywhere to be found. Not at the hotel, not near any of your usual haunts, not in any of his or Rosie's territory, and not a strand of hair could be found in any of the popular locations in Hell. V Tower was the last relevant place you could possibly be in, so if you weren't in this infuriating walking picture box's office, he might just dismantle Vox and destroy everything on the lower floors. Maybe seeing the tower crumble will finally bring you out of whatever hole you managed to crawl into.

Slipping past the door, Alastor is greeted to the sight of Vox himself sitting at his desk, surrounded by televisions of various sizes and a large aquatic tank to the left of the room. The entire thing is just as excessive as the demon the room belonged to, but that's not what got his irritation to spike and the burning hole in his gut to expand.

You weren't here either.

What little shadows there were in the area start pooling towards the centre of the room. The action doesn't go unnoticed by Vox, who turns in his chair upon noticing the smallest movement.

"What the fu— WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?"

Sparks fly off of Vox as he watches the shadows stretch to forming the shape of Alastor and recedes into the back of his coat. He ignores the snarl that passes the deer's teeth, getting up from his chair and stomping down the stairs.

"Get the fuck out of my building no one invited your lonely ass here!"

"I'm going to give you ten seconds to tell me where my dearest is." The vitriol in Alastor's voice isn't what makes Vox pause, that's basically the only way they communicate, it was the static. His words were nearly drowned out with the haze and Vox can't remember a time something got the radio demon this worked up to the point he lost control over it.

Vox still scoffs in his face, "What? You don't know where they are? They live under your roof, what makes you think I had anything to do with it?"

Despite the cool exterior he's trying desperately to keep up, Vox is panicking internally. How does Alastor not know where you are? Haven't you been at the hotel for the past two weeks? He never saw you walk out of the building, and Val is still coming to him complaining about how much Angel talks about you off shift. Surely you're still there… You have to be.

Alastor tilts his head to the side with a crack, "You're the only one who would dare take them without my prior knowledge. So unless you're saying you also don't know where they are—"

"Of course I know where they are!" Vox interrupts, irritated at the thought of Alastor doubting any of his capabilities, "They're…"

His screen suddenly flashes red, the facial recognition scan he was running in the background coming up empty. Not a single sighting of your face has been spotted in the last 24 hours.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes turning from red to black, "Oh, are they not showing up on your cameras old pal?"

Vox's screen glitches slightly at his jeering, "Just a minor setback, give me a second."

He went and checked every camera in the last 48 hours. Nothing. The last 72? Nothing. The entire week?? Nothing.

At some point he switched from using his internal system to the supercomputer that is his desktop and checked everything again. He didn't think anything was wrong with his own— he's perfect in everyway, but his own increasingly sporadic thoughts could possibly be getting in the way. Still, no sightings of you could be found.

Now Vox was a hair's length away from having a breakdown. Still, he'd keep it together as long as the Radio Demon was in the room with him.

As a last ditch effort he just searched for the last time you've ever appeared in any of his cameras, and all he got was the day you walked into the hotel two weeks ago— the footage being caught by one of his drones.

"This can't be right." Vox repeats the check again, and again, and again, each one coming back with the exact same results and getting him more agitated by the second. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY!?"

Alastor hums, the static he's been emitting crackling in the air, "Ah, so you're useless at the one thing you could ever possibly be good for."

"You're the one who lost them living under the same roof!" Vox snaps, his pride taking a hit as well as the dread of not knowing where you are settling into his psyche. "I can at least do something about it. You can go back to your little hotel, sit and be pretty while I figure out where they are and save them from your incompetence."

The only thing to convey Alastor's annoyance is a pop in his static before it simmers out. His grin is quick to turn from irritated to sly as an idea springs to his mind.

"Won't you need their computer for that?"

Vox quirks his brow, not impressed in the change of tune, "Wow, look at you. When'd you become an expert of modern technology."

"I only say since there's no way you'd be able to access it without my help."

The effect Alastor was looking for was immediate, with Vox sputtering at his absolutely absurd claim and taking the bait.

"What the fuck are you talking about I own every computer in Hell!"

"Nope, not theirs! It doesn't run on your system, I made sure of it before allowing them to keep the thing. You'll be needing a more… Hands on approach."

Vox huffs, staring at the deer from head to toe to try and see if he could find what Alastor's goal is, but unable to see anything unusual for his standards.

"So what? You're gonna bring it here?"

"Oh, my goodness no! You really think I'd trust you with their device in your building? HA!" Vox's face falls flat, and Alastor goes to pinch the corner of his screen, "No, no, no, I merely suggest I bring you to it and you use it within the hotel under my strict supervision."

Vox tries to shock him, but Alastor pulls away too soon for him to do anything.

He was very confident he could find you on his own, but now that he thinks about it, he's never seen you with any Voxtek devices— not outside of the ones he's gifted you before Alastor threw them away. He knows you have a laptop, but he has no record of purchase under your name for anything of the sort. On the off chance Alastor actually is being truthful, he doesn't want to miss the opportunity to at least see what you're working with for himself.

"Fine. Whatever. As long as I'm not seen by anyone else."

"No need to worry!" Alastor cheerfully takes an electric watch out of his pocket he stole from one of the lower floors, "I don't want to be seen with you either!"

Vox rolls his eyes and flips the bird at Alastor before zapping himself into the watch. Alastor shoves the thing deep back into his pocket before letting the shadows consume him again and melting into the floor.

It's not long before he reaches his destination, your room, and quickly chucks the watch onto the floor as far away from himself as possible. As soon as it hits the floor, Vox is quick to zap himself out of it, dusting himself off and grumbling all the while.

He takes a moment to look around the room, since this is the first time he's actually gotten to see it. Unfortunately for him, with Alastor standing at his back he can't dedicate much time to checking every inch of your life in here, so he can really only take stock of the large items in the room— like the massive duck toy on your bed. Not that he wants to put off finding you for much longer either. He'll have to settle for recording what he could of it and watching it back later.

Vox clears his throat, his eyes now darting around in search of said computer he supposedly can't connect to from the tower. "So where is the—"

His eyes land on a heap of parts with a screen that instantly makes him recoil. The chassis is dented in multiple spots and what he thinks is supposed to be the keyboard is deformed, not a single key the same height or width as the one next to it but filed down to best try and match, the charger's been glued into the charging port, and the screen is held to the bottom with tape and a dream.

"What the fuck is this?" The words fall from his mouth before he can even think. He can't believe what he's looking at. You've been using THIS? You've known each other for how long now and he's not shy of telling you he'd get you whatever your heart desires, he's rich and perfect like that, so why the FUCK have you been using this thing?? Did you not think he'd get you a new one? He would've gotten you the latest brand— Hell, he would've made a completely unique one himself if it meant you'd never use this scrap heap ever again.

Alastor watches Vox's internal meltdown from the sidelines, his grin growing with each glitch and spark that flies off of the mechanical sinner, "Why it's their computer. For a walking electronic such as yourself it is quite embarrassing that I'm the one that has to—"

"Oh shut the fuck up I know what a laptop is!" Vox snaps at Alastor, still not able to take his eyes away from the wretched machine you apparently call your laptop, "I want to know why it looks like it's been through an extermination, or got dragged through one of Val's orgies, just— no sane person would think this is fine! How could they possibly be using this garbage!?"

"I don't know if you noticed, but your little gimmicks are not allowed in this hotel. You included." Alastor's eyes turn into radio dials, but it only serves to make Vox click his teeth.

"Whatever! You wanna let them suffer with this be my guest." The laptop is atrocious, but it provided him a perfect excuse to invite them to the tower and see a real setup away from the deer's prying eyes, "Where the fuck did they even get this from anyway? I'm literally the only person that sells laptops."

"I'm fairly confident they made this themself around their initial arrival down here. Imagine, even a newcomer could tell right away your technology was not to be trusted!"

"Or maybe they just couldn't afford the good shit so they had to settle. We don't do handouts, and this is clearly a cry for help." Vox grumbles. Another reason to hate not knowing you as soon as you fell down here. From what he could figure out, laptops could hardly be called widespread by the time you died, so creating this off scraps alone is an achievement. Let alone doing it before he fully took over the whole market.

Vox turns your laptop on with little fanfare, choosing to stand by the desk instead of sitting in your chair— it being way to small for him. To his surprise, it doesn't take long for it to boot up and show the password screen.

He was expecting the password, but he was also expecting to see a real computer. With this he's already reached a wall in his search for you.

"This would be easier if this thing was Voxtek branded." Vox muttered under his breath, not really for Alastor to hear and just to vent a little frustration, but of course the deer heard anyway.

"If you can't do anything than why are you even here?" Alastor's ears lower slightly, his voice filled with condescension that got under Vox's skin.

"I said it'd be easier not that I couldn't do it! Has your hearing diminished in your time away or is this just your old age showing?"

"You're the one who's yet to do anything other than complain."

Vox's screen flickers with irritation. As much as he wants to tear off this red shitstain's antlers and shove them in his eye sockets, but starting a confrontation with him could possibly break the laptop and make them lose the one possible lead they have.

"Let's just start with the password hint. It might be easy." His words come out garbled, already at his wits end from being in the same room as Alastor for longer than ten minutes.

Said sinner now walking over to stand on the other side of your desk to better make sure Vox isn't messing with your devices in ways he shouldn't. When the hint pops onto the screen both of them bend a little closer to read it.

[ Who's company do you enjoy the most? ]

"Hmm. Must be a simple password." Alastor hums while Vox's eyes narrow, trying to remember all the people in your life this could possibly be talking about.

"They spend the most time with me— ugh, you, the Morningstars', and Angel Dust. No other relationships are worth considering for this."

"It's likely just a name then. I highly doubt they'd know exact dates relating to anything noteworthy for any of us." Alastor straightens up, next words coming out in a purr, "If that's the case, at least we know the answer is surely me."

Vox's whole body violently twitches, Alastor having to sidestep to avoid getting hit by a flying bolt. When Vox turns to him, his mouth has turned to static and his left eye has started swirling, "What the fuck are you talking about, they only entertain you because you get into everyone's business and scare everyone away!"

The air surrounding the Radio Demon only turns more confident, the playful aura and smugness radiating off of him in waves. "No I don't think so! Our last dinner together would've been quite awkward if that were the case."

Vox's twitching only gets worse, something Alastor find nothing but joy in, but he unfortunately needs him to function to be able to find you.

"If you're so positive I'm wrong then why don't you see for yourself?"

Alastor points at the computer with his staff, diverting Vox's attention back to the problem at hand. His face settles back into his default as he comes back to his senses.

He hesitates for a moment, but ultimately goes to type Alastor's name in— his need to see you outweighing his need to crash if it ended up being correct.

[ The password is incorrect. Try again. ]

"What?"

Vox bursts into a fit of laughter, relief washing over him like a charged blanket. He only grows louder when he notices how loud the static in the room has become.

"Oh this is glorious!" Vox wipes a tear from his eye and typing in his name, holding it for a bit to rub it in Alastor's face, "Shock.wav is going to hear all about this when I get back, so are the Vees. I won't shut up for months that I have something over—"

[ The password is incorrect. Try again. ]

"WHAT!?"

Vox's joy is instantly cut off by the computer denying his name. Though, he's quick to type in his real name just in case you used that instead, "Okay. Maybe they just—"

[ The password is incorrect. Try again. ]

Vox falls to his knees and slumps over the desk.

"So it's neither of us." The little joy Alastor feels over knowing your favourite person at least isn't Vox if it's not him feels hollow, knowing it's still not himself.

Vox jumps back to his feet, now pacing angrily around the room, "Well who the hell else could it be!? If it ends up being Angel Dust I swear I'll—"

Vox's oncoming rant is cut off as the two overlord's whip their heads in the direction of the door— the handle jingling faintly from being pushed open.

Lucifer strolls inside your room without a care in the world, whistling and twirling his cane all the while. He doesn't get five steps in before he notices he's not alone. His whistling comes to an abrupt end as his eyes snap to the duo still standing near your laptop. Lucifer's gaze flicks between it and them— both of them growing increasingly irritated the longer the king stands there in silence.

Lucifer's face suddenly scrunches up in disgust as he waves his cane around in their general direction, "What the heck are you two doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Alastor sneers, his smile twitching at it's edge with every word he has to grace his majesty with, "I thought you were above entering a tenants room without their knowledge. Charlie would be so disappointed."

The king turns worried for a second before becoming irritated again, "Real charming coming from the guy who shouldn't be in here at all! Now you better tell me why you're in here before I remove you both myself."

Vox chuckles, not intimidated by the king's threats in the slightest, "Like you could do anything to either of us."

With a snap of his fingers, Lucifer summons a portal at their feet, the other side showing nothing but a pitch black pit. His voice deepens as his next words come out void of all emotion.

"I can do anything as long as it's not meant to hurt you. Do not be fooled by my limitations you walking billboard."

Vox normally would be confident enough to test Lucifer's patience further, Alastor sure was gearing up for it, but he really didn't want to lose access to your computer right now. So with a heavy heart and his withering pride, tells the king what he wants to hear.

"We don't know where sweetheart is."

Alastor swivels his head to stare at Vox while Lucifer instantly belts out a laugh, turning from suspicious to smug in an instant.

"Aawwww. Did my darling friend not tell you two lowly sinners they were going out?" Lucifer speaks in a baby voice, making Alastor growl and Vox roll his eyes.

"Do you know where they are or not?"

Lucifer shrugs and walks over to the bed to pick up the duck plush sitting on it. "Nope! Not a single clue, they didn't want anyone jumping in— something about a surprise— wait why am I telling you!" He shouts suddenly points the duck in their direction, nearly hitting both Vox and Alastor in the face in the process, "And why are you hovering around their computer thingy? They told everyone not to touch it."

Alastor's eyes narrow, looking for any angle to gain the upper hand in the conversation again, "Petty thievery doesn't suit you."

Lucifer's smile widens again, the smug aura from before coming back full force, "I'm not stealing anything! I'm allowed to come in whenever and take this duck. It's part of a game we have, probably something neither of you would understand."

Static emits from both the media overlords in their frustration, but Lucifer moves on without a care for either of their demeanor.

"Aaanyway, don't think you've made me forget about the computer. You haven't touched it have you? Not that I'd be surprised from the likes of you, but you think you'd at least be respectful to the people you hold close."

Vox collects himself and clasps his hands together, trying for a smile to show confidence and not his anger, "Well, since they didn't tell us they were leaving, than the rules must not apply to us."

Alastor's ears fall slightly as he looks away, "I'm sure for you it's a general rule of thumb."

"Do you want to get into this or not!?"

Lucifer gasps and glares between the two overlords, "So you are snooping around!"

"What gave that away your majesty?"

Vox's snide reply is enough to further enrage Lucifer, but before Lucifer can respond, Alastor jumps back in, "You out of everyone should know it's dangerous down here. For dearest to run off without telling anyone their location is quite worrying. What if something happened to them? How would we ever know?"

Vox catching on to what Alastor was doing is quick to add on, "Unless, you don't really care about them?"

Lucifer growls, "Of course I do! So, uh, where are they?"

Alastor waves his arm towards the computer, "That's what we're trying to figure out. We need to get into their device first."

Lucifer doesn't waste any time after that walking by Vox to sit in the chair by the desk. Vox and Alastor share a look before directing their attention back to the computer.

"Who's company do you enjoy the most…" Lucifer mumbles out the text on the screen, making both of the overlords just as irritated as before.

"We've already tried our names…" Vox grumbles, still offended and shocked neither of his names worked.

Lucifer lights up, his previous annoyance forgotten hearing both the TV head and bellhop weren't at the top of your list, "Have you tried mine?"

The static in the room crackles as Alastor laughs at his suggestion, "As if the answer would ever be—"

The sound of squeaking throws him out of his train of thought. Glancing towards the source of the noise, he's greeted with the plush duck that Lucifer had grabbed— now sat in the king's lap. The angel's grin widens when he notices Alastor looking at the large plush, squeezing it again to emit the same squeaking as before.

The noise came from the duck…

The corners of Alastor's smile curl downwards as a snarl slips past his teeth, his ears also falling flat against his head. Vox isn't doing much better as his screen bugs out with colourful lines covering half of his face for a few moments.

The TV demon shoves the chair Lucifer is sitting on to the side to quickly type in his name, ignoring the sputtering coming from him at the action.

"If you're actually the fucking answer…" Vox trails off as soon as he hits enter, watching as the screen switches to load and opens up to your desktop cluttered with files and applications.

[ Welcome back :) ]

It's silent for a moment as the three take in the answer, static slowly filling the room again as the king's grin continues to grow larger.

"YES! HAHAHA! IN YOUR FACES!" Lucifer jumps from his seat as he cheers, waving the duck in their faces all the while.

Vox and Alastor sneer at the man currently parading around the room with the plush duck while thanking an imaginary audience. Neither are able to comprehend why you'd choose that buffoon over themselves.

It's fine. He might be your favourite right now, but they have an eternity to change your mind. They can be as patient as they need to bring you to your senses.

But first, they have to figure out where the hell you even are.

[daniellaspen]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 Unwell.

— Vincent Whittman x fem!reader — Summary: Your husband, Vincent, takes care of you while you're sick. ( I posted a Vox version a few weeks ago ! )

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

The morning started off like any other.

Vincent awoke to the sound of his alarm clock going off beside him, quickly shutting it off. He let out a frustrated, sleepy groan, before he turned to his left to see you sleeping beside him.

A soft smile appeared on Vincent's face at the sight of you. You always looked so cute when you were at rest, your messy hair draped across your face. Vincent's thoughts drifted off to all the times he had your hair messy, but also damp, as he had his way with yo— anyways!

Reluctantly, Vincent got out of bed, and began getting ready for the day ahead. He journeyed to the living room, grabbing his favorite suit that his sweet wife had ironed for him the night before.

And only after making sure that said suit was accompanied by his favorite shark pin, did Vincent finally head for the door. Fiddling with the keys, his mind was running through a checklist.

"I brushed my teeth, I have my pin, I have my briefcase, my hair is combed back, good—" as Vincent passed by the kitchen, however, he saw something out of the ordinary.

Perched atop the counter, was a bottle of medicine.

It was nestled between the bowl of oranges that Vincent liked to keep on top of said counter, and between a vase of flowers that you liked to keep on the counter as well. The flowers were always fresh, as Vincent was diligent in returning a new bouquet home to you every week.

To be frank, had anyone else lived in that house, they wouldn't have noticed the bottle of medicine sitting there. But Vincent was a very attentive, detailed-oriented man. He had to be, due to his — well — tendencies... that you were unaware of.

After taking a pause, Vincent retracted his steps and headed back to your shared bedroom. He approached you, still sound asleep underneath the blankets.

"Darling," Vincent whispered, as he shook you awake. You acknowledged your husband with a groan, before he continued. "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not." You croaked out, eyes still shut.

Vincent raised a brow, not believing your response. He had to ensure that his precious girl was well before he left. If you weren't, he would call out immediately to stay home and tend to you. Knowing this, you did not want to make Vincent aware of your condition. You did not want him to worry about you.

Unfortunately, your husband knew you too well.

"Swallow for me." He commanded, his mind drifting off to all the other times he told you to— anyways! Gosh, he's always so dirty minded with you. He commanded, as the first symptom to always plague you when you were sick was a sore throat. Your least favorite thing in the whole world.

Vincent watched as you followed through, your face scrunching with pain as you gave yourself away.

"You're such a liar." Vincent announced, as he sighed. "You're unwell."

"I'm fine!" You countered, as you opened your eyes and sat up. "There's no need to worry. Just a— just a little sore throat."

"Yes, but your symptoms always progress. Soon, you'll be coughing, and then sneezing, as you always do." Vincent was right. You becoming sick was like clockwork. It would always begin with a sore throat. Then, you'd progress to coughing and sneezing. Finally, you'd have a runny nose that would last for days.

"And that's not up to you to worry about!" You responded, as you fought to hide the pain of your throat from showing on your face. "Go to work, honey. You'll be late."

You were right. If Vincent did not leave soon, he would be late to work. With hesitation, he caved in.

"Alright. I love you." Was all Vincent said, before he pressed a kiss to your head and left out the door.

Vincent started his car, getting maybe a block away from your shared house, before the thoughts of you started to overwhelm him.

"Is she really okay? What if she's actually horribly sick and she isn't telling me? What if she tries to find the medicine but forgot that she placed it between the oranges and the vase? What if she needs me and doesn't tell me? What if— I can't do this."

The composed, careless, and normally work-engulfed Vincent drove into a random parking lot, before reversing his car and driving back to the house.

He pulled into the driveway, careful enough not to slam the car door and alarm you. He shared this thought with the door to the house, as he was mindful with his keys and with pushing it open.

Once he closed the door, he walked over to the house phone, where he called the studio. Vincent alerted them that he would not be there today, as he was sick.

Had Vincent told them that you were sick, he knew that he would be met with careless side comments, comprised of "she can take care of herself!"

And although nobody could stop him from tending to you, Vincent simply wasn't in the mood to be lectured by horrible men who likely beat their wives. No less cared about them, not in the way Vincent cared about you.

Returning the phone back to its stand, Vincent prepared an ice-cold glass of water for you, before walking up the stairs. Once he reached the bedroom, he knocked on the door.

"Darling, I have water for you." Vincent announced, as he opened the door. He smiled when he saw you, his pretty girl, sat on the bed. You were reading a book, and although you smiled in return at the sight of Vincent, your sick condition was evident.

"Honey! You— wait, what about work?" You questioned in concern, as Vincent approached you with the glass of water.

"I called in and told them that I was the sick one." He answered, as you took the water from his hands.

"Why?" You questioned again, as concern wasn't just present, but overtook your tone.

"Because, unfortunately, I'm a man who gives a shit about my wife. Horrible, isn't it?" Vincent responded with an eye roll, as you took his hand into yours.

"You're going to get all of my germs. Then you'll actually be sick." You laughed dryly, as your throat was still horribly sore. Using your free hand, you reached over to Vincent's little shark plush, a secret enjoyment of his that you two kept secret. You handed it over to your husband, as he smiled faintly.

"Oh well," Vincent responded with a shrug. "As long as we get to share the tub of ice cream."

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

If you liked this, be sure to comment! Pretty pretty pretty please! I read every comment and it encourages me to write! Thank you!

[9kaytor7-deactivated20260322]

Yk that one scene from the Aristocats? Okay, now make it Vox x Morningstar!reader…

“Gee,” Vox murmurs, the word slipping out before he can filter it, “your eyes are like rubies.”

The volume is low- too low. The kind of low reserved for confessions, secrets meant to evaporate the second they’re spoken. His pupils widen on instinct as your lashes flutter, shadows brushing your cheeks before those crimson eyes open again.

And damn it.

His screen betrays him immediately, washing into an unmistakable pale blue. Vox clicks his tongue, muttering something sharp and annoyed under his breath, already scrambling to regain control of the narrative.

“I mean-” He clears his throat, forcing a crooked grin into his voice. “That’s pretty corny, right? Wow. Real vintage romance movie nonsense. Don’t know where that came from.”

He braces himself. He’s ready for the laugh, the jab, the smug little look that the deer would give him. He can practically hear it- the mockery, the teasing, the inevitable reminder that the great Vox slipped and said something sincere.

But... it never comes.

Instead, you laugh. Softly. Warmly. The kind of laugh that isn’t aimed at him but shared with him. Your shoulders shake as you lift a hand to cover your smile, and Vox just… freezes.

His screen buffers. Once, and then twice.

Then it brightens, colors evening out as he watches you with something dangerously close to awe.

“Maybe a little,” you say, still smiling, voice fond rather than cruel. “But I think any demon would like to hear that from the big bad media overlord, no less.”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, red gems catching the light as you look at him.

Vox swallows, circuitry humming faintly.

He should say corny things more often, he thinks- then immediately pretends he didn’t.

“Well,” he scoffs lightly, folding his arms as if he hasn’t felt his dead heart thump for a moment, “don’t get used to it.”

[pinksartdump]