⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!
18+
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ
𝐴𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑞𝑢𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑟
・He shows his love through acts of service
・By making life easier for you
・Aegon helps dress you in the mornings, he likes lacing you up, buttoning and wrapping. He strokes your cheek and kisses you lightly.
"My darling, you look wonderful."
・He's so proud to call you his; he wants everyone to know that you're together.
・He even takes you on travels, showing the royal family to everyone in Westeros
𝑂𝑟𝑦𝑠
・He pampers you; strong hands rubbing your body that had been aching all day, it doesn't matter how hard you worked, he'll always want to make you feel better
・For example, he likes to undo your shoes and rub your feet. Even when you feel disgusting, Orys finds you completely ravishing.
・There's always a few flowers on your bedside table. And always your favourites.
・He loves wrapping his arms around you from behind, enveloping you in a big hug. His warmth a comfort.
・Orys loves to pull you onto his lap and ask about your day. What was the most exciting thing to happen? Did anything bad happen? (If yes, than he's moving you off his lap and going to fix whatever happened)
𝐴𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛
・Aemon loves buying you jewellery. Well, he likes spoiling you with all things shiny. Hairbrushes in solid gold, a necklace with a dragon pendant, rings with different gemstones attached to each one.
・There doesn't need to be a special occassion. Aemon just does it because he wants to and he can.
・You have countless jewelry boxes, large ones too. They gleam where they sit and contain the most beautiful items one could behold.
・Aemon loves to see the reaction on your face. He wants to give pretty things for the person he loves the most.
𝐵𝑎𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛
・He shows his love through shared experiences.
・Flying on Vhagar for hours, swooping and sweeping in the air. You cling to him, arms tight around his waist. Sometimes he doesn't even hold onto the reins.
・Baelon takes you on royal hunts, and to all the royal events. It's like he cannot be without you for more than a few minutes.
・He loves teaching you new things as well. How to wield a weapon, how to track, what to do in certain emergencies.
・Baelon wants you to be able to look after yourself if things go awry for him.
𝐴𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡
・He never fails to make you blush. Aemon is very romantic, and he shows his love through words.
・He could be a poet with the way he is with words.
・Aemon pours his heart out to you. You always know how he feels because he's so honest with you.
・Sometimes he writes notes and leaves them all around the apartment so you can find them throughout the day:
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
"Where you go, I go."
"I cannot breathe without you."
𝐶𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛
・Likes to physically be near you. Wants to be close, so he can move the hair from your face and wrap you in a warm cloak
・No one sees his soft side but you. That version of him where he holds your hands in his to help warm them up, and how he tilts his head towards you when you speak.
・You have many inside jokes. And you always bring them up. He loves making you laugh. Most of all, he loves making you smile.
・You always give him a kiss and a smile when he does these things, and butterflies erupt in his stomach. Like a young boy who has never been kissed.
vox x vee!reader, reader is a celebrity/overlord, no beta we die like vox's emotional availability, suggestive content and ending
word count: ~8.5k (ended up cutting a chapter after the poll...sorry!)
synopsis: hell loves a spectacle.
tonight, it gets one.
“Ethan! If that lower-district data lag isn't fixed in sixty seconds, I’m routing the entire V-Tower power grid directly through your headset!”
Vox’s personal assistant looked like he was five seconds away from throwing himself into the nearest electrical panel just to get it over with.
That wasn't unusual.
Most people who worked directly beneath VoxTek’s upper management developed a frantic sort of survival instinct: some trembled constantly, others lived in aggressive denial, and the truly seasoned had learned to cry silently while still taking flawless meeting notes. Ethan had somehow mastered a miserable combination of all three.
At the moment, he stood near the edge of the Channel 666 soundstage, clutching his tablet tightly to his chest like a shield while his headset slipped down the side of his face.
“Two minutes to air,” he called out, his voice cracking slightly as he avoided looking Vox in the eye.
Nobody listened. The soundstage was in complete chaos. Crew demons dragged thick cables across the floor, weaving between cameras, light stands, and half-built pieces of the set. Towering server racks lined the back wall, their cooling fans humming a low chord beneath the sharper buzz of overhead lights. Every screen in the room flashed with some variation of the same branding package for The Launch—all blue glare, red accents, and aggressive, animated V logos.
Subtlety had clearly not been invited.
“Where is my second camera?” Katie Killjoy snapped from the interview desk, glaring toward a sweating camera operator as if she could personally combust him through eye contact alone. “I am not filming two Overlords with one angle. This is journalism, not some shitty school play.”
The camera operator scrambled to adjust the rig.
Beside you, Vox glanced toward the nearest monitor, adjusted his tie, and angled his screen until the studio lights hit exactly where he wanted them.
“You heard her,” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the studio static. “Move the camera. And if I see one bad angle on the live feed, I’m replacing you with a tripod and telling your family you resigned.”
The operator moved twice as fast.
You sat in the armchair opposite Katie’s desk, one leg crossed neatly over the other, watching the entire production unravel with mild interest. This was not the first time Channel 666 had turned a promotional interview into a hostage situation, and it wouldn't be the last. Katie worked best when she assumed everyone in the room was beneath her…which meant she was currently at peak performance.
Vox, unfortunately, operated on the exact same wavelength. That made the two of them nearly unbearable when trapped on the same set.
“Relax,” you murmured, glancing toward him. “The camera’s fine.”
Vox didn't look away from the monitor. “Fine is what people say right before ratings die.”
“The interview hasn’t even started.”
“Exactly. Plenty of time for someone to ruin it.”
Katie’s smile sharpened from across the desk. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s my job.”
Vox finally turned toward her, his screen brightening into a heavy, glowing blue. Almost charming, if you ignored everything else about him. “Katie, honey, your job is to ask the questions we approved.”
Katie visibly stiffened for a split second before she forced her manic, wide-eyed television smile back into place. "Of course, Vox! Just adding a little... journalistic flair for the analytics."
"Save the flair for the lower districts.” The static under Vox’s voice sharpened. “We’re selling a vision today. Make it sharp, make it expensive, and don’t make me say it twice.”
"A vision. Right. Absolutely," Katie mumbled. Her smile stayed fixed, but her knuckles had gone white around the stylus. “We’ll stick to the script.”
“Fantastic," Vox purred. "Say it with more eye contact when we roll.”
Ethan appeared at Vox’s elbow before Katie could find another way to make things worse, his tablet lifted like a shield.
“Mr. Vox, uhm…we have a problem.” His voice dropped. “The lower district feed is lagging by three seconds, Velvette found an outside signal buried in the launch code, and, uh, one of the teaser clips just hit the feeds before approval.”
Vox’s display went momentarily dark.
Ethan swallowed hard, his blue skin turning pale. “Also, Valentino says the green room champagne is offensive.”
“Of course he does.”
“He said, um…” Ethan looked down at the tablet, visibly regretting every life choice that had brought him to V Tower. “He said if he has to drink room-temperature garbage, he’s going to start killing interns.”
Vox’s glare locked onto him. Ethan went entirely still.
“You’re an assistant, Ethan.”
“...Yes, sir.”
“Not an intern.”
Relief crossed Ethan’s face a second too early.
“Which means he’ll probably start with you.”
The relief vanished instantly.
You burst out laughing. Ethan’s eyes crossed over toward you, then immediately back to Vox, as if he was trying to figure out if laughing along would get him killed faster. The tension in Vox’s shoulders eased just a little as you regained your breath, grin widening. Before he could get too smug about it, you leaned back in your chair, breaking the spell. “That was cruel.”
“It was accurate.”
“It can be both.”
“It usually is,” Vox countered. His gaze lingered on you before the studio lights shifted overhead, cutting through the heavy blue glow of his screen. He snapped his attention back toward Ethan. “Now, go tell Valentino, if he kills anyone before the interview wraps, I’m deducting it from his quarterly budget.”
Ethan nodded so quickly his headset nearly slipped, then hurried off toward the green room.
A producer near the monitors lifted a hand. “Thirty seconds.”
The room snapped into motion. Makeup artists cleared the set while the camera drones drifted overhead. A second later, the lights brightened, washing the news set in a white glare.
Vox took the seat directly beside you, his shoulders easing as he wrapped an arm around the back of your chair.
That was always the strangest part of being around him. One second, he was barking at employees and threatening camera operators; the next, he became the polished, electric version of himself that Hell tuned in for, smiling as if every word out of his mouth had already been pre-packaged for a replay loop.
You knew that trick. You had learned it long before Hell, back when cameras still pretended they cared about the truth. All they really wanted was someone who knew where to look when the red light came on.
Vox glanced toward you as the producer began counting down with his fingers.
Five.
“You good?” he asked quietly. The question was casual, dropped in a low register that anyone else would have missed beneath the hum of the studio.
Four.
“I’ve survived worse interviews.”
Three.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Two.
You turned your head, locking your gaze onto the lens of the main camera. “I know.”
One.
The red recording light snapped on.
Katie’s smile bloomed instantly. “Good evening, sinners. Katie Killjoy here with an exclusive Channel 666 first look at what V Tower is calling its ‘most ambitious media rollout to date’.” She turned toward the two of you with theatrical interest, her stylus poised over her tablet. “Vox. Always a nightmare.”
“Always a pleasure, Katie.”
“Half of the Vees in my studio,” her predatory gaze moved to you, eyes narrowing, “including Hell’s favorite headline, back in front of a camera. Should I be honored or concerned?”
You offered the lens a smooth, practiced smile. “Both, if you’re smart.”
Katie’s grin widened. “Oh, good. I was hoping this wouldn’t be boring.”
Vox leaned back in his chair, draping one arm along the edge of it. “If it were boring, we wouldn’t be here.”
“No, you’d just make some lower-tier executive do it and take the credit,” Katie shot back.
“Exactly. You do understand branding.”
Katie ignored him, turning her full attention back on you. “Let’s talk about The Launch. The Vees have promised a complete media expansion across broadcast, streaming, nightlife, fashion, and public image management. That’s a lot of corporate jargon for ‘we want everyone watching.’”
“That’s usually the point of a launch,” you noted.
“Cute. But this isn’t just another VoxTek product drop.” Katie leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “You’ve been highly selective with your appearances for years. Some would even say elusive.”
“Some say a lot of things when they need clicks.”
“And yet here you are…front and center.” Katie’s eyes glittered under the high-intensity lights. “Why now?”
It wasn't the worst question she could have thrown, but it was close enough to be irritating. Vox opened his mouth to deliver a perfectly engineered PR response, but you beat him to the punch.
“Because Hell has a short attention span,” you replied, your eyes locked onto Katie's. “And we’re tired of renting it.”
The studio went entirely quiet behind the cameras.
Your voice had changed on the last sentence. For most of the interview, you had given them exactly what they expected: warm, effortless radiance—the kind of inviting, magnetic charm you had perfected back when you still had a pulse.
Now, the warmth had dropped out of your expression, and every demon in the room seemed to remember you were not just there to look good beside Vox.
Katie’s stylus paused against her tablet. You looked past her then, straight into the nearest lens.
“The Launch is not a request for attention,” you said, each word perfectly measured and heavy. “It is a reminder. If sinners want spectacle, we own the stage. If they want scandal, we own the headline. And if anyone thinks they can step into our broadcast to test our patience, we will broadcast their ruin to every screen in Hell.”
The silence stretched just long enough to sink in before your smile returned. It didn't reach your eyes this time. Somewhere behind the main monitor bank, one of the production assistants whispered, “Holy shit.”
Despite the sudden drop in room temperature, Katie recovered quickly, because unfortunately, she was excellent at her job. “That almost sounded like a threat.”
“It was a courtesy.”
Vox let out a low, deeply approving chuckle. “Put that on the teaser.”
“You say that like it isn’t already clipped.” Katie’s smile sharpened as she glanced toward the production booth.
Vox didn’t bother looking. “It better be.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before Katie pivoted. “There are massive reports flooding the system right now that V Tower is desperately trying to drown out.”
Vox’s smile stayed exactly where it was. “V Tower dictates the news, Katie. We don’t chase it.”
Katie shrugged, clearly delighted by the return of violence in the air. “Oh, but this isn’t just a tech glitch, Mr. Vox. Multiple eyewitness feeds just went live across the pride district…the local radio waves are experiencing analog interference for the first time in seven years. Rumor has it the radio demon’s back.”
Seven years of silence, gone in a single sentence. Your mind blanked, and for a split second, you weren’t sure your face was still doing what it was supposed to.
But, the cameras were still rolling. This would have to wait until later. You held your composure, rigid and unblinking, and buried the rest.
You watched Vox react from the corner of your eye. To anyone watching at home, he still looked composed— amused, even. But you caught the faint static crawling along the lower edge of his screen, and the tiny delay before his grin refreshed.
He knew about Alastor’s return. And he hadn't told you.
Interesting.
You turned back to Katie before she could notice the shift between you and played along like you had been briefed from the start. “Alastor has always appreciated a dramatic entrance,” you said. “But, an engine as massive as our launch doesn’t pause for a single sighting, Katie. We are rolling out across five districts tonight.”
Katie’s grin turned outright predatory. “A strategic response. Still, the feeds are already digging up historical broadcasts. Cozy footage of the two of you, before his vanishing act. Are the Vees ready for a narrative reboot?”
“The past is an excellent foundation,” you stated, locking eye contact with the lens. “But I prefer appreciating history rather than living it. My focus is right here.”
Katie sat back, looking entirely satisfied with the segment. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“You’d get more viewers if you did,” Vox interjected.
“Are you offering?”
“I’m suggesting you value your job.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Threatening the press on my own show. Classy.”
“Correcting the press, on my show,” Vox replied with a lazy smirk. “You’re welcome.”
The interview moved on. Questions about The Launch turned into questions about V Tower's reach, and then Katie tried, twice, to get Vox to say something she could turn into a headline. Both times, you cut in before he could take the bait— catching his arm and steering the cameras back to you with a laugh.
It was almost fun.
Almost.
By the time the director finally called cut, the live metric bar had climbed high enough that three high-ranking executives near the back of the room were whispering like they had just discovered religion. The red light on the drone shut off, and Katie’s television smile instantly collapsed into a look of sheer exhaustion, though she quickly caught herself and offered Vox a tight, eager nod. “Well! Uhm—absolutely fantastic segment, boss. Pure gold for the network, as always.”
Vox didn't even look at her, his eyes already scanning the live metric bar. “The numbers will think so.”
“Of course they will. Just... brilliant,” Katie murmured quickly. She began frantically gathering her notes, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to get out of his immediate airspace before he found a reason to look her way again.
You stood up before Vox could start arguing with her purely for sport. The moment you stepped away from the desk, the studio snapped back into motion. Crew members swarmed the floor to reset equipment while producers shouted over the replay of your answers coming from the soundboard.
You hated hearing your own voice played back. You always had.
Vox appeared at your side before the audio clip could loop a second time. “That,” he said, his eyes tracking the monitor, “is why we put you on camera.”
You kept your stride even, eyes fixed on the exit. “Careful.”
His gaze shifted down to you, his neon smile slowing down into something intrigued. “Careful?”
“You’re about to make it sound like I’m equipment.”
For a moment, he said nothing. On the main screen above, your recorded voice echoed out again:
My focus is right here.
Vox looked back toward the broadcast, his expression unreadable beneath the blue glow. “Equipment doesn’t talk back this much.”
“Then you should have an easier time respecting the difference.”
Just then, Ethan hurried over, tablet in hand, his headset now fully crooked across his brow.
“Sir, the clip is already trending across three districts, and Ms. Velvette wants both of you in the VIP lounge immediately.” He swallowed hard, staring down at the tablet in pure dread as he paused an audio message. “She—she just sent a voice note, sir. She said... um, she said to tell you to stop... uh—eye-fucking the ratings report, and to get in here before Val starts eating the furniture.”
You blinked.
Ethan seemed to realize exactly what he had just read aloud at the exact same time the rest of the room did. “I—sorry. That was—it was a direct play-back, sir, I didn't mean to—I mean, those were her words, not—”
“Ethan,” Vox said, his voice dropping an octave into grinding metal.
“…yes, sir?”
“Stop speaking.”
Ethan’s mouth snapped shut.
You stepped past Vox before your own expression could betray the unwelcome warmth rising in your cheeks. “Come on. The brand needs us.”
“Our brand is perfection,” Vox muttered. This time, there was a faint, distinct edge of distraction beneath his voice.
You glanced back over your shoulder at him.
He recovered quickly, smoothing his jagged grin back into place as he followed you toward the elevator. “And apparently, according to our head of fashion, it’s also eating furniture.”
“That sounds more like Valentino’s brand.”
“Valentino’s brand is whatever gives me a migraine before noon.”
The elevator doors opened with a sleek, electronic chime. You stepped inside, Vox following right behind you, and the chaotic noise of the soundstage finally disappeared behind the closing glass doors.
A tense quiet settled between the two of you. Below, the studio faded into a blur of neon and movement, your own voice echoing from the monitors as you ascended.
You didn't bother to raise your voice to compete with it. “You knew.”
Vox didn't have to ask what you meant. “The old signal logs?” He didn't look at you right away, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the city sprawling beyond the glass. “Katie wasn’t supposed to bring up…him. It wasn’t in the script.”
“But she did,” you said, stepping closer into his space. “Because you already knew about it, and you chose to leave me in the dark.”
His digital gaze finally snapped toward you, his grin pulling into something tight and defensive. “It was low-level noise, an overreaction to some far-fetched speculation. Not worth distracting you with before airtime.”
“Clearly it was,” you countered. “Old images are already resurfacing all over the internet, Vox. He’s back, and people are already asking where my loyalties lie. Whether I ever actually left him at all.”
Vox scoffed, his screen rippling with a jagged flash of static as he turned back to the glass. “He’s timing it. Cocky bastard sits in the dark for seven years, dead silent, not even a signal— and picks now to light up? The second we log the launch code? He’s trying to fuck with me!”
You watched the reflection of his erratic static bounce off the glass.
“He isn’t trying to…well, fuck with you, Vox.” Your voice lost its sharpness as you remembered the mannerisms of a demon Vox never understood. “He’s returning. And if we’re going to handle the fallout, we need to be on the same page.”
Neither of you spoke for the rest of the climb, the heavy silence dragging until the elevator finally shuddered to a halt at the VIP level. As the doors parted, you turned your head slightly, catching his electric gaze before stepping out.
“Either way…he has our attention now. Let’s see what we can do with it.”
Vox’s screen flickered. One eye narrowed into a sharp, vicious slit while the other widened, the red target at its center snapping into focus.
“Now, that,” he murmured, “sounds like good television.”
The green room doors had barely shut before Valentino started.
“Unbelievable. Pathetic.” He dropped onto the white leather sofa like someone had personally betrayed him, his feathers puffing with dramatic outrage as pink smoke curled toward the ceiling. “On live television, Vox? You let that oversized praying mantis tease the radio freak’s return right on our couch. It’s bad for the brand, honey. My girls are asking questions, the directors are distracted—it's a circus!”
Vox didn’t look at him. He was already pacing, his screen a flashing storm of loading icons and error messages.
“The numbers didn’t dip.”
“That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.” Vox’s voice snapped hard enough to make the nearest lamp buzz. “The second we stepped up to the desk—” His screen flicked toward you, a static pop cutting through the edge of his voice. “Ratings hit a seasonal high. Killjoy didn’t draw blood. She poked a hornet’s nest.”
“Yeah, well, the hornets are all over the feeds now.” Velvette didn’t look up from her phone. Her thumbs moved with aggressive speed, sharp little taps against the screen, before she shoved a tablet onto the glass coffee table. “And it's not just some feeds. Katie says his name and two seconds later he's already trending everywhere. Every platform. Someone wanted this seen.”
You stepped closer.
The screen was packed with re-trending media: broadcasts nobody had aired in years, hashtags clawing their way back to the top, fan pages that had gone quiet a decade ago suddenly posting as if no time had passed at all.
Velvette tilted the tablet toward you. “Twenty years of dust, suddenly getting traffic. Literally.”
You leaned over her shoulder, your camera-ready public voice dropping into something far colder as your eyes tracked the forum posts. It was all there: the whole narrative hell had traded on since the mid-2000s.
Everyone knew the history. A decade running the radio district at Alastor’s side, then the split, then Vox. That part had never been a secret. What the tabloids had always chased was the question underneath it: whether you’d really left, or just gone quiet. Whether the loyalty had ever actually transferred.
And now, with Alastor supposedly back and the fourth Vee contract barely dry, the boards were waking up the exact same question under a massive, pinned header:
A CRACK IN THE V TOWER FORMATION?
Your stomach went still before your face did. “That’s not a casual archive scrape,” you said. Vox stopped pacing. You tapped the screen once. “This was planned.”
Valentino sat up a little, all his earlier outrage sharpening into gossipy interest. “Oh.” His smile stretched around his cigarette holder, red eyes lighting up. “So we’re digging up corpses, chica?”
"Worse," you muttered, stepping away from the couch. The tension in the room was a little too thick, and Vox's anxious pacing always gave you a headache. You crossed over to the small wet bar in the corner, reaching for a cold can. "We're digging up a narrative that was supposed to be re-written.”
Velvette rolled her eyes, but shifted her weight on the cushions to keep you in her line of sight. She tossed her tablet aside and slid closer, shoulders dropping as she looked up at you. “Whoever they are, they're playing old-school games. I've got eyes on the account clusters pushing this, but they're routing everything through dead broadcast towers just to choke out my filters. It’s like chasing smoke, Vee.”
"Don't stress your pretty little head too much, babe," Valentino assured her, leaning back and resting his legs right over Velvette’s lap. You walked back over with your drink, and Val reached out, playfully tugging a loose strand of your hair. "Our girl invented star quality. Let the bitch talk. We'll own the narrative and ruin them by morning."
You managed a faint smile, sitting down on the arm of the sofa right next to Velvette. For all their public insanity, inside these soundproof walls, they were the only people in Hell who actually had your back.
Before you could take a sip of your drink, Velvette’s phone let out a harsh, rhythmic chime. Then Vox’s screen glitched. A sharp line of static cut across his eyes, and every wall monitor in the green room spiked at once.
Velvette blinked down at her phone. “What the hell?”
Valentino sat forward, his earlier amusement dropping off his face. “What is it?”
“Something just hit the mainstream feeds.” Velvette swiped hard, forcing the tablet on the table to sync with her phone. “All of them.”
The trending tags loaded first. Then the image.
You set your drink down a little too carefully.
It was the cover of an old tabloid, yellowed at the edges and blown up too clean to be accidental. The headline was obnoxious, all block letters and bad punctuation, but no one in the room was looking at that.
This wasn’t a press photo. It had been taken somewhere out in the neon rain of one of Hell's older districts, close enough to be a mistake— the kind of shot you'd thought had burned to ash twenty years ago.
Whoever took the photo had caught you mid-laugh in it, half-shielded from the flash by a heavy wool coat. Alastor stood behind you, one hand at your waist, the other lifting the edge of the coat to keep you both out of the light.
The tag underneath was already climbing too fast to track.
#Hell’sOldFlame
Velvette looked from the tablet to you, jaw slack. "Since when—" She shook her head. "You always said it was mostly business. Old news. Nothing serious."
"It's old," you said. Your voice came out flat enough that even Valentino stayed quiet. "Old trash from dead channels."
Vox wasn't looking at the metrics anymore. He was looking at Alastor's face. "He's not smiling." His voice had gone strange— quiet, for once, instead of blasting through the speakers. "Seventy years. I have never once seen him not smiling."
Then, just as fast, the quiet broke. Vox’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the ice in your glass as his voice blasted back through the speakers. "And it just cost us forty percent of our traffic off The Launch page. In under a minute." His eyes flicked back to the photo before he caught himself. "Forty percent. Do you understand what that photo just did?"
“Vox, lower the volume before you fry my signal,” Velvette snapped, though her thumbs were flying across her screen. “I’m scrubbing servers, but whoever queued this up buried the origin path in an old broadcast loop. It keeps bouncing off dead towers.”
Valentino hummed, leaning over the tablet. Pink smoke curled past his smile as his eyes settled on the photo.
“Oh.” His eyes lit up. “That’s cozy, babe. Very cozy.”
“Valentino,” you warned.
“What? I’m observing.” He tilted his head away from you, smile widening around his cigarette holder. “Careful, Vox. You’re staring at her waist again.”
Vox’s screen glitched hard enough to make the tablet flicker, a static pop cracking through his speakers. “Alastor’s a relic,” Vox snapped, his voice strained and low as he stepped closer, angling himself between you and the tablet. "An outdated radio freak with a corpse's haircut and a broadcast range held together by dust. He has nothing to do with this company." His static hitched. "He has nothing to do with you."
Velvette cut a look between you both, her eyes catching on the blue sparks jumping across Vox’s screen. A slow grin spread across her face, and she sank back into the couch to watch him crack.
You didn't notice. You were already staring straight through the glass table, entirely focused on the headline.
Vox turned fully toward you. The static around his screen crawled higher, casting a red glare across the leather furniture.
“You told me it was handled.” His voice had dropped lower, thick with distortion. “When we brought you in—when you finally signed on as the Fourth Vee—you said your history with him was done.”
“It is done.”
“Then why is it trending now? On the night of our biggest corporate launch in a century?!”
“Because someone knows exactly how to rattle you,” you spat out, reaching up and pulling him down by the shoulder until he was sitting beside you. “And you’re making it very easy. Alastor and I parted ways a long time ago, Vox. It was mutual. There is no blood between us…but if you go and throw a tantrum on live television, the public is going to invent a war that doesn't exist.”
Vox didn't answer right away. Instead, without seeming to think about it at all, he hooked one hand under your ankle and pulled your leg over his lap, settling it there like he'd done it a thousand times before. “I don't throw tantrums,” he said, static still crackling faintly at the edges of his screen. “I have concerns. There's a difference.”
Valentino snorted smoke through his nose. "Concerns, right. Is that what we're calling it when your whole screen goes green over some dead guy's hand on her hip? Relax, Voxy, nobody's gonna believe you gave a shit about engagement metrics looking like that."
Vox’s hand hit the coffee table, the reinforced glass cracking down the center— the other hand on your ankle never moved, thumb still tracing slow half-circles like he hadn't noticed it was there. Valentino lifted his drink clear of the spreading crack without missing a beat.
Holding her phone like a raised weapon, Velvette stood before any of you could speak again. “All of you, shut up. We don’t have time for whatever this is.”
“It’s not whatever this is,” Vox barked.
“It is absolutely whatever this is.” She pointed a finger at him, then at you. “The Launch party starts in exactly two hours. The red carpet is already packed, and thanks to that tag, every single microphone in the city is about to ask if our newest Vee is sleeping with the enemy.”
Valentino hummed. “Technically, former enemy.”
“Not helping.”
“Rarely trying to, babe.”
Velvette looked back at you, eyes scanning your face. “Can you spin this or not?”
You looked down at the tablet.
The newsprint had gone soft with age, rain-spotted at the edges— a piece of your life you'd never let anywhere near V Tower. His hand at your waist. The coat. For a second, you could feel the weight of it on your shoulders again.
You picked up your drink and took a slow sip before speaking. “Open the ballroom doors, Vel. Let the press in. Let them ask whatever they want. Let the crowd get drunk.” You reached over and stole the cigarette right out of Val's holder. He watched, delighted, as you took a slow drag.
Velvette’s mouth curved into a sharp grin. “That’s the answer I was looking for.”
You stood up, smoothing a hand down the front of your outfit. Vox's hand slipped off your ankle, and neither of you looked at where it had been. “We’re giving them a spectacle,” you said, looking back at him. “And if the Radio Demon wants to play with old fire…we’ll let him burn.”
The next hour and a half disappeared into hands.
Hands fixing cuffs, touching up lipstick, sweeping broken glass into neat little piles before anyone important could step on it. Someone brought fresh drinks. Someone replaced the coffee table. Nobody mentioned the crack in the old one.
That was how V Tower survived most disasters. Fix the lighting. Fix the angle. Keep moving.
Velvette stood at the mirror, already bored with the crisis now that she had an outfit on. Valentino drifted behind her in silk and smoke, humming along to music no one else could hear. You looked at your reflection. The person staring back looked untouched.
Good.
You let the smile come back and followed them out.
The atrium was already packed; the noise hit first — a raw, deafening roar that rattled your teeth the second you crossed the threshold. Camera drones hung low over the velvet ropes, flashes bursting hot and white, while a wall of reporters shouted over each other from behind the barricade.
Valentino slipped an arm through yours, like this was all deeply amusing to him. It probably was. "Smile, baby. The vultures are starving tonight."
"Let them choke," Velvette tossed back, all gloss and teeth as she leaned closer to you. "By the way, Val, did you see the feed? The hashtag gained another fifty thousand impressions while we were getting dressed."
"Oh, I know," Valentino chuckled, leaning down slightly so his sunglasses brushed your shoulder. "Look at him. He's going to fry his own circuits before we hit the first microphone."
A few steps ahead, Vox waved to the cameras like nothing was wrong. It would have worked, too, if you hadn't been close enough to feel the heat coming off his screen. Every few seconds, a thin line of static cut across his eyes.
"Careful, Vox," Velvette called out over the screaming fans. "You glitch on my live stream, I'm cropping you out of every photo. It ruins my color grading."
"My signal is flawless, Velvette."
Valentino leaned closer to you, nudging your side with his elbow. "His left eyebrow is currently vibrating at sixty hertz. Calm down, papi. You look like a broken television in a shady motel."
A camera drone swooped low before you could answer.
You turned into Valentino like you'd been waiting for it, one hand settling against his arm as the flash went off. The laugh you gave was perfectly timed.
"He's sensitive about vintage media," you stage-whispered, just loud enough for Velvette to hear. And, judging by the way Vox's shoulders locked, loud enough for him too.
Velvette snorted, adjusting the sharp line of your collar for the cameras before stepping back to give you the floor. She didn’t bother to lower her voice. "Please. He's sensitive because he didn't get to exclusive-license your history first."
Before Vox could turn around and snap at either of you, security opened the ropes. The press rushed forward, a dozen microphone flags shoved forward into your faces like a row of spears.
“Overlords! Overlords, over here! Is #Hell’sOldFlame an official confirmation of a split inside V Tower?”
“Is the Radio Demon involved with The Launch?”
“Are the Vees prepared for a hostile takeover from the old regime?”
Vox stopped so abruptly the nearest reporter almost walked into him. His screen flashed white, a low hum buzzing through his speakers.
You stepped in before he could make it worse. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves, darlings,” you cut in, taking the nearest microphone before its owner could shove it any closer. Your smile warmed for the camera. “A twenty-year-old tabloid scan trends for ten minutes and suddenly Hell thinks it’s uncovered an Overlord conspiracy.”
The reporter blinked against the flashbulbs. “So the photo is real?”
“The photo is old.” You raised a brow. “So is the story. It’s a charming little relic from a bygone era, back when Hell still ran on paper and ink. But tonight?”
You stepped back, casually sliding your hand into the crook of Vox’s rigid arm, giving it a firm squeeze. “Tonight belongs to the future. The ballroom doors are open, the drinks are free, and I suggest you find something more current to obsess over.”
The press line went quiet.
Behind you, Velvette gave a whistle.
Valentino clapped once, loud enough to make the front row jump. “You heard her, vultures! Inside! Move!”
The ballroom doors opened, and the party swallowed the red carpet whole.
Bass rolled out first, followed by red light and the sharp-sweet smell of expensive liquor. The crowd pushed forward, the press scrambling after them, because nothing killed a scandal faster than an open bar and something prettier to look at.
You crossed the threshold with your hand still tucked into Vox’s arm.
He didn’t look at you. His screen had settled back into blue, but his attention was already fixed on the metric wall above the dance floor.
“The tag dropped three slots in the trending algorithm,” he muttered.
You gave his arm one last squeeze before letting go, already moving toward the VIP tier. “You’re welcome.”
For almost an hour, the spin held. The party did what it was supposed to: lights, liquor, bass loud enough to shake a thought loose before it could become a headline. You moved through the room like nothing had happened, letting the cameras catch you laughing at the right moments.
By midnight, #HellsOldFlame had slipped safely under The Launch.
The bass hiccuped first. One note held a half-second too long, distorted, like the speaker was straining against something it couldn’t quite play.
Vox’s screen stuttered. You caught it out of the corner of your eye—not his usual glitch, something rougher, green cutting sideways across his face—but before you could turn toward him, the wall screens went with it, logos warping into grid lines.
Then, the music died mid-beat.
Nobody moved. Somewhere near the bar, a glass clinked down too hard.
Into the quiet came a scratch, a needle finding a groove, and then jazz, tinny and bright, the kind that hadn’t been played in this building in years.
The doors at the back of the ballroom groaned open, rain hissing in behind them.
A tall, sharp silhouette filled the doorway, framed by the dark street outside. He was already smiling. He always was.
The entire room held its breath.
For seven years, Hell had only said his name in careful voices. He was a warning with teeth, a rumor that made rooms go quiet. And now, he was standing under Vox’s own lights like he’d been invited.
Alastor stepped inside. His gaze moved over the frozen crowd, past security, past the executives, past Vox sparking on the upper deck.
Then it locked directly onto you.
The radio static swelled into a warm, crackling hum, his voice broadcasting with canned theatricality. It was the exact same frequency that had rattled your drink earlier, when Vox slammed the table— but this time it came from the room itself.
“Why, look at this grand assembly!” Alastor purred, taking another step forward as the shadows at his feet lengthened into jagged claws. “A truly magnificent spectacle. And here I thought I might have missed the registration for the evening's festivities. I do hope I’m not late.”
He paused, tilting his staff toward you. When he spoke again, the theatrical echo dropped away, replaced by a quiet, terribly familiar fondness.
“It has been a terribly long time, cher.”
“Al?”
The name slipped out before you could stop it.
Alastor’s head tilted, and a soft chuckle drifted through the speakers. Of course he had heard you. “Ah, so you do remember,” he grinned. “For a moment, I was afraid all this machinery had gotten to you.”
The mezzanine railing sparked under Vox’s grip. His screen flooded red, error codes tearing across his face as a low hum rolled through the upper deck.
“You.”
Blue lightning cracked through the ballroom as Vox materialized on the floor. The crowd scattered back as he surged forward, ozone burning through the air. He planted himself between you and Alastor, his frame completely blocking the Radio Demon from your sight.
“Shut the fuck up and get out.” Vox’s voice ripped through the speakers. “You’re trespassing on my grid, you dusty piece of shit.”
“My, my, what a welcoming committee!” Alastor leaned weightlessly on his staff, looking at Vox with the patronizing curiosity of a man examining a loud insect. “And here I thought VoxTek prided itself on customer service. Tell me, old friend, do you always greet your distinguished guests with such a tragic signal-to-noise ratio?”
“I am not your friend, you pathetic, outdated relic,” Vox snarled, his speakers buzzing with angry distortion. He didn't look back, but his hand shot out behind him and locked around your wrist. He was overheating badly enough that you could feel it through your clothes. “You've been dead for seven years. You're a ghost. You don't exist anymore.”
“Oh, I assure you, I am very much intact,” Alastor chuckled. His smile didn't move, but his eyes dropped to Vox's hand locked around your wrist, then to how he'd pulled you against his side.
You felt Vox’s pulse jump against your wrist. You hadn't even known he still had one.
Alastor’s gaze found yours through the narrow gap beside Vox’s shoulder. “Though it seems you’ve acquired a rather loud shadow since we last spoke, cher.” His eyes slid back to Vox. “Tell me, does he always speak for you, or does he simply lack the bandwidth to let others take the mic?”
Vox’s grip tightened.
“Vox.” You didn’t pull away—that would look like weakness to the crowd of Overlords watching from the shadows—but you shot him a sharp look. “Let go.”
One by one, his fingers reluctantly loosened. You stepped around him before the silence could sour any further, a smile sliding back onto your face even though it felt cold there.
“Alastor,” you greeted, meeting his eyes head-on. “You know, most people RSVP. You certainly know how to pick an airdate.”
“And miss such a spectacular premiere? Heavens, no!” He gestured broadly with his staff. “Why, I would never let a bit of cheap yellow journalism dictate the terms of my return.”
Alastor didn’t spare the camera drones a glance. He stepped past Vox like the man wasn’t overheating badly enough to warp the air around him, crossed to the bar, and took a seat.
The demon behind the counter stared.
Alastor smiled.
A glass of whiskey appeared in front of him a second later.
“A charming little relic,” he said, echoing you as he lifted the glass. His eyes found yours over the rim, sharp with something that almost looked like approval. “Our lovely host was quite right. If Hell is truly so starved for entertainment that an old photograph can cause all this fuss, then perhaps my absence has gone on long enough.”
A murmur moved through the crowd. Vox stayed completely still.
Alastor raised his glass toward you. “To new beginnings, cher. The main feature is about to begin.” He downed the drink in one smooth motion, set the glass back on the counter with a clean clink, and stood.
Before Vox’s processors could even begin to register the sheer humiliation of being entirely ignored in his own building, Alastor was already moving toward the exit.
“Do enjoy your launch...”
Alastor’s gaze flicked to Vox at last, his toothy smile widening.
“...Vincent.”
The lights snapped. His silhouette dissolved into a pool of pure black, and Alastor vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there.
For one awful second, no one breathed. The radio static cut off, leaving the ballroom in silence.
Then, the metric wall rewrote itself.
#Hell’sOldFlame dropped so fast it nearly disappeared. A new tag slammed into its place:
#TheRadioDemonReturns
The ballroom erupted. Reporters turned, drones swinging after a ghost already gone into the dark. When the bass came back, louder than before, the crowd took the excuse. Drinks lifted again as conversations restarted too fast, and the ballroom forced itself back into motion.
Beside you, Vox hadn’t moved. His screen was still a blinding white, one frozen error code stretched across his face while a low, broken whine crawled out of his speakers.
Suddenly, his screen snapped back to blue. Vox lunged forward, closing the distance until he was practically looming over you, his voice dropping into a hiss.
“What the fuck was that?” he snarled, clawed fingers twitching at his sides. “Cher? You called him Al? You stood there and let that ancient piece of garbage rewrite my fucking launch into his welcome-back party?!”
“Our launch,” you corrected, your voice low. You kept your expression locked in place, very aware of the cameras drifting overhead. “Read the room, Vox. We killed the scandal. Alastor dismissed it himself.”
His screen crackled.
“If we fight right now, the press wins.”
“I don’t give a shit about the press right now!” Vox’s voice glitched, a high-pitched frequency piercing through his words. “He walked into my building, ignored me, and toasted to you. What are you playing at? What THE FUCK IS HE TO YOU?!”
“He’s a ghost who just handed us a win, you INSECURE IDIOT!” you screamed back, matching his venom beat for beat, completely blind to the rest of the room as you invaded his space. “I saved the brand tonight. If you could stop obsessing over him for five seconds, you’d realize—”
Velvette’s laugh cut right between you, loud enough to break the spell. “Oh, this is disgusting,” she snickered, stepping up beside you both.
Valentino leaned over her shoulder a moment later, a plume of red smoke trailing from his lips. “Disgusting? I think it’s kinda hot. Seriously, though, you two need to shut up and look up.”
You and Vox turned toward the metric display above the dance floor.
The live wall was updating at a dizzying speed. #TheRadioDemonReturns was still there, but rapidly descending. Above it, the new number-one trending topic in Hell glowed in flashing neon letters:
#JustPartners?
Right beneath it, the sub-tags were already multiplying by the second:
#VoxProtects
#VTowerPowerCouple
Someone in the crowd had caught the whole exchange on their phone and posted it— Vox's hand locked around your wrist, the way he'd planted himself in front of you— and it had done more for you in thirty seconds than any press conference could.
Valentino let out a delighted gasp, clapping Vox on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Oh, baby! See? I told you, papi. They love a protector.”
Velvette was already typing furiously. “Alastor thought he was hijacking the launch. Idiot didn’t realize he just gave us the best promotional B-roll of the century. We look untouchable.”
The cheer had already started by the time anyone said a word, glasses lifting toward you and Vox from the VIP decks, spreading through the floor. The music, already back at full volume, seemed to swell right along with it.
You kept your eyes on the metrics wall, but the sudden weight of Vox’s stare pulled your attention right off the screens. When you turned to look at him, he didn't manage to break eye contact fast enough to go unnoticed.
You gave him the smallest, sharpest smile you could get away with on camera. “Guess we got lucky,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, not quite looking at you. “Lucky.” His hand found yours in the crowd as the cameras swooped in.
The door to your bedroom clicked shut behind you, cutting off the pressure of the party downstairs.
Alone, finally.
You crossed to the vanity, pulling off your gloves and dropping them onto the glass before catching your own reflection. Your camera smile was gone, but your wrist still felt warm where Vox had grabbed you on the carpet.
A sudden wave of electric heat hit the back of your neck without warning, smelling heavily of ozone and scorched copper. No doors had opened, no footsteps had sounded, but the sudden shift in pressure told you everything.
You didn't bother to look up as a familiar blue glare reflected in the vanity glass. “The ballroom's full of investors,” you remarked, dragging a cotton pad across your makeup. “Velvette's going to notice if both her headliners vanish before the midnight toast.”
“Let her notice,” Vox snapped from behind you.
You turned, crossing your arms and leaning your back against the vanity. Vox was pacing, his claws flexed at his sides.
“Very strategic.” You folded your arms tighter. “You dragged me off the carpet in front of half the Pride District because you couldn't handle a few questions about a twenty-year-old photo."
“It wasn't just a few questions.” Vox's voice cracked into static, hard enough to flicker the lights overhead. He stopped pacing. “The feeds are choked with it. The second we roll out the biggest launch of the century, that piece of trash drops one archive file and you just let him control the room.”
“I was managing the press, Vox. I had them exactly where I wanted them.” You stepped into his space, refusing to give ground. “But you couldn't play along for ten minutes. You had to go full territorial and show all of Hell exactly how easy it is to rattle you.”
“I am not rattled.” White static ripped across his display as he leaned down, inches from your face. “I'm trying to run an empire.”
“You're throwing a tantrum.” Your chest was heaving now too. "You're acting like a damn child over a ghost story. What is your problem?”
“You.” The word came out stripped of everything polished, everything broadcast-smooth, just raw feedback. “You're my problem. Okay? Fuck. Yes. I'm jealous. How could I not be? That bastard had you for a decade. He walked in the second you landed in Hell and took something I've wanted since the day you walked into this tower.”
The confession left a ringing silence behind it.
Vox went entirely rigid, irises blown wide. His breathing was heavy and erratic as the static around his shoulders finally cut out. For all his money and all his towers, he just stood there looking entirely bare. Trembling.
His claws hovered between you, half raised, like he wanted to snatch the words back out of the air.
The silence pulled tight enough to snap.
Then it did.
You didn't think. You grabbed the lapels of his coat and dragged him down.
The kiss hit hard enough to send a literal jolt through his frame. He froze against your mouth, paralyzed by the shock of it for a split second. Then the restraint gave way. A low, rough growl rattled through his chest, his hands slamming onto your waist to haul you against him until your hips hit the vanity.
He crowded you hard against the wood, his mouth crashing into yours with a raw hunger that left no space for anything else. Electric current snapped between your lips until the sheer lack of oxygen forced you to pull back, your fingers still knotted in his lapels. Vox stayed right there, his forehead nearly touching yours as his internal fans hummed at a frantic pitch. His hands were white-knuckled on your waist, anchoring you so tightly against his frame that your next breath hitched.
“You still dragged me off the floor like a lunatic,” you breathed, keeping your eyes on Vox.
His forehead dropped against yours. The glass of his screen was hot against your skin. “I know.”
“I'm still furious with you.”
“You should be.”
You trailed your fingers from his lapels up along the edge of his collar, where the screen met the rest of him.
Dropping your voice to a murmur, you leaned in and pressed your lips there. “So what's the play, Vinny? Velvette's waiting. Do we go back down?”
The sound of his actual name against your lips made his internal fans go dead for a second. He didn't move. His gaze dropped to your mouth, his screen darkening into a blue that had nothing to do with the network.
“...The broadcast's automated for the next hour.” His voice came through clean, for what might have been the first time all night. “Velvette can handle the investors. Val's occupied.”
"Is that so?"
He didn’t bother to answer directly, instead stepping in to crowd you fully against the vanity, one hand trailing up your side as the other tangled itself in your hair. “Nobody's looking for us. No feeds. No logs.”
His thumb traced your lower lip, claw tilting your chin up.
“We have an hour.” His voice was barely a whisper now. “Tell me to open the door, and we go downstairs.”
He paused.
“...Or tell me to leave it locked.”
a/n: this fic fought me in a parking lot and honestly might have won.
to be completely honest, i've been really drained recently and in that fun little spiral where everything i write feels like the worst thing ever put to paper, so finishing this at all feels like a small miracle. so if this feels a little messy, that’s probably why, but i’m also trying to remind myself that posting imperfectly is better than never posting at all.
also. lost boys prompts. hand them over. my obsession has fully taken over my brain and apparently i live there now. i cannot promise speed, but i would love to have some ideas to play with.
thank you for reading and for sticking around while i fight for my life in google docs <3 love u all
Hi!!! Idk if you do hazbin hotel, but can you do a lucifer x daughter reader, where luci doesn't see that reader really loves him and he only focuses on charlie's attention and love?
Lucifer Morningstar x daughter! Reader
Warnings: doubt of self worth, hinting at self harm, favoritism
You were Charlie’s older sister. You were at least seventeen when your parents split. Charlie spent most of her time with your mother, and you with your father as you trained beneath him.
You tried to ignore the way your father barely spoke to you. The way he spoke about Charlie inheriting the throne instead of you. The way he called her “his little princess”, while you were simply ____.
You didn’t blame Charlie. She couldn’t have known. She texted you almost everyday and took every opportunity to go out with you. You did the same.
When she finally called your father asking him to come to the hotel, he practically squealed from excitement. He never did that with you.
When you both arrived, you had already grown tired of the way Lucifer had done nothing but talk about how excited he was the whole way there.
Charlie was so happy to see you both. It made you smile. The way she hugged you happily. The way she was awkward with Lucifer. He deserved it.
Not too long after, she convinced Lucifer to allow her to talk to heaven.
Once the hotel needed to fight, you begged your father to help your sister and her friends.
“I’m sorry but.. I can’t interfere with the exterminations.”
“But, dad-“
“NO-!… buts.. I’ve had enough whining for a whole century. Leave me alone.”
You huffed and looked away before scowling and gritting your teeth “if it had been Charlie who asked.. if Charlie had gotten hurt… yooo would change your tone completely.”
You walked away from the confused Lucifer.
Seconds after, his expression turned to one of concern and disappointment in himself.
——
You locked your self in your room. You punched the wall out of anger.
“This is all his fault!”
Punch
“Him! Her!”
Punch, punch
“They don’t care about me and Charlie!”
Punch, punch, punch
“They don’t care about anyone but themselves!”
Punch..
You looked at your now bloody fist before crying out and kicking the wall.
You at down at your bed’s edge, tears forming in your eyes.
“This happens every single time… I hate him. I hate everyone. I hate all the sinners, all the angels.. I hate her!”
You huffed and got a notification from your phone.
‘Vox tech enterprises has released a new v-phone version! Come get it for 30% percent off NOW!’
“Hm.. this Vox guy.. heard the bloody Bambi doesn’t like him very much. And I don’t think he likes Bambi either.. maybe what my sis needs is to recognize how awful hell really is… then she’ll see how awful dad is… how awful Lucifer is.. the one to blame for all the bad things in life…”
You put your phone in your pocket and walked out the room.
You discovered that your father had left. Of course he did.
HI HII CAN I REQUEST AN ANGSTY VOX X F READER, it’s pretty much the reader is in the position that Valentino was in which Vox was prioritising his beef with Alastor instead of his love with the reader, creating issues between them, making the reader feel like he just keeps her around for publicity or something like that lol 🫶
A/N; I am so sorry on the wait for this, here you go!!
warnings: angstttt
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒
The penthouse at the top of VoxTek Tower glowed with the cold, electric blue of a thousand screens. You stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the chaotic sprawl of Pentagram City flicker below. Another night. Another broadcast where Vox spent forty-three minutes straight ranting about Alastor’s latest minor victory while your name was only mentioned in passing “and of course, my lovely partner is here supporting the cause”
Support. Right.
The elevator dinged. You didn’t turn around. You already knew the rhythm of his footsteps, the low static hum that always followed him like a second shadow.
“Busy night” Vox said, voice cheerful in that artificial way he used when he was still riding the high of performance. His claws clicked against his phone as he scrolled. “Ratings through the fucking roof. The clip of me calling that radio freak a washed-up has-been is already trending”
You stayed silent.
He finally noticed. “Hey. You okay?”
You laughed once, bitter and short, “Define ‘okay,’ Vox”
The static in the air sharpened. He set the phone down and approached, the reflection of his glowing face sliding across the glass until he was right behind you. His hands settled on your waist, possessive, automatic. Once upon a time that touch had made you melt. Tonight it felt like a brand.
“What’s this about?” he asked, voice dropping into that smooth, modulated tone he used when he wanted something from you. “You’ve been weird all week”
You turned in his arms, forcing him to look at you. Really look. Your eyes were tired. You hadn’t slept properly since the last time he’d cancelled dinner because “Alastor made another move on my territory”
“I’m tired of being the pretty accessory you trot out when the cameras are rolling” you said quietly, “I’m tired of waiting in this tower alone while you chase a man who doesn’t even care that you exist”
Vox’s left eye twitched, the red rings spinning faster, “This again? It’s not chasing. It’s business. It’s survival. Alastor is-”
“More important than me” you finished for him.
He recoiled like you’d slapped him, “That’s not true”
“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts, “When’s the last time you asked how I was doing without it being foreplay? When’s the last time you stayed in bed past sunrise instead of running to the control room to check overnight clips of that stupid deer?”
Vox’s mouth opened, closed. For once the great Media Demon had no script.
You stepped back, out of his reach, “I used to think you kept me around because you loved me. Now I’m starting to think you just like the optics. Vox and his gorgeous, adoring girlfriend. Perfect for the brand. Makes you look stable. Makes the investors wet”
“That’s fucked up” he snapped, static screeching. One of the nearby monitors flickered and died. “You know that’s not why-”
“Do I?” Tears burned your eyes but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. “Because from where I’m standing, Valentino and Alastor both get more attention from you than me”
Vox’s claws flexed at his sides. The air filled with the smell of ozone. “You have no idea what I deal with. The pressure. The constant need to stay on top. If I slip for one second that fucking radio bastard will-”
“and I’ll what?” you interrupted, “Disappear? Embarrass you? Stop being useful?”
He moved fast, grabbing your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough that you felt the tremor in his hand. “Don’t you dare put words in my mouth”
You looked down at his grip, then back up into his face. The tears finally spilled. “Let go, Vox”
For a second he didn’t. His expression flickered through rage, panic, something almost like fear. Then his fingers loosened. You pulled away.
“I love you” he said, voice glitching, “You know that”
“Do you?” You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “Or do you love the version of me that smiles for the paparazzi and doesn’t complain when you leave me alone for three days straight?”
He didn’t answer.
The silence hurt worse than anything he could have said.
You turned back toward the window, staring out at the city again. “I’m not going to keep waiting for scraps, Vox. I won’t be your Valentino 2.0 - kept around because I’m pretty and useful until something better comes along”
He stepped closer again, but this time he didn’t touch you. His reflection loomed beside yours in the glass, jagged smile flickering.
“I can’t lose you” he whispered. The words sounded almost broken.
You closed your eyes.
“Then stop making me feel like you already have”
The city lights blurred through your tears. Behind you, Vox’s static hummed, uneven, uncertain for once. You didn’t know if he would stay, or if he’d go back to the monitors like always. You weren’t sure you had the strength to find out tonight.
But you knew one thing:
If he chose Alastor again… you weren’t sure you could keep choosing him.
It's been a longggg while since I started writing this fic, and I'm currently having a lot of trouble continuing it. Still, I want to show a piece of my work
This takes place during Vox's time as Vincent Whittman
It’s as though the world has disappeared around him. Everything except the ocean life. He’s not smiling. His expression is blank, but at the corner of your vision, you notice his eyes following the predators within the tanks.
A shiver runs up your spine. The air in the aquarium has suddenly turned cold.
When he tears his gaze from them, his signature smile returns.
“Come on,” he whispers, inches from your face. “I’ve saved the best for last.”
He leads you to the temporary exhibition.
Your heart freezes at the sight.
Two giant sharks swim past you, alone in their tanks, only coral and seaweed to decorate their tanks. The tank barely seems to contain the giant predators. Their jaws are outstretched, revealing hundreds of razor sharp teeth; their eyes are devoid of warmth, watching you as though contemplating if you’re worth a bite.
You instinctually back away, only to suddenly bump against Vincent’s chest. Before you can mutter an excuse, he sets his hands on your shoulders without so much as sparing you a glance.
He’s grinning.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they?”
The largest shark swims past, fin limply bending to the current. Its color is a faded grey. You begin to wonder how long they’ll last in such a small tank.
“The ultimate predators. The gods of the ocean. And these?”
Warnings: Set in a unspecified timeline but it's before Vincents death, and little sloppy especially at the end because I haven't written in a hot minute, Reader assumes no one will believe them because Vincent is well-known and has influence, mentions of murder.
It was three days before your wedding to Vincent, you were meant to be a blushing bride to be, your wedding dress hung in your closet just waiting to be worn, your mother had splurged and bought you the most beautiful heels you had laid your eyes on.
But something inside you wanted to call everything off, you loved Vincent, as far as you and everyone else knew he was a good man who cherished you, who had a good job and was consistently rising the ranks in at his job, sure he was selfish at times, standing you up at dates amongst other things but it could be worse especially for the times you were in.
You thought it was cold feet at first, something that would be temporary, it would go away after the wedding wouldn't it?
I found a secret note, "Burn after reading this"
It was almost as if someone was looking out for you, because how on earth could you explain a letter that was addressed to one of your husband to be's coworkers asking to meet somewhere secretly the night before he had gone missing just so happened to fly out of Vincent's coat after what was supposed to be your final date night out before you were wed?
Maybe it was just a sick coincidence? Maybe he hadn't gotten the chance to give it to him?
Or maybe you were right to doubt the wedding.
It's supernatural, the feeling's sinking in
This isn't cold feet, these aren't fireworks
You spent the entire night looking back on your relationship, on him, on you.
Wasn't it suspicious on how quickly he rose through the ranks? After all he was just a humble weatherman, with his brown suit and blocky glasses, then suddenly his higher ups start going missing, start having horrific accidents on set and he just so happens to fill their roles?
The sky is menacing and that's an iceberg
He thinks he's velvet smooth, I've fallen for the act
How did you not realize this before? He wore their clothes?
Everyone likes him enough, your family does so much so that you think if you told them this, they would laugh you off or worse, send you off to a mental institution.
I'm in the other room and seeing through the cracks
The voices in my head are screaming, "No, don't"
You had to leave, you had to get out but how? You'd lose everything unless everything was brought to light but how? Aside from this sheet of paper you had no proof, and so many people liked him, who would believe you?
You don't have to waste your night and wear your heart out
No one would, no one would believe you, not the police, not the press, not even your own friends and family
Almost all of them spoke highly of him it was almost cult-like, so you had two choices
Either you left everything behind, your friends, your family, your life or you marry Vincent, you'll live well off, you'll have kids, preferably two, a boy and a girl, you'd have to live with the fact that your husband murdered people to get to where he was, you'd have to live with the fact that he could kill you at any moment.
The warning signs are flashing now
Stop the wedding
Stop the wedding
You would be lying if you said the idea of being a wealthy housewife wasn't a little tempting, after all you wouldn't have to do much work, Vincent could hire a maid or nanny if you wished if you didn't want to change diapers or deal with throw up.
He had always spoiled you.
But at the end of the day he could one day up and divorce you, with no warning or he could kill you.
Even though the table's set, the guests are waiting
You can burn the dress and run away
You took your wedding dress out of the closet and stared at it, the dress itself was beautiful, it was the latest fashion after all, you had gone to countless shops to find a dress you adored.
It was a pity you'd never get to wear it as you decided then and there you would escape.
You decided you would pack away your things, maybe you would make it look like you were kidnapped maybe that would make it less shameful?
Stop the wedding
Stop the wedding
While you were planning your escape, Vincent was out drinking with friends, people he at the moment had no intention of eliminating, drunkenly daydreaming about seeing you in your white dress, lifting that veil off of your pretty little head and marrying you.
He wanted two children he made that clear telling you about how he'd spoil them with the greatest things this world had to offer just like he did you!
You've been such a good girl
Talking like you should, girl
He had met you before he had become someone with power, when he was still a pathetic weatherman for the local news, but the way you had adored him, asking him questions, about his job, about the weather, about him!
Not to mention you were just so proud of him when he rose through the ranks, of course you had no idea that he hadn't gotten there though his own merits but by murder, he could imagine your horrified face at what he had done.
But you would never know he was sure of it.
Keep avoiding disappointing in your white satin heels
But you know how you really feel
And even if you did somehow find out, well by then you would be married, you'd grow to accept it eventually after all he'd never hurt you now would he?
You don't have to waste your night and wear your heart out
The warning signs are flashing now
Stop the wedding
You had a suitcase packed with the essentials, money, clothes, valuables you could sell if need be, you were just about to start breaking stuff when mother had dragged you out to prepare you, she sat you down as your aunties, cousins and bridemaids surrounded you, putting cold cucumbers on your eyes to reduce the puffiness, some type of face mask was put on you as you felt gentle hands run through your hair.
You heard their chatter, from tidbits of wedding advice, to how lucky you were, how Vincent adored you, how you were going to live well.
Stop the wedding
Even though the table's set, the guests are waiting
You never got the chance to escape you were pushed and prodded around, a hurdle of woman surrounded you touching up your makeup, making sure your hair was still perfectly in place, placing pearls upon your neck.
It felt suffocating.
You can burn the dress and run away
Stop the wedding
Stop the wedding
You looked into the mirror, you had gotten to wear the dress after all.
You looked beautiful, like a princess from the fairytales your mother had read to you as a child.
But you didn't want this, maybe once upon a time you did but not anymore.
Stop the wedding, stop the wedding
If your heart is dreading,
hands are sweating
While the sun is setting, you'll be getting out
The last person to leave the dressing room was your mother, she hummed as she laid the veil on your head.
Her hands slid down to your shoulders resting on them as she looked at you though the mirror.
You heard her let out a sigh, one you had heard countless times before when she was about to bring something unpleasant up.
"You don't want to get married to him, do you?"
Her words made your heart drop as you looked up at her,
"Mama I-" "Your father put your luggage in the old car, truthfully he's never liked Vincent, always thought he was too chatty."
She cut you off, moving her hands back to adjust your veil again.
You realize that maybe they would've believed you if you had told them earlier about Vincent, atleast your parents would've.
Maybe not the whole "I'm pretty sure my Fiancè is killing his higher-ups and coworkers to progress in his career" thing but they would've helped you
After all at the end of the day you were their baby girl.
"The choice is yours, whether you want to continue this wedding or not, We'll support you either way." She said dropping a car key on the vanity.
Stop the wedding, stop the wedding
If your heart is dreading, hands are sweating
While the sun is setting, you'll be getting out
The door closed as she left, you looked back in the mirror one more time before grabbing the keys.
You don't have to waste your life and wear your heart out
The warning signs are flashing now
Vincent was dazzling in his suit, it was expensive, everything at the wedding was, the cake, the decorations, the flowers everything was enough to put someone into debt but not him.
He stood waiting for you, waiting as the wedding march played, as the flower girls skipped down the aisle, throwing petals as they did so, you would come soon after.
Atleast that's what he thought, that was until he saw your father emerge without you.
Stop the wedding
Stop the wedding
As far as the guests knew you went missing, maybe you had gotten cold feet, maybe you had ran off with someone, maybe you were kidnapped, after all to them you had left with none of your belongings.
As far as Vincent knew maybe you had found out, maybe someone told you, and that scared you off, or maybe someone took you away as an act of revenge.
As far as he was willing to go he wouldn't stop looking for you, but he also wouldn't stop progressing in his career, after all the higher he climbs the easier it'll be to find you.
As your parents knew, you suddenly didn't want to get married, and so they helped you escape.
As far as you knew, you found out something you weren't supposed too, and while you were sure he loved you to some extent, you were not going to take the risk of him deciding that you get in his way and killing you.
Even though your heart was set on never breaking
You can burn the dress and run away
Stop the wedding
Stop the wedding
Your veil laid in the backseat of your dad's old but reliable car, you drove down the streets, eager to get as far away from here as possible.
Stop the wedding
Only you can stop
Stop the wedding
You'd call your parents from a hotel in the next city over, telling them you had gotten there safely.
Stop the wedding
Only you can stop
Stop the wedding
From there you would eventually move to your grandparents old house in the countryside, you'd live peacefully there, traveling around when you could seeing sights you likely wouldn't have seen had you gone through with the wedding.
Maybe one day you'd
Oh-oh
Stop the wedding
Maybe you'd wear a white dress again one day, or maybe you wouldn't, either way you were content as you were now, not as a bride, not as a wife, not as a mother but as you.
Only you can stop the wedding
GOOD EVENING FOLKS! it's been a while! But I'm back, mostly anyways, I've been listening to this song alot for the past day and I got an idea, I was debating on either Vox when he was alive or Vox Vox, but I felt Him being alive fit better, plus I imagine the reader lives happily and grows old, and yk does not end up in hell, and Vox never fully gets closure on his runaway bride.
Anyways so while trying to get a good grasp on How Vox behaved while he was still Vincent whittman I looked him up, to see how some people characterized him and
I WAS FLASHED, first post I see his weiner, I WOULD'VE LIKED A WARNING HELLO???
I don't super like the header, I might redo it? It's a couple months old, lemme know what yall think, anyways thank you for reading and I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day/night!
but beyond that, i believe Lucifer would be a god at it. His skills would be impeccable, especially with how long he’s been ‘alive’ for.
he is sooo focused on your pleasure. he just wants to make you feel good and satisfied. he will gladly sit inbetween your thighs for hours. he loves eating you out
he’s so pathetic about it too. his eyes, hooded with lust and need, staring up at you as his tongue works its magic.
he will beg you to sit on his face. eating pussy is one of hi favorite things, a dominant women is his second. so you riding his face is like a dream come true.
squirt all over him a he will be in heaven 🙏 (no pun intended…lol) he gets so pussy drunk it’s actually insane. he’s addicted and down bad….lucifer is a yearner and a munch
Alastor
alastor isn’t a very sexual person, and he’d much rather tie you up and use his ‘tentacles’ on you or his fingers. his mouth is something he’s not too found off. i hc that alastor doesn’t even like kissing all that much either
but on the rare occasions he does choose to eat you, your left limp in his bed
alastor doesn’t half ass things, he will make sure your spent. he’ll hold you down and force orgasm after orgasm out of you.
he always looks a little feral while eating you out. horns bigger, eyes blacked out, and a smile on his face as his tongue reaches inhumane depths inside of your pussy.
i personally don’t think alastor would like face sitting all that much. he likes control, and he likes being on top. 69 also isn’t his favorite because i don’t think Alastor is a huge fan of head either.
bondage. lots of bondage. if he’s eating you out, odds are you are tied up. he’s also the type of guy to put a pillow under your hips and press down on your lower stomach to really make it feel good.
trust, sometimes alastor knows your body better than you do.
Adam
he does it for his own pleasure more than yours for sure. but that doesn’t mean he’s not good at it.
he talks so much about his head game and this and that, so the first time he ate you out you were hoping it was bad just so you could rub in his face that he couldn’t make you cum. unfortunately and fortunately for you, he made you squirt around 3 times simply just from his tongue.
he dives into that pussy. his face is soaked by the time he coms back up. slow and gentle isn’t the way Adam likes to do it
not to mention the overstimulation oh my god…
i don’t think adam would mind if you sat on his face, as long as you bend over and 69 him he won’t complain.
but speaking of 69, that’s his favorite position by far.
he also dirty talks the whole time; even with a mouth full of pussy.
Sir Pentious
like i said in my sir pentious hc’s (linked here) he is lazy with it
not in a ‘i don’t wanna do this’ or ‘i’m bored’ way….but rather in a soft and sensual way.
he’s always a bit hesitant, asking you if it feels good or if he’s doing it right. he lives off of praise, especially from you. Your moans really build his confidence up to. by the end of it, he’d be a flow state, completely focused on eating you out and nothing else
face sitting is something he would like because he would know it’s enjoyable, since your the one in control. 69 would probably be a bit too much for him. he can only handle so much stimulation at once lmao.
your pleasure is his pleasure. he just wants to make you happy. “i promissssee i wont dissssapoint, my love.” he would declare before using that long snake tongue in all the right ways. his snake teeth are quite sharp and long…so just beware of that….
Vox
Vox uses sex as a way to get what he wants; i 100% he eats you out to apologize to you. not like you can complain much when he’s really good at it 🤷
the tv head definitely required you to spread your legs far and wide, giving him all the space in the world to lick and suck on whatever the hell he wants.
overstimulation for sure, while i don’t think vox is too big of a munch, he still likes it. and he especially likes making you sob and squirm while screaming his name.
he’s always doing the three finger combo on you too. he’s learned a lot (mostly from val lmao) he curls his fingers up while licking you just right. he knows all the tricks and what makes you tick.
yes you can sit on his face. he loves 69ing and usually will complain of you don’t lean over and suck him off too.
vox is a little selfish, obviously, so sometimes he’ll complain if you just want head and no penetration. but if you make it up to him with some head too 😉 he won’t stay mad for too long
hey guys! i know…another hazbin fic….im hyper fixating….requests are open but going by very slowly so pls be patient 🙏 love u all 💋 (lucifer i want u soooo bad…should i write a sub lucifer fic?)
it's a bad day at work so have some random headcanons -
alastor -
alastor has a discretionary fund to make husk go buy you new phones after he (alastor) shorts out your current one because you aren't paying attention to him. but he knows he'll never hear the end of it if he doesn't replace it so he makes husk do it
that stupid fruity cocktail that you mentioned you tried literally once? husk was required to learn how to make it in case you asked for it again
he finds a playlist of your music (and judges you), but makes sure you hear one of your favorite songs or a reference to it once a day
vox -
he may or may not have voxtek employees follow you around time to make sure you're safe. maybe. who's to say
he "hates" when you call him your little weatherman - but he definitely hasn't stopped telling you the forecast every day when you get up
lucifer -
you aren't allowed out of bed without at LEAST 45 minutes of snuggles and headkisses every day. you are constantly late because of this, even when you start allowing extra time in your routine
if you see one more duck shaped pancake, you might cry. it's so cute but oh my god, can you please have one meal that isn't duck shaped?
any fave -
you come back to the hotel one day to a giant stack of board games outside your room after mentioning that you played a lot of games with significant others. the only hint who its from is a stick it with a (duck/radio/tv) drawn on it
