May I request a platonic yandere Hazbin/Helluva AU where Reader is a Deadly Sin, an eight one called Vainglory? Maybe they're super competitive, always wanting to be the best, a bit jealous... but also strives to let others prove themselves, to have a chance at their own glory and future, who is known for inventiveness and creativity, maybe running the art and fashion scene of Hell?
(Some animals/plants in mind for their form include: peacock, lion, dragon, fox, octopus, venus flytrap, pitcher plant, sundew, etc. )
I love this idea so much! Since this is a cross over I made a seperate masterlist for these kinds of ideas.
Vainglory, according to the Bible, is the excessive or empty pride in one's accomplishments, qualities, or appearance, driven by a desire for human praise and recognition rather than God's glory. This means that a vainglorious person has a desire for the praise of others, like a mix of vanity, envy and pride which is why vainglory is seen as the gateway drug of sin.
Anyway, moving on from that. You're place as a sin is a bit complicated. Because for the longest time vainglory was seen as a minor sin that would evolve into larger sins (pride, lust, envy, greed, etc) you didn't have a seat among the seven deadly sins when Hell was being formed.
Then, one day, about in the middle of Hell's first few centuries of existence, Lucifer called a meeting of the sins because he found a large bush of hydrangeas and morning glorys formed in a nest like shape with an object in the center. It turned out to be a large violet egg with golden swirls and darker purple freckles. The sins all watched the egg in confusion, then it shook, cracked, and out hatched you, a demonic yet adorable peacock chick, the avatar of vainglory. You were fully grown, but still the youngest of the sins.
So, now as Hell stands you're ring is hanging out somewhere between Envy and Greed. The art and fashion scenes of Hell bend to your whim, if you say animal prints are out and sequins are in then designers scramble to gain your favor. If landscapes are your favorite thing to paint this week, everyone tries to catch up. This is how it's been since you hatched.
However, you're not a complete ass. Sure, you seek praise and are competitive but because of that the concept of a caste system doesn't really exist in your space. Be it imp, hellhohound or any other demon of Hell you let each and every one have a shot at their own glory and if they fall miserably well then that's not your fault. However, while all this is happening you're unaware just how much your fellow sins love you.
SPOILERS FOR BOTH SHOWS!
TRIGGER WARNING FOR A LOT OF MURDERS, DRUGGING, AND INFANTILIZATION!
You're the one thing, other than Mammon's gross eating habits, that both heads agree on
Loves to brag about you to the demons of the Envy Ring
Is your other wine aunt
Loves it when demons envy you
If someone envied you so much that they might hire someone with the skills and tools, or just get the tools themselves, to do something about it then she steps in
Angry imps try to hurt you, they get drowned
Any of her demons try to reach you, sent to the Wrath ring to bake in the desert
One of the most sneakily violent sins
Never out right kills anyone, as far as anyone else knows
When you do galleries or fashion shows in the Envy Ring she gets you the best security possible for you and your work
Since I choose to believe Envee is Hell's version of TikTok she'll personally monitor your comments sections and remove anything negative
Along with Asmodeus and Bee she monitors what people say about you online
Keeps anything you make for her
The two heads argue over how to keep you safe from people like Striker all the time
Hates if you have to do anything with the Ars Goetia, especially after Stolas' trial
Warnings ⚠️: it's hell ? ... lecherous dudes, Canon typical violence, swearing, clowns, smut, some canon typical religious overtones, alcohol consumption, lusty aesthetics, angst, blood, medical care, feelings of despair.
Part 11 | Part 13 - Coming Soon
Hell-ish Heartbeats 💝💙💛 P.12
The kitchen at Ozzie's was bustling with activity even during the day, staff prepping for the evening's service. You hovered in the doorway for a moment before one of the cooks—a stocky imp with horns that curved back over his head—noticed you and waved you in.
"Oh, hey!" Porchi called out, waving a spatula in greeting. "Looking for something?"
"I was hoping to grab some snacks?" you said, stepping into the kitchen properly. Your very human self was on full display, but none of the staff even blinked. After months of living with the club's owners, you'd become a familiar sight.
"If that's okay? I don't want to get in your way."
"You're fine, hun," said Dee, one of the line cooks who'd taken a particular liking to you. She was chopping something that looked vaguely like vegetables but moved occasionally. "Help yourself to whatever's in the walk-in. Just stay away from the blue container—that's for tonight's special and Chef will have my head if it goes missing."
"Noted," you said, smiling as you moved toward the walk-in cooler. "Thanks, Dee."
"Ooh, while you're in there, grab me one of those pastry things!" Porchi called after you. "The ones with the sweet filling!"
"Get your own snacks!" another cook yelled at him. "She's not your servant!"
"I was asking nicely!" Porchi protested. "There's a difference!"
You couldn't help but laugh, grabbing a small plate and loading it with an assortment of snacks—chips, some kind of pastry that smelled like cinnamon, a few pieces of fruit that you were pretty sure were Hell-grown. You snagged one of the pastries Porchi wanted and tossed it to him on your way out.
"You're an angel!" Porchi said, catching it. "Wait, no, scratch that, terrible choice of words—"
"A saint?" you offered, amused.
"Also probably not appropriate given the location," Dee pointed out.
"You're a wonderful person and I appreciate you!" Porchi amended, taking a huge bite of the pastry.
"Much better," you said, grinning as you headed toward the door. "Thanks for the snacks!"
"Anytime, hun!" Dee called after you. "And tell that Jester to actually eat lunch today! He was in here this morning and left with just coffee, he doesn't know when to take a break."
"I'll try," you promised.
You made your way back through the club, the main stage area already set up for whatever show would happen tonight. During the day, though, it belonged to Fizz, and you could hear his voice carrying across the space before you even saw him.
The main stage at Ozzie's was a completely different beast during the day. Without the colored lights, the crowd, the pulsing music and energy of a live show, it was peaceful. The massive space felt more intimate and you'd found yourself a comfortable spot in one of the VIP booths to watch Fizz rehearse.
You settled in with your snacks, trying very hard not to think about why Fizz was rehearsing so intensely. The shows at Mammon's theater. Back-to-back performances. Meet-and-greets with fans who sometimes made him uncomfortable in ways he wouldn't fully explain to you.
You pushed the thought down, even if the concern kept trying to bubble up every time you watched him run through the same routine without a break.
He was running through his "kid-friendly" set. Which meant toning down the sexual innuendos by about ninety percent and replacing them with slapstick comedy and terrible puns.
"Alright, alright, settle down imaginary children!" Fizz announced to the empty room, his voice projecting perfectly even without a microphone. "Now, I know what you're all thinking—'Fizzarolli, how are you so talented AND devastatingly handsome?' And the answer is—" He struck a dramatic pose, his mechanical limbs extending in impossible directions. "—I sold my soul! Just kidding! I mean, we're already in Hell, so that ship has sailed!"
You laughed, nearly choking on a chip. Even alone in the empty club, Fizz performed with the same energy and commitment as if there were hundreds watching.
"But seriously folks, let's talk about juggling!" Fizz produced three colorful balls from seemingly nowhere. "It's a lot like life—you're constantly trying to keep everything in the air, and occasionally—" One of the balls "accidentally" bonked him on the head. "—you get hit in the face! It builds character!"
He began juggling in earnest, his movements fluid and precise, adding more balls until he had six going at once. Then, because apparently that wasn't impressive enough, he started juggling with his feet while doing a handstand.
"See kids, this is why you should never skip leg day!" he called from his upside-down position. "Also, having robot limbs helps! I highly recommend it! The warranty is terrible though!"
You were grinning so hard your face hurt, completely relaxed in a way you rarely felt. This was nice. Safe. Just you and Fizz and his terrible jokes in the empty club.
Fizz transitioned into a bit involving a comically oversized hat and some kind of prop comedy that you couldn't quite follow but found hilarious anyway. He was so expressive, so animated, every movement deliberate and designed to entertain.
"And remember kids," Fizz said, taking an exaggerated bow, "if anyone ever tells you that you can't achieve your dreams because you're too short or too weird—" He paused, something genuine flickering across his face before the showman's mask slipped back into place. "—tell them Fizzarolli says they can go fuck themselves! Wait, no, that's not kid-friendly. Tell them to go... fudge themselves? Is fudge okay for kids? I honestly don't know anymore."
You dissolved into giggles, and Fizz's eyes found you in the booth. His grin widened, and he took another elaborate bow, this time clearly directed at you.
"Thank you, thank you, you're a wonderful audience!" he called. "Even if you are an audience of one who's currently eating all the snacks!"
"They're good snacks!" you called back, holding up the pastry.
"Those are MY good snacks!"
"Come get them, while there's still some to share!" you teased, taking an exaggerated bite.
Fizz gasped in mock horror, clutching his chest. "Betrayed! In my own club! Is nothing sacred?"
You just grinned at him, completely unrepentant, and watched him launch into another bit.
About twenty minutes later, Fizz bounded off stage and made his way to where you were sitting. He vaulted over the booth with unnecessary acrobatic flair, landing beside you with a flourish.
"So, what'd you think, cutie?" he asked, eyeing your plate. "Be honest. I can take it. I'm a professional."
"I think you're really good," you said honestly. "Even the terrible puns."
"ESPECIALLY the terrible puns," Fizz corrected, striking a pose. "The puns are art. I'll have you know I workshopped that 'leg day' joke for weeks. WEEKS."
You smiled, offering him the plate. "Want some? There's still plenty."
"Oh, so NOW I get to eat huh ?," Fizz said, but he was already taking a chip. "After I poured my heart and soul into that performance. But sure, I'll accept tribute in snack form."
"I really did think you were great," you said, holding the plate so he could take another chip. "Do you prefer performing for kids? I remember watching you at that carnival in Wrath—those little imp kids absolutely loved you. They were so cute."
Fizz's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, something soft and pleased, then a more complicated look. "I mean, yeah, kid shows are fun! They're honest, you know? If a joke doesn't land, they just stare at you though. No fake laughs."
"That carnival show was amazing," you said. "You were so good with them."
"Thanks, cutie," Fizz said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice before his tone shifted slightly. "It's... a lot. Love-hate relationship with that whole circus, honestly."
"Because of the extra meet-and-greets?" you asked.
"Yeah, those are..." Fizz paused, his smile becoming a bit more strained. "They're fine. Mostly. The kids are great! Always great! It's just, you know, some of the adults get a little..." He trailed off, then seemed to catch himself. "Anyway! Point is, kid shows are way more fun because kids don't have weird expectations! They just want balloon animals and bad puns!"
You sensed there was more to it, but before you could ask, Fizz was already pivoting.
"Have you eaten anything else today?" you asked, deciding not to push.
Fizz paused mid-chip-grab. "Define 'eaten.'"
"Fizz."
"I had coffee?"
"That doesn't count."
"Sure it does! It's a bean! Beans are food!" Fizz said, but he was already standing, his limbs retracting to normal proportions. "But FINE, if you're gonna mother-hen me like Ozzie does, I guess I'll get some real food. You coming, cutie? Wanna bring MY snacks."
"I'll bring them," you said, standing with the plate. "And we can share OUR snacks. Like civilized people."
"Oh, is that how sharing works? Fascinating!" Fizz said, already heading toward the backstage area. "Come on then, before I perish from starvation! It'll be very dramatic! There'll be a whole death scene! People will write songs about it!"
The backstage area of Ozzie's was just as elaborate as the main club, all dark corridors and dressing rooms with stars on the doors. Fizz led you to his dressing room—a space that was somehow both chaotic and organized, covered in costumes, props, and what appeared to be an entire wall dedicated to different balloon animals.
"Okay, so, confession time!" Fizz announced, flinging himself toward the small fridge in the corner. "I haven't practiced actual balloon animals in FOREVER. So if you're staying, cutie, you're getting a front-row seat to the Fizzarolli Balloon Spectacular! Which may or may not involve several loud popping sounds and some very creative swearing!"
"I would love that," you said, settling onto the plush couch and setting the plate between you.
Fizz pulled out what looked like a sandwich and a bag of balloons, flopping down beside you. He immediately took a huge bite of the sandwich, then grabbed a balloon with his free hand.
"Multitasking!" he announced with his mouth full. "It's a GIFT!"
You held out a chip toward him, and he took it without question, somehow managing to chew both the sandwich and the chip while inflating a balloon. His cheeks puffed out comically, and you couldn't help but giggle.
"You're gonna choke," you said.
"Nah, I'm a professional!" Fizz said, swallowing. "I once ate an entire plate of wings while doing a handstand! Granted, Ozzie yelled at me for like an hour afterward, but I SURVIVED!" He tied off the balloon with a flourish. "Now watch as I create ART!"
His hands moved quickly, twisting the balloon into a perfect dog shape within seconds. "TA-DA! Behold! Man's best friend! Or demon's best friend! Whatever!"
He set it aside and grabbed another balloon, offering you a bite of his sandwich. You took it, and he grinned before launching into an explanation of how to make a giraffe.
"The trick is the proportions!" he said, his hands already working. "You want the neck to be long but not so long it looks like a confused snake with delusions of grandeur!"
You watched, mesmerized by how precisely his mechanical fingers moved. Each twist was exact, each bubble perfectly sized.
"Okay, your turn, cutie!" Fizz declared, shoving an uninflated balloon into your hands. "I'll walk you through a dog! It's super easy! No promises! But hey, if you fail, we can just say it's abstract art!"
The balloon squeaked awkwardly as you tried to inflate it, managing to get it about halfway before running out of breath.
"Here, give it here," Fizz said, taking it and inflating it in one quick breath. "Okay! So first twist is about ttttthis far from the top—" He demonstrated. "That's the snout! Adorable! Moving on!"
He guided you through each step, occasionally taking bites of food between instructions and offering you more from the plate. His energy was infectious, and you found yourself completely absorbed in trying to get the proportions right.
"Your tongue's out!" Fizz said, pointing at your face. "That's how I know you're in the ZONE! Okay, okay, twist there—YES! Good! Now the ears—they should be loops, not weird stick things—"
"I'm trying!" you protested, concentrating hard on making the loops even.
"And NOW the legs!" Fizz continued. "Same principle as the ears! Make 'em loopy! We want a dog, not a stick figure that identifies as a dog!"
Several balloons popped in the process, each one making you jump, but eventually, you held up a slightly crooked but definitely recognizable balloon dog.
"I DID IT!" you exclaimed.
"You DID!" Fizz matched your energy, jumping up from the couch. "LOOK AT THAT! It's beautiful! It's like a dog that might have a alcohol problem but in the CUTEST way possible!"
"It's not that wonky!" you laughed.
"It's PERFECTLY wonky and I love it!" Fizz declared, snatching it from your hands and immediately clearing space on his prop shelf. "This is going in the Hall of Fame! Right here! Pride of place!"
He set your lopsided creation among his perfect balloon animals with such genuine care that it made your chest feel warm.
"Now," Fizz said, settling back on the couch and grabbing another balloon, "watch the master work!"
He launched into creating increasingly elaborate balloon animals—a giraffe, something that might have been a dragon.
You settled in to watch, offering him bites of food every so often, which he accepted without breaking his rhythm. His mechanical hands were fascinating, moving with such precision and control.
The mechanical fingers moved at impossible angles, bending and twisting in ways that organic hands never could. You found yourself staring, completely fascinated by the precision, the control.
How much could he actually feel through them? Were they just tools he controlled, or could he sense things? Temperature, texture, pressure?
"Okay, you're staring REALLY hard," Fizz said, not looking up from the balloon animal he was constructing. "Like, REALLY staring. I can feel your eyeballs boring into my hands. It's kinda intense. Should I be concerned? Are you planning to steal them? Because I gotta tell you, they're kinda attached."
"Sorry," you said quickly, your face heating. "I was just... wondering."
"Wondering what?" He brandished the completed animal with a flourish before setting it aside. "About my INCREDIBLE dexterity? My AMAZING hand-eye coordination? The fact that I could probably beat you in thumb war with both hands tied behind my back? Which would be ironic?"
"About your hands," you admitted. "I was wondering how much you can... feel with them?"
Fizz's manic energy seemed to pause for just a moment. His expression shifted into something you couldn't quite read—surprised, maybe? Touched?
"Huh," he said finally. "That's... actually a good question! Most people don't ask. Or they ask in this weird pitying way like I'm some tragic figure in a penny dreadful! 'Oh, poor Fizzarolli, he can't FEEL things!' Very dramatic. Very annoying."
"I'm just curious," you said softly. "But if it's too personal—"
"Nah, nah, it's cool!" Fizz waved a hand dismissively. "I like that you just... asked. You always ask like it's a normal question. Which it is! Totally normal!" He extended one of his arms, the limb stretching across the space until his hand was right in front of your face. "I can feel most things! Pressure, definitely. Temperature. Texture's a little fuzzier but it's there. It's not the same as, like, flesh-and-blood touch, but it's not nothing!"
You looked at the offered hand, then back at his face. "Really?"
"Really! Here, I'll prove it!" Fizz said, and suddenly he was slapping his other hand over his eyes in an exaggerated gesture. "Okay! I can't see! I'm BLIND! Completely SIGHTLESS! You could rob me right now and I'd never know!"
"Fizz—"
"Touch my hand!" he said, his voice taking on a game-show host quality. "Anywhere! And I'll tell you when I can feel it! It's like a magic trick but with SCIENCE! Or engineering! Or whatever! Just touch it and I'll tell you if I can feel it!"
You couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and very lightly touched one finger to his palm.
Nothing. He didn't react.
You pressed a little harder, and Fizz immediately perked up. "There! Right there! Palm! Very center! I felt that!"
"You can feel that?" you asked, genuinely fascinated now.
"Hell yeah I can feel that! Keep going! This is FUN!" Fizz said, still covering his eyes but you could see him peeking just slightly between his fingers.
You ran your fingers across his palm, experimenting with different pressures. When you touched lightly, he didn't seem to register it. But firmer pressure got immediate responses.
"Yep! Got it! That's the base of my fingers now—oh, that tickles! Who knew robo hands could tickle? NOT MEEEE!"
You were laughing now, tracing patterns across his mechanical hand while Fizz gave running commentary, occasionally peeking through his fingers to watch your expression.
"Okay, okay, that's the wrist—I felt that! Very scandalous! What if someone sees? What will they THINK?" He said the last part in a dramatic falsetto.
"They'll think we're weird," you said, gently squeezing his hand.
"Joke's on them, I've ALWAYS been weird! It's part of my CHARM!" Fizz lowered his hand from his eyes, looking at you with an expression that was softer than his usual manic grin. "But seriously, thanks for asking. And for being cool about it. Lots of people get weird about the prosthetics. Like, WEIRD weird."
"They're part of you," you said simply. "Why would I be weird about you?"
Fizz went very still. His eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch, though you weren't sure why.
"You're really special, you know that?" he said, his voice quieter than you'd ever heard it. "Like... really special."
"HA, sure, sure ...special good or special bad?" you asked, your hand resting under his mechanical hand.
Fizz's eyes dropped to your lips for just a moment—two seconds, maybe three—before meeting your gaze again. You didn't notice, too focused on waiting for his answer.
"Special like—perfect," he said softly, and then he was leaning in, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek.
And then he was kissing you.
For a moment—just a brief, stunning moment—you froze. Fizz's lips were soft against yours, gentle in a way that seemed at odds with his usual manic energy. His mechanical hand was warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin, and his other hand was still clasped in yours.
But then reality crashed back in, and you pulled back sharply, your heart hammering in panic.
"W-what are you doing?" The words came out strangled, confused.
Fizz blinked, his hand still on your cheek, his expression shifting from soft to uncertain. "I—I thought we were having a moment? That was a moment, right? I didn't just imagine—"
"You have Ozzie!" you said, and your voice cracked on his name. "You're with Ozzie! I can't—we can't—"
The tabloids. Oh god, the tabloids had been right. Mystery plaything, they'd called you. Homewrecker. Doing anything for a place to stay.
And now you'd actually done it. You'd kissed Ozzie's partner.
"Wait, no, that's not—" Fizz started, his eyes widening with alarm as he saw the panic on your face.
"I'm sorry," you said, and the tears were already starting, hot and fast. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—I should have stopped you, I should have—those tabloids were right, fuck they were right about me, I'm doing exactly what they said—"
"Whoa, whoa, NO—" Fizz reached for you, but that only made it worse.
You scrambled off the couch, backing away from him. "I would never try to come between you two, I swear, I didn't mean for this to happen, I'm not—I couldn't—"
Your voice broke completely. You could see it now, the new headlines. The proof that you were exactly the homewrecking slut they'd painted you as. Seducing Asmodeus's boyfriend. Destroying their relationship. Being everything vile and disgusting the article had accused you of.
"Hey, no, wait—" Fizz was on his feet now, his hands outstretched but not touching, like he was afraid he'd spook you further. "This isn't—you're not—fuck, please just let me explain—"
"I have to go—I gotta get some—some air." you choked out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Please don't—" Fizz started, but you were already at the door.
"I'm sorry," you said again, your vision blurring with tears. "I'm so, so sorry."
And then you turned, walking fast too fast, then walking turned to running.
Down the hallway, through the empty club, out into the street. You heard Fizz calling your name, but you didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
The tabloids had been right.
You were exactly what they'd called you.
And you had no idea how to live with that.
Fizz's phone buzzed across the dressing room vanity, he took the phone call with a heavy sigh, sinking back onto the couch and running his hand down his face.
"Oz, I fucked up," he said immediately.
"Well, that's not concerning at all," Ozzie's voice came through, warmly. "What happened?"
"I kissed her," Fizz said, his voice going small. "I kissed her and she freaked out and I'm pretty sure she thinks she's a homewrecker now."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"Froggie," Ozzie said carefully. "Did you tell her that we've been planning to ask her to join our relationship?"
"I didn't get that far!" Fizz said, his voice pitching higher with distress. "We were having this really nice moment and she was touching my hand and asking about what I can feel and it was so sweet and genuine and she called the imp kids from Wrath cute and was asking about my shows and I just... went for it. Like a complete IDIOT."
"You're not an idiot," Ozzie said, but he sighed. "Though your timing could use work."
"FUCK, she thinks I cheated on you," Fizz said miserably, slumping further into the couch cushions. "With her. She was apologizing and saying she'd never come between us and something about the tabloids being right and then she just left, Oz. She RAN."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know. Home? Probably home." Fizz made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "What do I do, Oz? She looked so upset. Like she'd done something awful. And it's MY fault for not explaining first!"
"I'll handle it," Ozzie said firmly. "I'm heading home now. Don't follow her—she needs space, and you chasing her down might make it worse. We'll talk to her together when she's ready."
"And if she's not ready?" Fizz asked quietly, voicing the fear that was clawing at his chest. "What if she doesn't want... this? Us?"
"Then we'll deal with that," Ozzie said gently. "But Fizzy? I don't think that's the problem. She might not know it's an option."
"Yeah," Fizz said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, okay."
"I'll see you at home," Ozzie said. "And Froggie?"
"Yeah?"
"It's going to be okay. We'll figure this out."
Fizz hung up and stared at the ceiling, at the collection of balloon animals scattered around the room, at your lopsided balloon dog still sitting proudly on his shelf.
"Please let him be right," he muttered to the empty room. "Please, please let him be right."
By the time Ozzie made it home, the palace was quiet.
He headed straight for your room, his chest tight with concern. He knocked gently on the door.
"Little one, are you home? Can we talk?"
Silence.
He tried again, his voice softer. "I know you're upset. But please, let me explain. Fizzy called me and—"
Still nothing.
"Baby, I'm not angry," Ozzie said, pressing his hand against the door, the name slipping past his teeth without a second thought. "Neither of us are upset with you. But we need to talk about what happened. Please."
When there was still no response, Ozzie carefully tried the handle. The door swung open.
The room was empty. Your bed was made. Your belongings were still scattered around—a jacket draped over a chair, your phone charger on the nightstand, a book on the side table—but you weren't there.
Ozzie's flames flared bright with sudden alarm. He moved through the palace quickly, checking the lounge, the kitchen, the bathroom. Calling your name, his voice echoing through the empty halls.
Nothing.
You weren't home.
By the time he reached the bedroom, Fizz had arrived home and was sitting on the edge of their bed, his expression shifting from miserable to alarmed at the look on Ozzie's face.
"What's wrong?" Fizz asked, uncoiling from the bed. "Did she—is she okay? Did you talk to her?"
"She's not here," Ozzie said, and his voice was tight with worry. "She's not in her room. She's not anywhere in the palace. She's gone."
"Gone?" Fizz repeated, his voice pitching higher. "What do you mean GONE? Where would she GO?"
"I don't know," Ozzie said, already pulling out his phone. "But we need to find her. Now."
Fizz was on his feet instantly, his limbs extending as he started pacing. "Okay, okay, think! Where would she go? She doesn't know Hell that well, she doesn't have many places she could—oh fuck, Oz, she doesnt have security she's just wondering alone?"
"Call her," Ozzie commanded, already dialing himself. "Keep calling until she picks up."
They both tried. Once, twice, three times. Each call went straight to voicemail.
"She turned her phone off," Fizz said, and there was genuine panic in his voice now. "She NEVER turns her phone off! Oz, what if something happens to her? What if someone—"
"Don't panic Froggie, we'll find her," Ozzie said firmly, even though his own flames were flickering over his mane. "We'll find her."
Fizz was already at the door, his movements jerky with anxiety. "I'm checking Ozzie's. Maybe she went back there, maybe she's hiding in the club or—"
"I'll check the surrounding streets," Ozzie said, grabbing his coat. "Call me if you find anything. ANYTHING."
"Same," Fizz said, his voice cracking slightly. "Oz, I—if something happens to her because of what I did—"
"We'll find her," Ozzie repeated, moving to pull Fizz into a quick, tight kiss. "We will find her. She can't have gone far."
But even as he said it, he couldn't shake the cold dread settling in his chest.
You were out there somewhere. Alone. Upset. In Hell.
And they had no idea where you'd gone.
Fizz pulled back, his pink eyes wide with fear. "We have to find her. We have to."
"We will," Ozzie promised, even as his mind raced through increasingly worse scenarios. "Come on."
They left the palace together, splitting up at the entrance. Ozzie headed toward the main streets, his flames bright enough now to light his way, calling your name into the darkness.
Fizz ran toward the club, his movements almost frantic, his mind racing with terrible possibilities.
