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
The palace was quiet in that particular way that meant you were completely alone. Ozzie and Fizz had left for work earlier—Ozzie to handle some kind of important meeting at the club, Fizz for rehearsals or a performance or something equally impressive that you didn't fully understand. They'd both said goodbye, Fizz with an elaborate bow and Ozzie with that soft look he sometimes got that made your chest feel tight.
You found yourself wandering the palace at a loose end. You could watch TV, but you'd been doing a lot of that lately. You could read, but the books in Ozzie's library were either about topics you didn't understand or were... extremely inappropriate.
Your eyes landed on a pile of mail stacked haphazardly on the kitchen counter.
It wasn't snooping if you were just organizing it, right? That was helpful. That was being a good houseguest.
You started sorting—bills in one pile, what looked like business correspondence in another, personal letters in a third. There was a surprising amount of fan mail addressed to Fizz, which you set aside carefully. Some of the envelopes had lipstick marks on them, some of them had other werid marks on them, which you tried very hard not to think about.
Once the mail was organized, you looked around the kitchen and lounge. Both spaces were already pretty clean—Ozzie had staff who maintained the palace—but there were small things. Dishes in the sink from breakfast. A coffee mug Fizz had left on the side table. Some of Precious's toys scattered across the floor.
Small things you could handle.
You washed the dishes, dried them, put them away. You gathered up the scattered toys and put them in the designated basket. You managed to wipe down the counters, with only minimal difficulties, straightened the couch cushions, and even attempted to organize the throw pillows in a way that looked intentional rather than chaotic.
It felt good to be useful. To contribute something, even if it was small. Ozzie and Fizz had been so kind to you, letting you stay here, taking you on trips, treating you like... like you mattered. The least you could do was help around the house.
You were just finishing up, feeling accomplished and maybe a little bit proud of yourself, when you noticed a newspaper on the coffee table that you'd somehow missed during your cleaning spree.
Lust Ring News the header proclaimed in bold, flashy letters.
Tabloids were trash, everyone knew that. But curiosity won out, and you picked it up, flipping through the pages.
The headline screamed across the third page in letters that seemed designed to be as sensational as possible:
"ASMODEUS'S NEWEST PLAYTHING: SIN OF LUST SEEN WITH MYSTERY DEMON IN WRATH!"
Below it were photos. Several of them. You and Ozzie at the restaurant, sitting across from each other. You on his shoulder at the carnival, your face partially visible under your red hood. Ozzie holding out his hand to you, the gesture looking far more intimate in freeze-frame than it had been in the moment.
Your hands started shaking as you read the article.
"Hell's hottest Sin was spotted with what witnesses are calling his latest toy in the Wrath, and let us tell you—things got FILTHY! The mysterious hooded woman—whose species remains unknown but whose purpose is VERY clear—was seen dining with Asmodeus at a local establishment before the pair took their debauchery to a family carnival. Yes, you read that right. A FAMILY carnival.
Because nothing says 'wholesome family fun' like the embodiment of Lust publicly pawing at his newest conquest, am I right?
Who is this mystery demon who's currently warming the Sin of Lust's bed? Witnesses describe them as 'small,' 'desperate for attention,' and 'literally crawling all over him.' The pair were seen engaging in what can only be described as public foreplay, with the hooded figure allowing Asmodeus to manhandle them in full view of children and families.
'It was disgusting,' said one anonymous source. 'They had no shame. The figure was sitting on his shoulder like some kind of trained pet, and Asmodeus couldn't keep his hands off them. There were CHILDREN present!'
So what species is this mystery figure ? Speculation is running wild. Some say succubus, others claim it's a shape-shifter who's taken on a form designed to appeal to the Sin's specific tastes. A few sources suggest it might be something more exotic—perhaps a crossbreed? Whatever they are, they're clearly willing to debase themselves publicly for a taste of power.
And speaking of debasement, sources close to the Sin report that this isn't the first time the hooded figure has been seen at Asmodeus's palace. 'A new figure has been seen living there for months,' claims our insider. 'Probably co-habitating with Asmodeus and the hottest Jester in hell'
Is this just another disposable toy for Hell's sluttiest Sin? Or has this mystery demon found a way to sink their claws in deeper? One thing's for certain—whoever they are, they're clearly willing to do ANYTHING to stay in Asmodeus's good graces. And we do mean anything.
When reached for comment, representatives for Asmodeus told us to—and we quote—'go fuck ourselves with a cactus.' How charming! Nothing says 'innocent outing' like that level of hostility, right?
Stay tuned, dear readers. We'll be keeping a very close eye on this developing story. And we're taking bets on how long this one lasts before Asmodeus gets bored and tosses them back to whatever gutter they crawled out of!"
The newspaper fell from your numb fingers.
They said you where desperate. A-A toy.
That you were debasing yourself. That you were willing to do "anything."
Your vision blurred with tears as you grabbed the paper again, looking at the photos with fresh horror. The one of you at the restaurant—the caption read "Mystery slut begs for attention." The one on Ozzie's shoulder—"Public display of ownership." The shot of you laughing during the balloon making—"New Toy performs for her master."
Every innocent moment, every happy memory from that day, twisted into something vile and crude and wrong.
And the speculation about you using him, about being disposable, about being thrown back to whatever gutter you crawled from—
You felt sick.
They didn't even know you were human. They assumed you were a demon, someone who knew what they were doing, someone who was choosing to debase themselves for power and shelter and—
But you weren't. You would never. Ozzie had been nothing but kind to you, and Fizz too, and the thought that anyone would think you were—that you were trading sex for security—that you'd ever consider interfering with the love Fizz and Ozzie shared.
The tears came harder now, hot and fast and unstoppable.
You'd ruined everything. By being seen with Ozzie, by accepting his kindness, by not thinking about how it would look to others—you'd created this. These disgusting articles that painted you as something dirty and shameful.
And Ozzie—god, Ozzie worked so hard to keep his relationship with Fizz private. You knew that, even if they'd never explicitly said it. You'd seen the way they were careful about public displays of affection, the way Ozzie's public persona was so different from who he was at home.
And now here you were, splashed across the tabloids as his "latest plaything," his "newest conquest," someone so desperate and debased that they'd sleep with someone so clearly in love—ugh, as if—Ozzie would never look at you like that—nir would Fizz, you knew they only had eyes for each other.
Ozzie was in a meeting, and he was absolutely not paying attention.
He should be. This was important—contract negotiations with one of the Lust Ring's major suppliers. But his mind kept wandering, kept drifting back to yesterday. To the Wrath Ring. To you.
The way you'd looked so delighted by everything—the food, the carnival, the families. The way you'd giggled during your ridiculous balloon sword making. The way you'd felt, so warm and trusting, perched on his shoulder.
The way you'd said "that's Fizz's spot" with such unconscious certainty, like the idea of sharing space with him and Fizz was anything other then natural, obvious, right, he and Froggie really had to talk to you ... and soon.
He found himself imagining what it might be like. The three of you, together. Not just coexisting in the same space, but actually together.
Lazy mornings with you tucked between him and Fizz in their massive bed, safe and warm. Your body fitting perfectly against both of them, skin against skin, the way you'd probably make these soft sleepy sounds when you first woke up. Fizz would tease you about being adorable, and you'd blush that pretty pink color and Ozzie would have to resist the urge to see what other activities might make you flush like that.
Watching you walk around the palace in the morning, maybe wearing one of Fizz's shirts because everything he owned was obviously far to big. The mental image made heat pool low in his stomach. You'd probably be completely unaware of how appealing you looked, would just smile at them over breakfast like you didn't drive them both crazy.
Taking showers together—he'd have to be so careful with you, so gentle, but the idea of washing your hair, of learning every knot in your body and how to undo it, of hearing what sounds you'd make if he was given the privilege of having his hands slide lower—
He shifted in his seat, trying to focus his attention back on the meeting.
But his mind had other ideas. His factory, where he designed and manufactured toys. He'd never made anything for someone like you before—never had a need to in lust—something for someone human and delicate. It would require careful consideration. Precise measurements. Multiple prototypes, probably, to ensure everything was sized correctly, that nothing would hurt you, that it would only bring pleasure.
He found himself mentally sketching designs. Something smooth, not too large—he'd have to make sure it wouldn't be overwhelming. Maybe something with adjustable settings, variable intensity. Perhaps even something custom-shaped, designed specifically for your body, for the way you'd respond.
The color should be blue. The thought of you using something he'd made, something that color, thinking of him while you—
His face flushed brightly enough that several people in the meeting looked at him with concern.
"Are you alright, Asmodeus?" someone asked.
"Fine," he said, his voice rougher than intended. "Please continue."
But his mind was already spiraling further. Teaching you how to use it. Watching you discover what you liked, what felt good. Maybe he and Fizz would be there, guiding you, showing you, their hands joining yours until you were trembling and gasping and—
He imagined the three of you in bed together properly. Not just sleeping, but actually together. You'd probably be nervous at first, Ozzie knew how overwhelming he could be, they'd take their time. Fizz would make you laugh even in the bedroom, his Froggie could ease your nerves with his humor before things got anywhere near heated. And Ozzie would be careful, so careful, mindful of the size difference, making sure every touch brought you nothing but enthusiastic pleasure.
The sounds you'd make. The way you'd look at them with trust even in such vulnerable moments. How your body would feel against his much larger one, the challenge and the reward of finding positions that worked, that felt good for all of you.
Fizz was more your size—he could take the lead in certain activities while Ozzie watched, touched, participated in other ways. The mental image of the two of you together while Ozzie's hands roamed over both of you, the contrast in sizes, the way you'd both fit against him—
"Asmodeus, your thoughts on the proposed terms?"
Ozzie blinked, pulled abruptly back to reality. He realized his expressions were probably making him look predatory rather than professional right now.
"I—yes. The terms are acceptable. Proceed with the contract."
He had no idea what terms he'd just agreed to. He'd figure it out later.
His mind was already drifting again, coming home to you after long days. You greeting them at the door, maybe on your tiptoes trying to reach up for a kiss. Eventually learning that you didn't have to ask permission, that you could touch him whenever you wanted, however you wanted.
Dates. Real dates, all three of you. Taking you to nice restaurants, Fizzy making you laugh, Ozzie watching you both with possessive satisfaction. Bringing you back home and showing you exactly how much he'd enjoyed watching you both smile all evening.
The factory designs continued to evolve in his mind. Multiple toys, actually. Perhaps a whole collection. Different sizes, different functions. Some for when you were alone, some for when you were together. Remote-controlled options so he or Fizz could tease you even from across the room.
His phone buzzed. A reminder about another meeting in thirty minutes.
Ozzie stood abruptly. "Excuse me. Something urgent has come up."
He needed a cold shower. Or a very long break. Or maybe just to go home and see you, confirm that you were real and not just a fantasy his mind had constructed to mess with both him and Froggie.
But the images lingered. You in his arms. You safe and happy, wanting for nothing.
Soon, maybe. If he was lucky enough. If you wanted them too.
If he could just work up the courage to tell you how he felt.
Fizz was supposed to be rehearsing a new routine.
Instead, he was sprawled in the stage rigging, staring at the stage below him, thinking about you.
Specifically, thinking about you in ways that would definitely make you blush that adorable shade of pink that you turned whenever either he or Ozzie said something even mildly flirtatious.
He couldn't help it. You were so sweet, so completely unaware of the effect you had on both of them. The way you'd looked at him during his performance yesterday, like he'd hung the moon. The way you'd waved so enthusiastically when you spotted him, no self-consciousness, just pure happiness.
And god, the mental image of you on Ozzie's shoulder, small and trusting and theirs—Well, potentially theirs.
The thing was, you were roughly his size. Not exactly—you still had a good few inches on him, and his build was different—but close enough that certain activities wouldn't require the same level of careful calibration that they would with Ozzie.
Fizz let himself imagine it properly. You in his arms, safe and warm between him and Oz, pressed against him with—If he got really lucky maybe even with no clothing between you. Your skin against his—against his scars.
The fantasy stuttered there, caught on an old fear.
His scars were extensive. Covered most of his body, really, hidden under his performer's outfit and his jester makeup. You'd never seen them. Never seen what he really looked like under all the bells and whistles and carefully maintained image.
Would you want him if you did? Would you look at him with soft, sweet affection, or would you flinch away?
He pushed the thought aside. Not helpful. Not now.
Back to the fantasy. You in his arms, and you weren't flinching, weren't pulling away. You were touching him, exploring, your hands mapping the planes of his body with curiosity. Maybe you'd trace the scars, ask about them, and he'd tell you because, like Ozzie one look and he'd never been able to hide anything from you.
And then you'd kiss him—really kiss him, not the innocent pecks he'd imagined before—and your body would be pressed against his, soft and warm and perfect. You'd fit against him so perfectly, your height just right for him to pull you close, to bury his face in your neck, to hear every little sound you made.
The bedroom. His and Ozzie's bedroom, with you in their bed. Learning what made you gasp, what made you arch into his touch, what made you make cute little sounds. He'd be able to reach places Ozzie couldn't as easily, could move with you in ways the size difference would make tricky for Oz, perhaps the two of you could tease Oz ... Fizz let out a raspy chuckle at that.
Not that Ozzie wouldn't be involved in plenty of other ways. Oh satan, no. The best fantasies involved all three of you.
Fizz imagined being inside you while Ozzie's hands roamed over both of you. The Sin's large fingers could reach so many places at once, could touch you both, guide the rhythm, make Fizz forget his own name while he was buried in your heat.
Or maybe you riding him while he lay back and watched you move above him, would you be a bit switchy ? He'd wondered plenty of times but it wasnt exactly dinner conversation, your expression lost in pleasure, while Ozzie praised you both and told you exactly what to do, how to move, how to make it so good—
"Fizz! You alive up there?" one of the stage techs called.
"Yeah! Just contemplating my artistic vision!" Fizz called back, not moving from his position in the rigging.
His artistic vision currently involved significantly less clothing and significantly more of you making sounds he'd never heard but desperately wanted to help cause.
But there was more than just the physical stuff. The soft moments too, the ones that scared him more than anything.
Waking up with you in his arms, your face relaxed in sleep, peaceful and trusting. No makeup between you, no costume, just him. Scars and jagged horns and all the parts of him he usually hid. And you'd wake up and look at him and not see something fucked up. Just see him.
The horns worried him. You probably didn't even know what horns meant to an imp, didn't understand the significance. His were burned off, had been since the accident, and they marked him as damaged in ways that went beyond the physical. Would you care? Would it matter to you?
Or would you just smile at him like you always did, like he was worth something beyond his performance value?
Teaching you things. Not just bedroom things—though definitely those too—but other things. How to juggle, maybe. How to do a backflip. Stupid shit that would make you laugh and make him feel useful for something other than performing.
Inside jokes. The kind that developed over time, over months and years of living together. References only the three of you would understand. A whole language built on shared experiences and private moments.
Coming home after shows to find you waiting. Lazy mornings where you'd trace his skin and ask questions and he'd answer honestly because you made him feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Afternoons where you'd curl up together and do nothing. Evenings where the three of you would tangle together in bed and it wouldn't even be about sex, just about being close, being together.
You, looking at him without his makeup. Seeing his real face, the scarring there too, and not looking away. Touching his cheek, his jaw, telling him he was handsome or pretty or whatever word you'd choose.
You, accepting every part of him. The performer and the Imp. The jokes and the insecurities. The body that was part organic and part mechanical.
"Fizz, seriously, we need to run through the routine!"
"Shit, yeah, sorry I'm coming!" Fizz flipped to his feet, shaking off the daydream.
But it lingered. The hope. The possibility. The terrifying, wonderful idea that maybe you could want him. All of him. Exactly as he was.
You'd tried to stop. You'd tried to pull yourself together, to clean your face, to act normal. But every time you thought you had control, you'd see those photos again in your mind, read those awful words, and the tears would start fresh. You were crying when they came home.
You heard the front door open, heard Fizz's voice calling out cheerfully, "We're home! Did you miss us?"
You wanted to hide. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to not exist so you couldn't cause them any more problems.
But before you could move, they were there. In the lounge. Seeing you curled up on the couch, tear-stained and miserable, the tabloid on the coffee table in front of you.
"Whoa, hey, what's wrong?" Fizz was there instantly, his arms extending to reach you even as he crossed the room. "Cutie, what the fuck happened?"
"I'm sorry," you choked out, and the words came tumbling out in a rush as you wiped at your eyes. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—I didn't think about how it would look, and now there's photos and articles and they think I'm using you, and I ruined everything, and I'm so sorry—"
"Slow down," Ozzie said, his voice gentle as he knelt beside the couch. "What are you talking about?"
You couldn't speak, could only point at the newspaper with a shaking hand.
Ozzie picked it up, his expression darkened with each line he read, and you felt your stomach drop even further. He was angry. Of course he was angry. You'd created this mess, this scandal, this—
"Oh, this is what you're upset about?" Fizz asked, reading over Ozzie's shoulder. "The tabloids? Cutie, the tabloids are trash. Nobody takes them seriously."
"But they—they think I'm—" You couldn't even say it, couldn't voice the awful implications. "And the photos make it look like we were—like I was—"
"Like you were what?" Ozzie asked, setting the paper down and giving you his full attention. "Having a nice day out with me? Because that's what happened."
"But they're saying I'm using you!" The words burst out of you, along with a fresh wave of tears. "That I'm trying to—to climb a social ladder or seduce you or—and I'm not! I would never! You've been so kind to me, both of you, and I just—I just wanted to help around the house and be useful and instead I've caused this huge mess and—"
Your voice broke completely, dissolving into sobs.
"Hey, hey, no," Fizz said, and suddenly he was on the couch beside you, pulling you into his arms. "No, no, no. You haven't caused a mess. This is just what the tabloids do. They're assholes who make up stories for attention, cauae there own lives are shitty."
"But the photos—"
"Are photos of us having a good time," Ozzie said firmly. "Nothing more, nothing less. The captions are fabricated bullshit."
"I ruined your privacy," you said miserably into Fizz's chest. "You keep your relationship with Fizz private, and I just—I didn't think—"
"Our relationship is still private," Ozzie assured you. "This article doesn't even mention Fizzy. Those motherfuckers saw you with me and jumped to their usual conclusions because that's what they do. It has nothing to do with reality."
"But everyone will think—"
"Everyone who matters knows the truth," Fizz said, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "And everyone else can go fuck themselves."
"MmHmm," Ozzie said in agreement.
"It's true!" Fizz looked down at you, his expression softening when he saw your tear-stained face. "Cutie, listen to me. The tabloids have been printing shit about Ozzie for decades. They've called him every name in the book, made up every kind of scandal you can imagine. This is nothing new."
"And you," Ozzie added gently, reaching out to carefully touch your shoulder with one finger, "are not using me. You're not climbing any social ladders. You're not manipulating anyone. You're a guest in our home, someone I care deeply about, and I wanted to show you a nice time. That's all."
"I cleaned the kitchen," you said nonsensically, your brain apparently short-circuiting from stress and tears. "And sorted your mail I was trying to be helpful."
"You are helpful," Fizz said, sounding almost fierce about it. "You're fucking wonderful, actually. And if some garbage tabloid tries to paint you as anything less than that, they're wrong."
"I don't want to cause you guys problems by being here," you whispered.
"Your the furtherest thing from a problem" Ozzie said, and his voice held such certainty that you almost believed him. "This is not your fault. The tabloids are going to print what they're going to print regardless of what we do. That's the nature of being a Sin. But that doesn't make any of their words true."
You wanted to believe them. You did believe them, in a way. But the hurt was still there, the fear that you'd damaged something precious, that you'd overstepped somehow.
"Come here," Ozzie said softly, offering his hand.
You let him lift you from Fizz's arms, let him cradle you carefully against his chest. His warmth was soothing, and you could hear the rumble of his voice when he spoke.
"You are welcome here," he said firmly. "In our home, in our life. A garbage tabloid doesn't change that. I need—We need you to understand that, okay?"
You nodded against his chest, even though part of you still felt raw and scared.
"Good," Ozzie said. "Now, I'm going to make some calls and ensure that rag prints a retraction. And possibly make their lives very difficult for a while."
"Ozzie—" you started.
"No one makes you cry and gets away with it," he said, and there was steel under the gentleness. "That's non-negotiable."
Despite everything, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. "Okay."
"Okay," he agreed. Then, softer "We've got you, little one. Both Froggie and I. Always."
And surrounded by their warmth, their certainty, their care—you finally started to believe it might be true.
