Description: A man stumbled through hell, looking for a deal. A rather simple deal, in the return of his son's death, he'd do anything. In your long existence many have offered the same deal, however none of their victims in mind were so compelling. Unlike Alastor.
Warnings: Attempted murder.
Paring: Human Alastor x Overlord F!Reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Your name echoed fear throughout your territory in Pride. Many souls came to you, wanting, pleading. Deals was an overlord’s specialty. Sinners would sell their souls away, not realizing its value. You delighted in their look when they realized what’s done is done. Everything is at a price, and everyone has to pay it.
Your manor loomed over your district, and it was there you stayed. Very rarely would you make yourself shown to the public. Instead they would come to you. Some days you’d entertain them, some days you didn’t even open the door for them. Sinners were all greedy, but in your district they learned patience is what’s more to win your favor.
It was one of the days your gates were open. Welcoming to the public. Someone had already sold their soul to you for riches. It was a pathetic ask in your opinion. The sinner had the power of an overlord, and decided that money would suffice for the price of his soul.
Still, it was sinners like them that helped you gain your power. The more souls and overlord owns, the more powerful they become.
Your might wasn’t tested, your grip was strong throughout your territory that even Carmilla Carmine respected you.
However it was Rosie that was your favorite. A hell born cannibal that owned all of cannibal town. Marry to her husband, Franklin.
“Please!” A sinner barged into the room, desperation washing over him in waves. You paused waiting for him to continue. “My son, you have to kill my son!”
From the looks of it the man looked to be insane. Probably a new arrival to hell.
“Why?” You asked, your voice demanding of an answer.
“He killed me! His mother cheated and then he killed me!” The sinner seethed. “That bastard born shouldn’t be alive.” Hate sneered through the sinner's voice. No wonder he ended up in hell.
“If I do this for you, what will this gain for me?” The sound leaving your lips was spoken in an elegant way. You were composed while the sinner in front of you seemed to be manic.
“Anything!” He breathed heavily, and you finally smiled. Your eyes glow a bright white hue.
“Anything?” You walked over towards him, your heels clicking across the floor. “How about your soul?”
“Yes! Deal — it’s a deal.”
You didn’t present the sinner with a contract or even offered him your hand. Instead you gestured for the guards that stood near the door.
“Lock him up, while I decide if this is a deal worth my time.”
They grasped the man, and the sinner confused shouted. “What’s going on?! What do you mean to decide?”
As he was pulled away more shouts flew from him. “We have a deal! We have a deal!”
Not yet, the deal is yet to be made. But you didn’t tell him that.
Instead you left the dining table — your appetite gone now — and instead went to your room.
You watched over the mortal realm from there. Only high ranking demons had such power, overlords, sins, and royalty. It was even more limited the demons that could make contact with Earth.
The crystal that wrapped around your mirror enchanted it. Showing you the man you wanted to see.
Alastor.
You watched over him, looking through his life. The man had earned himself a ticket to hell, that was no doubt. Killing his father in vengeance.
The sinner who had begged you to kill his son failed to mention his part in his wife’s death.
Alastor’s father had killed his mother, and Alastor had killed him in return.
He was never caught, in fact he started to grow more and more impressive since his fathers death. His show gained popularity, he was doing well for himself despite the challenges thrown his way.
And late at night, he would slip away from crowds and hunt down his victims in the New Orleans bayou. Taking them back to his cabin and feeding his darkest thoughts. Literally.
Rosie would adore him. You already knew the two would pair nicely.
For days you continued to watch Alastor’s life, and every night he’d find himself in the same club. While unimportant to most, this was an opportunity for you. The same bar he played the piano at, danced, and charmed others at, was the same place an angel named Belle would attend. An angel you swore your own vengeance on.
The air in the Louisiana bayou was filled with sounds of its animals. Crickets singing in harmony while fireflies danced. It was a true New Orleans fashion, and none would hear Alastor’s victims this night. No one alive at least.
He used his victim’s blood to form a residual, right before the fire.
You watched and listened to his sickening laugh. His French flowing off his tongue like a sinful delight.
“I call on you, voices of the afterlife, I wish to make a deal with you.” This was your moment. Your window of opportunity.
A light glowed from the radio, blinding Alastor for a moment. However, when he finally looked back, there you were. Dressed regal, with a tainted smile on your face. Your demonish looks didn’t hide from your beauty. You were unique, strange.
“Why have you called me here, human?” You looked at the dingy cabin, finally seeing it in person. This man was raised in New Orleans – you have no doubt Voodoo magic was taught to him. Perhaps that’s why he knew to call upon you.
Like father, like son I guess.
“Do you wish for death? Power? Riches?” You kicked the bones that laid on the floor. “Perhaps a broom?”
Alastor was silent, he couldn’t believe it finally worked. After all this time, countless times he tried. What has changed now? The answer was, you were finally listening to him.
“Let me cut to the chase,” he too kicked bones away from you. A charming smile etched into his face. “I know what awaits a man like me after death.”
He tossed the bones into the flames. The heat soared as they burned.
“I do not wish to be in hell a tortured soul.” He smiled back at you, the look in his eyes wicked. “I want to be one of the highest ranked.”
The strongest sinner in hell. A power you could grant, a title you could relinquish. In the name of revenge.
“I can grant you this desire, however you can’t get something for nothing.” You pushed his hand off from your shoulder. Grimacing at the dead body below you. “There is a woman named Belle, one who often visits the place your friend owns.” You paused “Mimzy was it?”
Alastor stopped for a moment. Just how much did you know about him?
“Well, all you have to do is slip this,” you pulled a vile from your pocket. “Into her drink.” You placed the glass into his palm, your own hands resting on his. “In return I’m prepared to grant your request, and even sweeten the pot.”
“What are you talking about?” What more could he want?
“Your father, he did become a soul in my possession. When you die I’m willing to hand him over to you.”
Alastor's mind drifted back to the night he took an axe to the side of his fathers face. His regret was not letting him suffer enough.
“Do this, and you could have everything you wanted.” Your hands dropped from his own. “But, if you fail me – I’ll own your soul to fill my price.”
A contract with your name on it appeared to the side of the two of you. A golden scroll. The same gold that emitted from your hands. “Do we have a deal?”
Alastor didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask about the importance of a soul. His answer was immediate. “It’s a deal.”
He couldn’t help laughing as he shook your hand, his own name being sown into the contract under yours. A green power surged through him, and a shadow of what would be known as the radio demon was a shadow only you could see.
Finally after all this time, you would get what you wanted.
“I’ll see you around.” At those words, the light from before blinded the room, and you were gone. No evidence of your trace.
Just the poison in his hand.
Opposite to Alastor’s cabin, Mimizy’s club was loud with a tune. Drinks clinked together, and laughter was heard all throughout the room. Dancing, and a good mood. That’s what you would always find here.
Alastor was confused. How would he find this ‘Belle’? He didn’t know what she looked like, and there were far too many women for him to be asking them all for their names. Besides what if there were multiple Belle’s?
Slowly stress was getting to him, but he wouldn’t let it confuse him. He’s come this far; he can handle this.
The bar keep slid Alastor his usual whiskey, two ice cubes dancing in the glass. At night New Orleans never felt more alive. Music crying out all around, jazz filling the ear with a pleasing symphony.
Alastor likes his life. He was a radio star, and even better not a single person would look his way for the murders that were found all over the bayou. He had fun, and when he went to hell he wanted a life just like this one.
“You troubled, Alastor?” The bartender, Louis asked. Alastor had known the man for as long as he had known Mimzy, far too long.
“Nothing worth fretting over, my good friend.” Alastor’s signature smile graced his face. No one would doubt him, everyone was so easily manipulated into just believing him.
“Louis!” An angelic voice called, as she took the seat right beside Alastor. The woman had a face he had never once seen before. “Pour me a glass of Gin, will you?”
“Coming right up, Belle.”
Belle.
Like a puzzle fitting into its last slot the woman beside him actually meant something. His future. This had to have been Belle, it was too much of a coincidence for her not to be. This was the woman you wanted dead, and in return he would not only thrive in hell – but would have his fathers tortured soul in his grasp.
“My aren’t you a pretty face?” Alastor's southern charm slipped out naturally. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, I would have remembered.”
Belle laughed at the man's shameless flirting. Though she had to admit, despite how brass Alastor was acting he still seemed to have class. A rare quality found in men this day and age. “I am here pretty often.”
“Well, where are my manners?” His hand lifted from the bar, reaching for the woman’s. “Alastor, quite a pleasure to meet you.”
His kiss on her hand came welcomed, “Belle, consider me charmed.”
He spent the night dancing with the woman, laughing, and she reminded him a lot of his good friend Mimzy. In fact the three of them didn’t have a frown the entire evening. She was good, the good his mother used to say was still in the world.
The bottle in his pocket never left his mind. He had many opportunities to spike her drink. No one would even know, and no one would look his way. He could do it, and get it over with. Everything he wanted was right there, but shamefully he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take the woman's heart. He could only imagine his mothers disappointment for even thinking about it.
He went home alone that night, as always, with the poison untouched and unused. Maybe he could lie, you wouldn’t be expecting him not to fall through – would you?
He could do this, he could pull on you. You wouldn’t know.
That’s what he kept telling himself, even as he saw you lounged in his house. His house, not his cabin. He had invited you into his life, and you were coming to collect.
“How’d it go?” Your voice was calm, patient, waiting. He couldn’t fumble over his words, he couldn’t let his nerves best him. He never has.
“I found the girl,” his smooth voice rolled off his tongue. “It wasn’t difficult spiking her drink.”
“And did she drink it?” Your eyes stared at him, knowingly. Like you were provoking him to falter.
“Yes.”
“You are many things, Alastor.” You claimed, slowly standing from the couch you rested on. “A smart, manipulative, lying man.”
Each step you took towards Alastor set off a new type of alarm inside of him. “Do you know what that poison does?” You stop just short in front of him.
“No,” his first honest answer. “I don’t.”
“It takes the soul,” you hand reached out, resting on his chest. “Slowly tearing it apart.” Your eyes darkened as if imagining it. You twisted woman.
No sounds could be heard between the two of you for a moment. Alastor thought of what to say, and you were done listening to his lies.
Your lashes fluttered against your eyes, as if reeling in the rage before the breaking of its dam. When your eyes clash against his brown eyes he sees it. The fury, the anger.
“I wanted a soul.” Alastor’s shadow that rested against the floor was wrapped in chains. “And a soul I will have.”
The hand that rested against his chest burned, a searing heat soaring all throughout his body. His loud cries went unheard to everyone but you. The contract from before once again appeared, and you finally released your hold on his chest – before gripping his chin.
A dark, ravenous haze appeared over your face. This was the Overlord that struck fear throughout the pride ring.
“You failed to pay your price, and there is a debt to be paid, my dear sinnerman.”
Roughly your kiss caused a rage that sickened him.
Hi! I hope your request is still open. but if not, you can probably ignore this lol. But anyways,
can you do lucifer x reader(romantically)that is a overlord but blind? they can sense their surroundings and is strong.
A/N Yeah, sure. I am not personally blind, nor do I know anyone who is blind just as a heads up so I am going to be very very careful with this one. Also I am working on more Alastor requests but I figured I'd throw a fic in for someone else while those are in progress. Also Bur-Clovers symbolize blindness in floriography. They directly mean "You are blind. See me now." Also I couldn't find any pictures of them on tumblr but they're little sweet yellow flowers.
Hope (Lucifer x Blind!Overlord!Reader)
Pairing: Lucifer x Reader
Description: Lucifer finds his reason to keep moving forward and it comes in the form of a strange new Overlord seeking redemption at the Hazbin Hotel.
Warnings: I don't think there is anything? But please correct me if I am wrong.
Word Count: 3,360
Master Lists:
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Lucifer had been in Hell a long time. He had seen thousands upon thousands of sinners come and go. At first, he had tried to remember the names, remember the faces. He had tried to mourn the fallen, to care, to make a difference. That was when he had discovered what being cast out of Heaven truly meant - Lucifer himself had been damned. After that, he had just stopped trying.
Maybe that was why Lilith had left: the man she loved was not the one who sat across the table from her anymore. She, perhaps, did not recognize what he had become.
Once, Lucifer had been driven and powerful. That had been when the pair had first crossed paths. He had been the proud owner of many beliefs and ideals, things he was willing and able to fight for. Now, he had simply run dry.
She, on the other hand, seemed more at home in Hell than anyone. On some levels, it had worried Lucifer, upset him even. What did that say about her, that Lilith belonged in a place designed to produce suffering in its occupants? That she belonged there while being someone with power, someone in charge, someone responsible, in part, for the suffering of millions. What did it say about him, as the man who loved her?
Lucifer had gone over it in his head a hundred times at least. It was the only thing that made sense. She had left because he had changed. There had been no joy in Hell for Lucifer, no home, and, most importantly, no hope.
Not that it mattered anyways. Lilith was gone. She had left. That was all there was to it.
Still, it was the only thing that made sense.
After the battle with Adam, when Charlie had invited him to join her at the Hazbin Hotel, Lucifer had been wary. It was true that Lucifer wanted to fix things with his one and only child, she was all he had left now, but it was also scary in a sense. He knew all too well the sting of defeat and while he had faith in Charlie and her abilities, he also knew how cold and uncaring, how cruel, Heaven could be.
In the end, he had decided to stay. Charlie had asked, how could he not? It was his chance, his one shot at fixing things with her.
In addition to that, perhaps more importantly, it would allow Lucifer to keep an eye on his ambitious daughter. It wasn't like he doubted his daughter's abilities, it just made him feel better - the knowledge that if something happened, if something went wrong, he would be there to protect her in whatever small way he could.
Rebuilding the hotel had been a lot of work, but it had also been fun. There was something about it that was so... invigorating. Watching everyone work together, towards a common goal - a goal that he himself had once believed in - well, it made Lucifer feel like maybe hope wasn't such a bad thing. That maybe there were some sinners worth saving after all.
There was just one thing that bothered him. Charlie told anyone who would listen, and even some who wouldn't, that the hotel was her way of honoring her mother's dream, of continuing Lilith's work. Charlie had been young when her mother had disappeared. Too young, Lucifer was beginning to realize, to understand what the woman had really been doing in Hell.
The truth was that Lilith had been trying to start a war, plain and simple. Lucifer had argued with his wife about it, had tried to stop her, but his apathy towards fixing Hell's problems only served to further ignite her anger.
She had always been hard headed. She truly believed that by fighting the angels, sinners could be 'saved' and once Lilith had an idea, no one could stop her. It had been part of what Lucifer loved about her originally but now... He had known war wasn't the answer, he just also hadn't cared enough to truly try and stop her, to find another solution.
If anything, Charlie was following his dreams, the long dead ones. He didn't have the heart to tell her this, however, to explain anything. She was happy, happier than he had ever seen her. She was determined and closer than ever to making her dreams a reality. Not only would the terminus of her goals benefit Hell as a whole, but they would benefit Charlie herself. Lucifer just didn't want to take that away from her. It didn't matter what the base of the project was in her head, what mattered was that she was doing it and so, he let the past lie.
He had told her his doubts, shared his own experience. At the end of the day, that was all he could do really. Charlie could be so much like her mom sometimes, she too was hard headed. Now, all that was left was for Lucifer to try his best to make sure she stayed safe.
So yes, Lucifer had been in Hell a long time. He had seen thousands upon thousands of sinners pass through, in one way or another. Their faces all blurred together. His daughter mattered but, that was about it.
Then, suddenly, as if the clouds had parted: there was light.
"What is another Overlord doing here?" Lucifer had overheard Angel whispering to Vaggie as he walked down the hallway.
He had been on his way to the kitchen, in search of a little late night snack. The origins of his mission were now forgotten. Lucifer knew how much trouble an overlord could be.
"I don't know. It is the Bur-Clover." Vaggie was hurriedly responding as she handed Angel the towels she had been holding, "I am going to get Charlie."
"The Bur-Clover?" Angel repeated in disbelief, the name falling once more on Lucifer's unfamiliar ears, "You mean the Overlord that flattened a whole section of the pentagram by herself just a few years ago? They're here? The demon that made that... fucked up cave system beneath Cannibal town that had the cave in? That Bur-Clover?"
"Yes. That is why I need to get Charlie. Meet me downstairs."
That was how Lucifer had found himself in the lobby instead of the kitchen.
Sometimes, you don't see the truth of a moment, and experience, a period of time, until it has ended. Lucifer felt his un-lived life smack him in the face at full force now.
She was tall and seemed to have on a strange coat or dress, the collar of which brushed gently up her neck in strange pink feathers. The feathers were the first thing that struck him because, after a moment, he realized they weren't feathers at all and instead seemed to be strange appendages growing from her collar bone and shoulders. Lucifer, forever unobservant, only realized this because he noticed the dress she was wearing was, in fact, sleeveless.
"I am here to be redeemed." the demon was saying.
Her voice was soft, merely adding to the almost ethereal glow Lucifer saw around her.
"Really?" Vaggie doubtfully asked, shooting Charlie a look over her shoulder.
The strange demon nodded once, a delayed and fluid motion, almost as if she were underwater.
"Why would the Bur-Clover want to be redeemed?" Angel asked before letting out a sharp breath of air as Charlie elbowed him in the side.
Shooting Angel a disapproving look, Lucifer watched as his daughter stepped forward. She bore no ill will on her face, in any of her movements - he was proud. Clearly this demon was known in some sense, and to be known in Hell was not exactly a good thing. Still, in the face of anything, of everything, as always, his daughter led with kindness.
"It doesn't matter why, what matters is that you do, so let's get you checked in. Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! I am Charlie Morningstar, what is your name?"
The demon did not answer immediately and when she did speak, it was with a voice like molten silver - it burned.
"I am the Bur-Clover." she replied.
"Well, yes, but do you go by anything else? Or is that your preferred title."
"I am the Bur-Clover." the demon said again and Charlie nodded.
"Cool! Let's get you set up with a key. If you would follow me..."
It had took Charlie a moment to realize the demon was not, in fact, following her. When she did, she stopped, turning around to see what was going on.
There was a split second of annoyance, of irritation directed towards her father. Then, Charlie's brain came to a full stop because, well, her father was bowing.
Lucifer had never bowed to anyone in Charlie's memory but here he was, bent neatly at the waist.
The Bur-Clover paused momentarily, she fixed her eyes on some unknown point, she considered her options. Then, she curtsied.
"Is there... something we should, uh, know about her? Dad?" Charlie hesitantly asked.
As if awoken from some spell, Lucifer snapped to attention, he straightened up. Cheeks flushed red, he stuttered for a moment before words finally found him again.
How was he supposed to explain to his daughter that this single sight of a demon he had never met had made Lucifer realize he had been, metaphorically, dead for years? More importantly, how was he supposed to explain it to the beautiful demoness standing before him. How was he himself even supposed to process that, to understand.
"Uh, no... no, no just, uh, trying to be respectful, you know? Welcoming the new guest and all?"
There was a pause and then Charlie sighed.
Lucifer didn't see the demon, the Bur-Clover, around all too much over the next couple of days. Though he could not stop thinking about her - her voice, her form which was unlike anything he had ever seen before in a sinner - he could not stomach being near her either. Every time she entered a room or he caught sight of her somewhere, whether he wanted to or not, Lucifer disappeared. He ran.
That was, until today. The hotel was quiet, most of the guests having gone on a field trip of sorts with the staff. Lucifer figured he had the place to himself.
Unsure of how to spend the first free time he had experienced alone in the hotel, the King of Hell had settled on getting cozy and watching some TV alone in the lobby. Of course, Fate had other plans, as she so often did.
"Oh," Bur-Clover hummed softly as Lucifer froze in the doorway, "hello Lucifer."
Up until now, Lucifer had only seen the demon move one way: slowly, languidly, and delayed. Now, as she sat on the living room couch, she was anything but.
Her hands flitted quickly, her knitting needles clacking in speedy succession and her eyes fixed on some unknown point ahead of her. She didn't even turn to face him when he entered, she had just known.
"Uh, hello." Lucifer awkwardly replied, unable to do anything else, "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll be going."
"No, you are more than welcome. Join me, if you would like."
Though her hands never ceased their movements, she turned slightly, looking at him over her shoulder. It was then Lucifer realized several important things about her.
The first was that the Bur-Clover wanted to be underestimated. That much was clear from her previous slowness, now replaced easily with speed. She wanted people to expect one thing of her, and she wanted to then give them another.
The second, and perhaps more important, realization did not come until she turned to him. Until now, Lucifer had been able to watch her, to look at her, but completely unwilling to meet her eyes. She had surprised him, caught him off guard. Now, for the first time, he was seeing them, really seeing them, and that was how he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Bur-Clover was blind.
It wasn't blind in a way where doubt could form either. It was not as if she had milky white eyes or stared in obvious directions. She literally had no eyes.
"How did you know it was me?" he found himself asking, before he could stop himself.
"Everyone interacts with the world around them in different ways." she explained, her knitting a constant buzz in the background and the feather-like appendages spilling from her neck twitching gently, moving as if caught up in a breeze.
"Oh."
They let silence fall comfortably between them for a moment before Lucifer spoke again.
"How are you an Overlord."
He saw her expression and immediately flushed red with shame.
"I am sorry, that was rude. I just... I have never heard of you."
"You, my King, have not heard of most of your subjects. That is the nature of a monarchy, after all. Most achieve a life of pure anonymity beneath it. Why don't you join me."
"Yeah... yeah, okay."
As he moved across the room, the Bur-Clover moved as well. Her head tracked him, following him as he made his way to her side. It was like she was pretending to watch him.
"You are alarmed." she acknowledged once he was seated beside her.
"You don't have eyes." Lucifer replied, "Yet you watched me."
"I find it comforts people if I pretend to work the way they do." she shrugged, "Besides, I was not always like this."
"You weren't?"
"No. When I was alive, I could see."
"So what happened?"
"Very forward, aren't you."
"Sorry."
Silence filled the room once again. This time it was thick, it clogged Lucifer's throat. This time, it was the Bur-Clover's turn to break it, seemingly sensing his discomfort.
"Sinners forms," she began, "they are related to what a person was when alive, to how they died. I died in a cave in Texas. I was, metaphorically, blind. Thus, in death, I have taken on this form. It is a little hard to tell, but I think I am a Texan Blind Salamander."
"I've literally never heard of that before." Lucifer replied and Y/n chuckled.
"Few have." she conceded, "They are an endangered species. I was actually working on helping to establish regulations for their protection when I was alive."
"You were an activist?"
"I was a zoologist." she corrected gently, "My name was Y/n."
"Y/n." Lucifer repeated, the word tumbling over his tongue. He relished in the feeling.
"Well, Y/n, how did you end up here?"
"Let's start smaller." she replied after a moment, "How about this: I want to be redeemed because I know us Sinners are capable of more. We are capable of greater things. Creatures change to match their environment. Even the most civilized people will resort to the basest action when put in a situation where there seems to be no other choice. I believe that Hell is that situation. Not all Sinners were the way they are now when they were alive, they changed themselves to suit their new environment. I too changed myself. That means that they could, hypothetically, change themselves to suit Heaven too. I am running an experiment, so to speak, trying to prove this idea."
"And you're acting as your own subject?"
"It is only fair."
"But your an Overlord, couldn't you just get someone else to do it for you?" Lucifer asked, his voice thick with confusion.
Y/n sighed. She stilled her hands and, placing her project to the side, turned to face Lucifer.
"And stay here myself? I never said I was a good person. I am doing this for selfish reasons - I want out."
She said it with such conviction, Lucifer hadn't known the demon before him was capable of speaking with anything but a soft and even tone.
"You want out?" he repeated absently and Y/n nodded sharply.
"I want out."
Lucifer was lost in thought. Why would an Overlord, someone who practically ran Hell, who had Sinners on their knees before them, want out? Sinners were supposed to be the worst humanity had to offer. Lucifer himself had seen that fact proven time and time again so why would any of them, especially ones who had worked so hard to gain power and create position, want out?
"Why, Bur-Clover?" he asked at last, "Why?"
"Bur-Clovers symbolize blindness." Y/n replied, leaning back slightly on the couch. She was relaxed, calm. It was... off putting.
"I meant why do you want out." Lucifer corrected.
Y/n smiled.
"I know. This is what you're getting instead. Or I could not say anything at all?"
She was teasing him, she was having her fun. For the first time, Lucifer did not care what the demon across from him thought about him. He just wanted answers.
"Okay, yes, fine. Bur-Clovers symbolize blindness. Go on."
"Yes, they do." Y/n nodded, "But they do not just mean physical blindness. Instead, they pose a question, a request. They demand. Would you like to know what it is they are saying?"
Lucifer nodded and, before he could really register what was happening, Y/n had moved. She had thrown her body from its laid back position and was resting her weight on her hands which sat on the couch between them. Her expression was resolute, her face mere inches from his own even as he scampered slightly away in shock.
"You are blind. Please, see me now."
And see her he did. Y/n was a person, nothing more and nothing less. She had been put in an adverse situation, Hell, and had responded accordingly. Now, she wanted something different. She was running an experiment not because she wanted to use it's results, per say, but simply because she wanted more from herself. She knew that she could be better.
There was something in Y/n that reminded him of Charlie, of Lilith. It was her determination. The thing was that there was something else there too and that something was everything.
Quiet yet unerringly alive, there was hope. Not that Hell could win, not that it could even be better for sinners, but hope for the sinners themselves. That they were capable of change. That every soul, if willing, could be saved and that salvation did not necessarily entail giving up who you were or found yourself currently to be.
It was beautiful. It was everything Lucifer had dreamed of as a young angel. It was his prophecy come to light.
"I'll help." he announced, clearing his throat, "Whatever it takes, I will make sure you are redeemed."
"Thank you." Y/n replied, leaning back and nodding her head respectfully, "I appreciate the offer. I fear, however, that this is an undertaking all my own."
Realization dawned on Lucifer, the light that broke through the clouds. It was as if suddenly everything had clicked into place. He had all the answers, even ones that corresponded to questions he hadn't realized he'd been asking.
He saw it all now, the end and the beginning. Why he was so drawn to the Bur-Clover from first sight, why he had experienced the immediate sense upon meeting her that she was worthy of his respect. Why that had been something unavoidable for Lucifer and why she had haunted him since her arrival at the hotel just a few days before.
It all came back to one thing: poetry.
"Oh, I get it now."
"Yes." Y/n nodded, "Only you can save yourself."
"No," Lucifer shook his head, "I mean, I get it."
Y/n cocked her head slightly to the side in confusion.
"Emily Dickinson: Hope is the thing with feathers." Lucifer laughed.
"What do you mean?"
"Well..." Lucifer began, lifting a hand towards her.
Y/n flinched violently as his fingers neared the appendages on her neck but she allowed him to continue. Gently, they came to rest, the tendrils playing with his fingers, sensing him, feeling him, seeing him.
Lucifer shrugged.
"Hope is the thing with feathers. You are my hope."
----
A/N I am not sure I fuck with this one shot in its entirety. I was not really sure how to end it which is part of why it is so long. I hope you guys enjoyed.
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
Charlie hummed cheerfully as she polished the front desk for what had to be the fourth time that morning, determined to keep the lobby looking presentable despite the utter disorder surrounding her.
Vaggie, following her lover's lead, was sweeping the floor just as another bit of ash fell on the spot she just swept.
“Angel, if you drop ash on my floor one more time, I’m making you clean the entire lobby.”
Angel Dust lounged dramatically across one of the velvet couches, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers.
“You really gonna make your ‘guest’ clean? Not vary accommodating of you vagina.”
Vaggie fumed “Don't call me that!”
“Come along eggies! Our science awaits!” the snake declared disappearing into the elevator.
“Pencius! Nothing batter explode up there!” Vaggie called up.
“Oh something's definitely gonna explode.”
“Angel!”
Behind the bar, Husk grumbled as he polished another glass, while Nifty darted from room to room in a blur of pink, humming happily as she dusted every surface she could reach.
Watching it all from his favorite chair sat Alastor.
Hands folded neatly atop his staff, the Radio Demon observed the morning’s antics with his usual immaculate smile. To him, the hotel was less a rehabilitation project and more a delightful stage play that never seemed to run out of actors.
The creak of the front doors drew everyone’s attention.
A delivery demon staggered inside carrying a large velvet-covered box in both arms. It was wrapped in deep crimson fabric tied with an elegant black ribbon, every inch of it looking absurdly expensive against the hotel’s worn décor.
Charlie brightened immediately.
“Oh! Hello!”
The courier carefully lowered the box onto the bar before producing a cream-colored envelope sealed with dark red wax.
“Special delivery for the Hazbin Hotel.”
Charlie accepted it with a smile.
“Thank you!”
The courier nodded…
…then noticed Alastor.
His face immediately paled.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and hurried back out the front doors.
Angel watched him leave.
“…Smiles ain’t you supposed to… you know, help bring people to the hotel.”
The Radio demon just hummed with a shrug of his shoulders.
Vaggie narrowed her eye at the envelope in the princess's hands.
“Don’t open it.”
Charlie looked at the envelope, then the box.
Then smiled sheepishly.
“I’m opening it.”
“B-babe, of course you are.” she sighed, bringing a hand to her temple.
Breaking the wax seal, Charlie unfolded the letter.
“Let’s see…” She cleared her throat.
To Princess Morningstar and the residents of the Hazbin Hotel,
Please accept this bottle as a small token of hospitality.
Do be sure your resident deer opens it himself.
Warm regards,
Y/N L/N
Charlie blinked.
“Oh! It’s addressed to all of us.”
She carefully untied the ribbon and folded back the velvet covering.
Nestled inside was a stunning crystal decanter filled with rich amber liquor that caught the morning light like liquid gold.
The label was simple.
Elegant.
Welcome Home
Aged Seven Years.
Angel let out a low whistle.
“Now that’s classy.”
Husk leaned over the bar for a better look.
“…That bottle alone’s worth a fortune.”
Charlie looked between the decanter and the letter.
“Does anyone know who Y/N L/N is?”
Angel’s head snapped toward her.
“Wait…”
His eyes widened.
“You mean the Y/N L/N?”
Charlie’s eyebrows lifted.
“…Should I know who that is?”
“The Overlord that practically owns Hell’s liquor trade,” Husk answered before Angel could. “Speakeasies. Clubs. Distilleries. Half the whiskey in Pentagram City traces back to her.”
Angel nodded enthusiastically.
“Rich. Powerful. Gorgeous. Mysterious.”
He grinned.
“My favorite kind of woman.”
Everyone turned to stare at him.
Angel raised his hands defensively.
“Hey, if I was into women, she’d absolutely be my type. A guy can admire quality.”
Vaggie rolled her eye before her attention shifted elsewhere.
To Alastor.
He hadn’t moved.
He simply stared at the bottle.
The room felt strangely quieter.
Even the faint static surrounding him seemed to have softened.
Charlie looked over.
“Alastor?”
He blinked.
His familiar smile immediately returned.
“My apologies, my dear.”
He stood, smoothing the front of his coat before approaching the desk with measured steps.
“What an unexpected surprise.”
Angel folded his arms.
“I don’t buy it.”
Alastor chuckled.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You look like somebody punched your radio.”
“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Uh-huh.”
Carefully, Alastor lifted the crystal bottle from its velvet cradle.
It was heavier than it appeared.
As he did something slid from beneath it.
A much smaller folded card.
Charlie’s eyes lit up.
“Oh! There’s another note.” She reached for it.
“Allow me.” Alastor’s hand was faster.
He plucked the card from the table with practiced ease.
For the briefest moment…
His crimson eyes scanned its contents.
Then his smile twitched.
The static around him crackled just enough for Husk’s ears to twitch.
Angel pointed immediately.
“I SAW THAT!”
“Saw what?” Charlie asked.
“He twitched.”
“I most certainly did not. I believe you’re imagining things.”
Angel looked around the room.
“ somebody else please tell me they saw that.”
Husk shrugged.
Vaggie crossed her arms.
“What did the note say?”
Alastor folded it neatly and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
“Nothing of consequence.”
Vaggie’s eye sharpened.
Charlie tilted her head.
“So…”
She hesitated.
“…how do you know her?”
For the first time since the package had arrived Alastor’s eyes softened.
His gaze lingered on the bottle.
When he finally answered, his voice was quieter than usual.
“…She’s someone I once made a promise to.”
The room fell silent.
Charlie frowned.
“A promise?” She hesitated. “…Did you keep it?”
For just a moment Alastor said nothing.
Then looked up.
“I… have some business to attend to.”
Angel blinked.
“Hold on.”
He pointed after him.
“You’re seriously just gonna leave after dropping that?”
Alastor paused at the front door.
Without turning around, he adjusted his tie.
“Curiosity is a marvelous thing.”
His smile widened.
“…Just be careful it doesn’t consume you.”
With a burst of green static he vanished.
Silence settled over the lobby.
Angel was the first to speak.
“…Okay.”
He looked toward Charlie.
“I need to know what the hell that note said.”
————————————————————————
Inside the pocket of Alastor’s coat rested a small cream-colored card.
Across the front, written in elegant black ink, were only five words.
See you at the meeting, Ally Cat.
Beneath the message sat a single crimson lipstick kiss.
Overlord M/n with no idea how to court someone properly and only knows how to kill but his efforts are just so cute that Angel and Husk just accepts it.
Overlord M/n: Angel..... A gift
Overlord Angel dust: ... Is this a fucking eyeball?
Overlord M/n: [ nodding, looking at Angel dust blankly with flowery background ] yes
Overlord Angel dust: [ breaths in deeply ] ... thank you babe...
______
Overlord Husk: [ looking at the dead, bloody, mutilated stacked up mice, rats, and demons with rat features ] ... what the fuck?
Overlord M/n: I heard that cats like mice.
Overlord M/n: [ a slight blush covered his cheeks with his face still indifferent as pink bubbles float around him ] Do you like it?
Overlord Husk: ... Yes
_________
Both standing over all the dead demons M/n has offered them as 'gifts'
Overlord Angel dust:
Overlord Husk:
Overlord Angel dust: He's so fucking romantic , I think I'm in love
Summary: Vox is determined to win you over, no matter what. You just want your damn peace back.
Warnings: some mature themes (mention of sexual arousal)
<— Part 3 Chapter Index
Vox gripped the bathroom counter, staring at himself in the LED outlined mirror. "You've still got it," he said to himself firmly, lifting a clawed finger to point at his reflection. "Just be cool, man."
He relaxed his face into his signature grin, leaning an elbow against the counter. "Hey Y/n, how's everything? I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee sometime?" He threw in a wink for good measure.
A second of silence passed before he shuddered violently, breaking composure. "Ugh, no, no. Focus, man. Okay," he repositioned himself, shoving his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. He cleared his throat, mustering up his best confident, devil-may-care expression. "Doll, what do you say we get out of here tonight, yeah? Just say the word and I'll get us a private room at your favorite restaurant."
His smile twitched. Shit. That wouldn’t work on you either.
This was ridiculous. He started trends on a whim, charmed the masses to hang off of his every word, and yet—here he was, rehearsing in front of a bathroom mirror like a prepubescent boy with a crush. And failing miserably too.
He shook his head to clear it, hands grasping at the sides of his monitor so tightly it displaced the pixels on his screen. "Think Vox, what did you do to make her like you the first time?"
But if he was being completely honest, it was actually you who made all of the first moves. You who captured his attention like a vice. You who reeled him in, hook, line and sinker. There was no grand courtship on his part. In fact, he couldn't even remember the exact moment he had started to fall for you. It was all so easy, natural, seamless. He didn't have to do anything except for be himself.
He pursed his lips, turning back to the mirror warily. And—whatever, fine, fuck it. Not like anyone could see him debase himself like this anyway.
Vox sighed, his smile dropping like an overused mask. The desperation and vulnerability that he hated so much creeped back into his eyes, making him tense.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm such a damn idiot and—I just..." he trailed off, before groaning, dropping his head in his hands. "Fuck, this is pathetic."
What was he doing? Wallowing in self pity like some lovesick loser? For fuck's sake, he wasn't just some spineless bottom feeder, he was Vox. CEO of Pride's largest conglomerate. People would kill to be in his position.
A shaky grin forced itself back on his face as he lifted his head. Fuck, enough of this. Nothing was going to get done if he just sat here and twiddled his thumbs all day. It was time to make a move.
With his mental armor back in place, he marched to your room like a man on a mission. He may or may not have sent a drone on your tail to find it, since everyone else in this damned hotel seemed hellbent on pretending that they had short term memory loss when he asked. It was still a prototype, unreleased to the public. A camera the size of an ant, for incognito purposes of course.
When he finally reached your door, he pasted a confident, charming smile on his face. One that he knew used to fluster you once upon a time.
"Just act natural," he chided himself quietly, taking a deep breath before knocking on your door.
There was a moment of silence, before some shuffling was heard, and then the handle was turned.
Vox froze as you opened the door, dressed in baggy sweats with your hair in a disarray. Your shirt had ridden to the side at some point, and the rumpled neckline was exposing the enticing dip of your collarbone. He felt his mouth go dry.
And suddenly it struck him how much he missed you. God, he'd missed you. Your comforting presence, your lively humor, even the small things like waking up next to you or seeing your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. And fuck, it hurt to have you just out of reach.
Your pretty mouth pulled down into a frown when you saw him, body language changing from relaxed to guarded in an instant.
Vox forced himself out of his trance, clearing his throat. This was his moment to shine. He'd practiced for this.
"Hey—" he started cheerfully, before the door was promptly shut in his face.
Vox blinked stupidly, standing in front of your room in shocked silence. Did—did you just—?
Frowning, he raised a hand to knock again. "Y/n?" He called out in confusion.
"Go away, asshole," your muffled voice came from somewhere on the other side of the door. "I don't want to talk to you."
"But—"
"I said beat it," you growled, before a glowing barrier materialized outside of your door. Fuck, if he touched that he knew he wouldn't stop bugging until tomorrow morning.
"Fine," he hissed under his breath, turning and storming away. So that was how you wanted to play it, huh? Fine, joke’s on you. He liked a challenge.
On the way back to his room though, he felt a familiar, pleasant tightness between his legs. Vox froze, slowly looking down at the noticeable tent in his pants in horror.
"Oh, come on."
****
The next few days could only be described as an intensely aggressive game of cat and mouse. He tailed your ass like a damn police dog, determined to get even a moment alone with you—but to his absolute irritation, you kept coming up with increasingly ridiculous ways to blow him off.
He invited you to take a walk with him after dinner? You suddenly developed a spontaneous stomach bug and now you were bedridden. He held a door open for you? You pushed open the other side of the double doors and maintained unimpressed eye contact with him the entire time. He couldn't even follow you with his micro-camera anymore, because you'd promptly discovered it and stabbed it to his bedroom door with a needle as a violent warning.
Nothing was going according to plan and he was growing more frustrated by the minute. What was the point of coming here if he saw you just as often as if he had stayed in his tower?
"How am I supposed to convince her to come back," his eye twitched, one night on a rant-filled phone call with Velvette. "If I can't fucking talk to her?"
Velvette looked at him like he was a dried piss stain on the wall. "Vox, do I look like I give a singular fuck about your dumpster fire of a love life?"
Ah yes, such encouraging commentary as always. Really, he didn't even know why he bothered to call if his abused ego was just going to get attacked while it was already rolling around in a fetal position.
"You're still on the call with me," he said pointedly.
Velvette rolled her eyes, scrunching her nose up at him in irritation. "Fine, since you're so pathetic, I guess I could spare some charity," she ignored his scoff, continuing without a hitch. "You need to fucking lay off, stop trying so damn hard to get her attention. It’s giving desperate and creepy."
"I'm not—"
"Yes you are," Velvette glared. "Listen. If you don't want to end up permanently dumped, you need to compromise. Stop acting on your emotions like a toddler, you can't fucking afford that right now. And neither can we," she grumbled the last part.
Vox dug his claws into the bedding he was lying on, tearing up the soft material. The thought of giving up on you physically pained him, but...this wouldn't really be giving up, right? Velvette was suggesting a temporary ceasefire, a way to make you let your guard down, which might not be such a bad idea. It was more like...a strategic redirection of his efforts. Something that would benefit him in the long run.
He needed to build up the trust you'd lost in him. Slowly, bit by bit, until you accepted his feelings again.
The gravity of the situation was daunting. Something told him that this was his last chance, that if he fucked up one more time, you really would be gone for good.
He couldn't afford to lose you like that. It would fucking break him.
A loud crash sounded in the background on the other line, jolting him out of his thoughts.
Velvette's face drew into an aggravated sneer as she turned around. "For fuck's sake. What the fuck is it no—"
The line went dark, cutting off the call.
Vox sighed, throwing his phone blindly somewhere on the bed as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep evaded him that night, but in its place he started to devise a new strategy. Velvette was right, if he kept pushing, he would only drive you away. It was time to change his approach, and as much as he hated to admit it, it was...time to put his pride on the backburner.
Because he could live without his pride, but fuck—he didn't even want to think about what an eternity without you would be like. Besides, it was only until all of this was over and you came back home. He just...had to be patient.
****
After taking a few days to regroup, Vox was now more than ready to put his plan into action.
He’d rehearsed an embarrassing amount of times in the bathroom mirror, popped a breath mint, chugged an energy drink, and slapped himself in the face for good measure. Not necessarily in that order.
Now, in the late hours of the morning, he waited patiently for everyone to filter out before making his move, quietly cornering you in the kitchen.
You were sitting in the far corner, hunched over a steaming mug just like he knew you would be. It was something you'd been doing since he first met you, always reserving twenty minutes after breakfast to enjoy a second cup. He didn't even need to look at the contents to know that there was only a single cream, but enough sugar to make an elephant go into cardiac arrest.
That precious information would forever be saved to his hard drive.
For a long moment, he just stood there like a certified creep, admiring the familiar scene with painful longing. You hadn't noticed him yet, so your expression was still the vision of perfect bliss, eyes closed with a slight uptick to the corner of your mouth. And suddenly, he wasn't in this shitty hotel anymore. The retro kitchen transformed into a sleek modern design, the white walls melting to light blue. It was one of the few lazy mornings both of you were able to spend together, and—
"What do you think you're doing?" Your irritated voice shattered his fantasy like a pane of rose-tinted glass.
"Ah, Y/n!" His grin slotted back into place like a puzzle piece. Fuck, he hadn't even said a proper sentence to you, and you were already looking at him like he was a piece of shit someone forgot to flush down a public toilet. He had to act fast or you'd walk out again. "Funny running into you like this," he chuckled, hiding his fidgeting hands behind his back. Electricity crackled between them. "Actually, I was wondering if—"
"No," you said sharply, cutting him off.
"I—What?" His grin twitched.
"Whatever it is that you're going to say, no," you snapped, turning your back to him for emphasis.
Vox went silent for a moment. Tone it down, he repeated in his head. Stick to the plan.
"Look," he started, softening his tone. "I realize that I haven't exactly been," he grimaced. "Fair to you."
You laughed bitterly. "Understatement of the decade, asshole."
"I'm sorry," he sighed, watching carefully as your shoulders tensed in surprise. "I'll stop, if that's what you want. I won't ask you out anymore or bother you with stupid, meaningless shit."
"But?" You said quietly.
"But I still want to be...friends with you," the word left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it with a smile.
He chanced a quick glance at your face, and—well you looked like you didn't really buy it, but at least you didn't look like you wanted to kill him and dispose of his body in a ditch anymore.
"Alright," you said, after a long period of skeptical silence, your eyes unreadable. "I’ll hold you to it, then."
He closed his eyes. "Please, just consider—" he froze, processing your words.
You said yes? Fuck, you said yes!
He cleared his throat. "I mean, yeah, absolutely. Totally. Makes sense."
He caught the briefest flash of amusement in your eyes, before you turned to bring your empty mug to the sink.
"So, uh," he started giddily. Fuck rein it in man, slow down. "What are you doing later?"
“I’m busy today,” you shut him down immediately, making him deflate at your sharp tone. Then you paused for a second, seeming to contemplate something. “Well actually,” you said lightly, making him perk up again. “There is something you can join me for, but it’s a little…out of your depth.”
“Oh really? Try me,” he smirked confidently. As if anything would stop him from finally spending time with you today.
A vindictive spark suddenly flared in your eyes, making him hesitate. "Group therapy and trust exercises," you said smugly, and a jumble of odd noises quickly glitched from his head, his screen flashing briefly to show a giant, red exclamation point. "But since you're too busy with that billion dollar company and all, I thought you wouldn't be interested," you smiled sweetly.
Oh. You conniving little shit. You had him cornered.
Looks like he wasn’t the only one doing his homework.
“How f-f-fun,” he forced out, the words literally tasting like ash on his tongue.
“It is,” you nodded genuinely, making him double take. “I actually quite enjoy it.”
Vox pressed his lips together into a fine line, dread steadily welling in his chest as he realized that yes, you were actually serious. Sweet fuck.
For a second, Vox contemplated making a strategic retreat and calling it a day. He eyed the door behind him longingly.
But no, he couldn’t afford to back down from your little game just yet. If this was how you wanted to raise the stakes, fine. Bring it on.
Before he could lose his nerve, Vox mustered up a pained smile. "Actually," he said, making you raise a brow. "I'd like to give it a shot."
In the heart of the pride ring stood an expensive jazz club. Inside you’ll find the classiest demons, imps, overlords, you name it. So it wasn’t a surprise an overlord such as Alastor lingered in the crowds. He often found himself at ease as he sat in his private booth. Jazz was his favorite genre, even back when he was alive. Every once and a while his mother would take him to their local pub, listening to jazz all night long. Despite the soothing nostalgia, another factor drew him towards the club. A melody he couldn’t seem to resist as it grasps him in a chokehold.
His eyes stayed glued to the songbird on stage, feeling warm and enthralled. His smile widening at the sight of you. No one knew how you managed, but you snuck up on Hell. You had appeared one day, singing all around the pentagram. Some say your voice was mesmerizing. Some say it was so alluring to the point of total submission. Sinners under your contract never disclosed how it happened as they themselves don’t even recall it. That’s what made you so dangerous. You were so unpredictable, so discrete. Even the most powerful overlords stay wary of you, the infamous jazz overlord.
Your enchanting notes hung in the air as sinners slumped staring at you in a daze. You sang to the point every sinner in sight was entranced. Chuckling, you made your way down the stage and towards the closer sinner. “Hello, darling.” You grinned as he looked up in a daze, “How would ya feel if you worked for me?” you cooed alluringly. You were in need of some staff members after all. The sinner’s eyes bulged at your offer before nodding ferociously. You hummed contentedly, summoning a contract, “Such a doll you are,” you smiled as you signed the contract and handed him a quill, “Just sign right here.” You gestured to the blank line on the bottom of the contract. The sinner nodded and started signing without any hesitation. Your grin widened as a powerful glow sealed the contract; the familiar chain made its way into your hand, indicating soul ownership. “Thank you for your service,” you pat his head, “Now you head on home and have a good rest. I’ll see ya in the morning,” You watched as the sinner obeyed and walked out the club. Humming, you faced the next sinner, “Hey there.”
Unbeknownst to you, Alastor watched with curious eyes. He found it amusing how you showed no empathy towards these sinners, taking advantage of their states for soul-binding contracts. Interesting, he thought, amused at your antiques. He watched as you collected and contracted a handful of souls, sending them back home without a care in the world. Once you’ve rounded up enough sinners, you make your way back to the stage, acting as if you’ve done nothing wrong. You scanned the room one last time before snapping your fingers. You watched as every sinner in the room came back to their senses, confusion sprouting throughout the club. You were quick to avert their attention to you as you hummed a tune. Your voice managed to wash away their worries once more, leaving your schemes forgotten.
Alastor chuckled quietly, glancing at his shadow. “Keep your eyes on her,” he spoke to it, watching as it wisped away into the shadows. His smile grew larger and took one last glance at your figure. You looked completely harmless. If only people knew what he knew. He straightened himself up before making his way out of the club and back to the hotel.
—
You walked along the streets, head held high as sinners kept their distance. “Y/n, amorcito!” an all too familiar voice rang throughout the air. You looked up to find yourself right outside of VVV Tower. Sighing, you faced the insufferable moth, “Valentino.” His mouth formed into a twisted grin, taking your hand and giving it a long lick, “My offer still stands, you know?” You grimaced, wiping his drugged spit off, “Yet my answer stays the same.” Valentino’s face scowled, “I insist you take it.”
You rolled your eyes, showing him lightly, “No.”
Usually Valentino would stop here but he was persistent today. “I can make you a star,” he purred inching way too close for your comfort, “Think of the press, the articles, the headlines—Classy Songbird Gets Gangbanged By Staff Mem—“ A harsh slap rang throughout the air, gasps followed soon after. “Fuck—what the hell?” he snarled at you, “I’m trying to help you, you ungrateful whore!”
You scoffed, “And I said no.” Valentino’s fist clenched, moving to strike you. As you moved to defend yourself, a wisp of a shadow knocked him off balance. You watched as the moth angrily squeaked as the shadow tormented him. You were in no mood to get messy, so you took this as an opportunity to leave unharmed. Once you were far enough, the shadow ceased its assault and crawled back into the city shadows. Valentino panted as he stood disheveled, “What the fuck?”
As you walked away, curiosity trapped you in its grasp as you wondered what had caused the incident moments prior. It was all so sudden and you stayed wondering who was brave enough to stand up for you. As you continued your stroll, a sudden movement caught your eye as it hid back into the darkness. You hummed, looking at your shadow, “Find it.” The shadow’s ‘eyes’ brightened and zoomed towards the dim abyss.
You snickered and turned to see a group of sinners huddled watching something behind glass. Sinners made way for you as you looked to see the commotion. You stared down at the TV as it announced the new extermination date, Six months shorter? Ain’t that nice, you hummed before turning back around. Today has been eventful and you wanted to go home.
”Thank you,” you waved a Hellborn away, finishing your list of errands for today.
Your shoes clicked against the pavement as you made your way back home, only to stumble on an old poster. Quirking a brow, you bent over to pick it up and analyze it. The Hazbin Hotel, you read, some sick fucks you are if you think you’d get redeemed, you chuckled. Home can wait, you thought and looked over the address once more. Oh, this’ll be fun, you thought and chuckled into the musty air.
—
“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel,“ Charlie paused and awed mid-sentence at the ravishing overlord in front of her, “a place of redemption and rehabilitation.” By now, everyone had their eyes trained on the visitor. “Why this is,” you said as you looked around, “abysmal, but it can manage.” The princess looked around nervously, “Well—“ you were quick to dismiss her and walked further into the hotel. The more steps you took, the more you observed. You glanced at the bar, only to be greeted by a grumpy cat and a flirty spider, “Hey there, ya look lost.” You smiled at the arachnid, “This hotel is as entertaining as watching paint dry,” you hummed, “Nothing a little jazz could help with!” The cat curled a brow at your sudden enthusiasm. Everyone watched as you snapped your fingers to a nice rhythm. With each snap, equipment appeared. Soon enough, a well-decorated stage stood in the middle of the hotel lounge.
Charlie walked up towards you, thanking you for the sudden appearance and gift. Your eyes shined at the princess, “Nonsense, Miss Morningstar! Anything for the royal family.” Chuckling, you whistled into the air, summoning a band and singers, “I gift you a plethora of my most elite jazz members,” you gestured to where they stood on the stage, “It’s like I’ve always said, modernism seems cool, but it’s nowhere unique as—“
“Old-school,” The radio demon chirped from the shadows, causing you to face him. “That’s, that’s right,” you straightened yourself up, “You must be a regular.” You watched as he stepped forward, “Alastor, pleased to see the jazzy songbird themself so up close.” You grinned, “Pleased to meet you as well,” you observed the deer from head to toe, “What a…prominent color scheme you have.” An awkward silence clouded the room as everyone stared at the two overlords.
The silence was soon broken when the door burst open, two familiar shadows are seen wrestling one another on the hotel walls. You and Alastor made brief eye contact before halting your shadows. You squinted, noticing the heart eyes Alastor’s shadow had adorned for your very irritated one. You turned back to Alastor, watching as his ears twitched, “So it was you stalking me.”
“I wouldn’t say stalking, darling,” he said through his never-ending smile, “It’s more of admiring you from afar.”
You laughed at his coverup, “I suppose I’ll let it slide.” Your ears listened as he let out a genuine laugh before speaking, “I am honored.”
Noticing how quickly the conversation was dying out, you made your way to the door as you bid the hotel residents their goodlucks and farewells. “Wait!” Charlie stopped you in your tracks, “Why don’t you stay with us? Forgive me if it seems like I'm exploiting you, but it would be really helpful if you performed here for a few nights. Get us rolling on with your jazz crew.”
You eyed the princess before nodding, “Great idea, your highness!” Charlie beamed and went to check you in.
“A few nights living under the same roof as Hell’s songbird? Consider me jolly and lucky,” Alastor grinned, leaning onto his cane. “Consider it a reward for being a stalker,” you pressed and chuckled at his face.
“What can I say? You’re really alluring.”
A/N: I might make another version where it’s more platonic than romantic if you guys ask lol
Adam x Overlord!Reader
Part 1 First Chapter
Part 2 Second Chapter (Here)
Part 3 Third Chapter
Tag List:
@jagharamira
@szure
You stared down the head of the Exorcist, it was sitting right on your desk with its last moments on the face. How wonderful! You caused the whole city to freak out. 1 Month until the final day. Who would be dumb enough to fight back-
Your eyes widened when remembering that stupid Hazbin Hotel with the Princess of Hell. She really thinks she can defeat the angels and all? Redemption is a waste and nothing else more. You stood up from your chair, smiling a little. "Perhaps I should go and join their little group."
It's better to be on the winning side rather than the losing side, don't you agree? You walked around your desk and stopped, eyes glancing down to the Exorcist's head. In a swift motion, you sliced it in half, the top half falling to the floor with gold blood spilling out. "It's going to be a hellish day once I get my hands on you, Adam." You smirked.
Charlie laid on the couch, letting out a sigh. How could she be so foolish? What can she do now? The extermination is coming sooner than ever and she isn't ready for this. Everyone in the hotel was doing their own thing.
The doors to the hotel flung out. You took a step in, eyes scanning the whole area before being met with a spear to your face. "Oh!" You pushed the spear away to be met with Vaggie. "I didn't mean to barge in but I did!" You let out a chuckle.
"What is another Overlord doing here?!" Vaggie spat out, clearly being protective. How interesting, the weapon she is holding is a Angelic Spear. You could sense Exorcist's blood in her, gold blood. "Just visiting! I heard about this lovely Hotel and decided to check it out."
"Visiting? Does that mean you wanna stay here!" Charlie squealed, excited about the thought of another sinner wanting to join in their cause. You stared at her and gave a small smile, she reminded you so much of someone who you dearly missed. "Why not? I love a chance at redemption! Why not start over?" You matched her excitement.
You dealt with everything and even the greeting of each of the staff, unknown of what was going on in Heaven at that very moment.
Emily sat silently on some sofas, Sera left the room to attend a meeting. She slowly glanced over at an Old Photo. It was her and you, together, smiling. Emily sighed, looking down. She remembered that day when you fell down to Hell. She admired you and still does.
Adam really did lose his third partner from his selfish ego. How awful...
