ʟᴀᴜɴᴄʜ
vox (hazbin hotel) x fem!reader
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