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i actually think all the vees should get to have wives from their human lives who they treated like shit. reverse first wives club. the crummy dead spouses polycule.

alastoressays

expanding on this

vox: former 1940s pageant queen from upstate newyork housewife blitzed to the gills on gin and benzos. she had a lot of miscarriages that he, in hindsight, suspects were intentional, but her body, her choice to fall off a balcony at a network party into the shrubbery, as the kids say. donated what was left of his money after all the lawsuits to a proto-environmental foundation and appeared in some regional “save the whales” type psas as an old lady in the 70s. seems to have gotten into heaven? he’s totally not mad.

valentino: upper middle class third gen immigrant who cut off ties with her local business-owner family to marry a starving artist/former teen sex-worker, worked a terrible secretarial job to keep them both housed and fed. very respectable vibe but liked swinging with their artist friends. tolerated the initial stages of his Death Spiral, the drugs, the unpredictable rages, then threw him out of the house after one bad bender. he only got worse and died a few months later. she remarried twice and has a bunch of grandkids and valentino periodically gets velvette to earth-internet stalk her. he’s totally not obsessed but also they’re going to have words when she gets to hell (which she will, the bitch fucking killed him).

velvette: to be clear, they were roommates. sure, they were technically in a civil partnership for four months in 2006 before velvette’s death but it’s not like they were being lesbians about it—it was mostly to piss off little miss posh’s fogey Eton dad and so they could share the same private health plan that covered liposuction. they drew up a contract and everything. (she wasn’t even a good lay anyways). and at the end of the day she was off trying to overdose on molly at glastonbury while velvette was bleeding out. if she dies pretty and begs maybe velvette will let her do retail modeling—she was too histrionic to be trusted on the runway.

alastoressays

Very important to me that reality in hell is a little bit fluid, a little wack. Valentino’s wings fold around him, as long or short as he needs them to be, defying topology, rolling into sleeves and then unfurling in an instant. Don’t try to follow the lines and planes because the geometry gets non-Euclidean. Sometimes Alastor is wearing shoes and sometimes he has hooves jutting through the good leather—but the soles go back to normal eventually so he doesn’t complain. He’s ripped Vox open several times before and it’s always a tossup if he’ll find a flesh heart or a circuit board in his chest—he has to think had about the taste of iron so the fluid spilling out from between his wires tastes like blood and not WD-40. When Nifty runs it seems like she has six skittering legs. Zeezi is always just too big for whatever room she’s in, regardless of its size. Velvette’s plastic fingers bend seamlessly like real flesh while her wrists joints seize if grit gets in them. Pentagram city is too small for its inhabitants. There are entire neighborhoods you might never know about because you have to know about them to get there. The streets bend and twitch and groan. When someone sings the lights change and the scenery shifts. Injuries hurt more if you expect them to, confidence can buy invulnerability. There is no fixed truth; Hell isn’t a place, its the collective dreaming of the dead and the damned and the demonic, a whirling surrealist strangeness only given some measure of solidity by a hefty dose of angelic power and the sheer number of thinking creatures who dwell within it.

alastoressays

Fic I probably won’t write: Vaggi getting an invite to a support group for fallen angels that they facilitate down in Sloth. Lucifer tells her not to go but she wants to find community! She wants to meet other outcasts!

It’s an absolute freak show and she doesn’t respect anyone there. There are the old school deuterocanonical ones who fell because they wanted to have sex with humans and now spend all their time having orgies in the Lust ring (one of them is wearing some sort of pornographic animation shirt). There are the oppositional messes who wanted to rebel but aren’t sure what they’re actually rebelling against (lots of Lucifer merch, none of which resembles him in the slightest, all believe that the Morningstar is Secretly Pulling The Strings and will one day strike down the heavenly oppressors. Vox who? No, mortals can’t be trusted with something as important as the fate of the cosmos). There are a lot of anxious former thrones and guardians of fallen cities or nonexistent countries or doomed mortals who just kind of hate it here but hate Earth more and periodically vocally consider lighting everything on fire. She forms one odd bond with an older angel who fell for love but he’s in a very comprehensive 24/7 total power exchange relationship with his Sinner wife and she can’t be there so they mostly just make intensely sympathetic eye contact with each other while all the other fallen angels are whining.

She gets back to the hotel, collapses on the couch and goes, “What the fuck was that,” and Lucifer says “I warned you! I warned you they were all weird!” and then they have the debrief sesh they actually both needed. Sometimes the support group was in your home all along.

alastoressays

Very important to me that reality in hell is a little bit fluid, a little wack. Valentino’s wings fold around him, as long or short as he needs them to be, defying topology, rolling into sleeves and then unfurling in an instant. Don’t try to follow the lines and planes because the geometry gets non-Euclidean. Sometimes Alastor is wearing shoes and sometimes he has hooves jutting through the good leather—but the soles go back to normal eventually so he doesn’t complain. He’s ripped Vox open several times before and it’s always a tossup if he’ll find a flesh heart or a circuit board in his chest—he has to think had about the taste of iron so the fluid spilling out from between his wires tastes like blood and not WD-40. When Nifty runs it seems like she has six skittering legs. Zeezi is always just too big for whatever room she’s in, regardless of its size. Velvette’s plastic fingers bend seamlessly like real flesh while her wrists joints seize if grit gets in them. Pentagram city is too small for its inhabitants. There are entire neighborhoods you might never know about because you have to know about them to get there. The streets bend and twitch and groan. When someone sings the lights change and the scenery shifts. Injuries hurt more if you expect them to, confidence can buy invulnerability. There is no fixed truth; Hell isn’t a place, its the collective dreaming of the dead and the damned and the demonic, a whirling surrealist strangeness only given some measure of solidity by a hefty dose of angelic power and the sheer number of thinking creatures who dwell within it.

giulia-lo-art

Mon Cher

giulia-lo-art

A chit-chat

muchmorethanmoney

Can’t get over how obvious it is that Alastor has a strong favoritism for Vox

He kills overlords without rhyme or reason, but he leaves alive the one who is actually a thorn in his side. Vox does a whole shibari musical number on him and Alastor calls him a creep… for putting his hands on people’s shoulders. He doesn’t remember the name nor the face of a guy he supposedly fought twenty times, but he remembers Vox’s compliments from 70-ish years ago word for word. He wipes his hands after touching other people but he grabs Vox and even pulls him close. He can’t stand physical touch but he, the big bad Radio Demon, used to bear it for him when they were friends. He claims Vox is the one who needs him, the only one who was impacted by their falling out, then he creates a whole plan that verges on him knowing Vox down to his mannerisms. He calls Vox obsessed, but he poses for Voxtech cameras, finds any occasion to piss off Vox. He calls Vox every name in the book, but he puts no real conditions on his deal with him, because apparently he still trusts him to not take things too far even after 70 years of fighting.

Like don’t get me wrong, Vox is a creep! But he’s definitely Alastor’s favorite creep. I think that the only one who really saw this was Valentino.

And the funniest part is that Vox could see it too so easily if only he wasn’t so self absorbed and stuck in his own pain