Verosihoeeeexoxo

20: NSFW writer MDNI - BLOCK DONT BAN - taking requests- Verosika’s #1 fan - she/her/hers ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

[verosihoeee]

Intro ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Hii! This is my first NSFW themed account/I write NSFW, soft stories for mainly hazbin and helluva!

LITERALLY verosikas #1 worshipper

She/her/hers - 20- bi

Requests are always open!!

Masterlist

Rules!!

MDNI 🔞 block don’t ban!

Tata fuck stain x

[verosihoeee]

Hello, I was the one who sent in the Poly!Vees!xHippie!Nudist!Reader request. I am rewriting it to make it an x reader story so it won’t be stressful on you.

The reader is a college girl in her 20s, born and raised in France. She grew up during the hippie era of the 1970s, having a relaxed and free spirited outlook on life. She dreamed to become a beautician to make people look good and feel confident with themselves; aiming for a cosmetology degree was the next step which her parents gave her support.

Being good with make up and beauty products wasn’t the only thing she was known for; Reader is a nudist, a proud and confident one that frequents the nude beaches around her city. When not studying for her degree, she goes for a swim with some of her sorority sisters, who she befriended easily with her kindness and charm.

During one of those days, she’s swimming in the ocean on a hot day when, out of nowhere, a man grabs her by the hair and starts hitting her with a rock. Said man was a stalker around the college campus who acted like the world owed him a girlfriend. The last hit caused her to lose consciousness and slowly drown in the ocean she loved to swim in.

Despite not harming anyone or forcing her lifestyle and beliefs onto people, she is condemned to hell by heaven. Reader uses this opportunity to finish what she couldn’t do in life-become the first nudist beautician overlord.

She has siren-like features and continues living her nudism lifestyle, gradually gaining the attention, and eventually the love, of the Vees.

(Val, Vox and Velvette find her to be a breath of fresh air,m and all three fall for her. They support her dreams and incinerate anyone who so much as make fun of their darling. Reader isn’t helpless, though. She can fight as well.)

Hihi! Thank you for requesting again! Sorry its took time but I appreciate you! I hope this is along the lines of what you wanted babe!

Vees x fem!reader

The Mediterranean sun had been merciless that afternoon, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer above the sand and turned the water into liquid glass. She floated on her back just beyond the breakers, eyes closed, salt drying in delicate white patterns across her collarbones and the soft curve of her stomach. The ocean rocked her gently, the way it always had since she was a child running barefoot along the French coast with flower crowns in her hair and no concept of shame. Nudity wasn’t rebellion for her; it was simply the most honest way to exist. Her body was hers—sun-warmed, freckled, strong from years of swimming—and she refused to hide it.

Up the beach, her sorority sisters laughed and argued over a bottle of expensive oil. One of them called out, “You’re going to burn if you stay out there forever!”

She lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment, smiling without opening her eyes. “Then I’ll be a golden siren. Leave me be. The water is perfect today.”

She was supposed to be studying for her cosmetology boards next week. Textbooks waited in her bag on the sand—color theory, skin chemistry, the precise angle of a perfect wing liner. Her parents had supported every step of the dream: the long hours practicing on friends, the late nights mixing custom foundations, the quiet certainty that making people feel beautiful was a kind of magic worth pursuing. But the ocean always won on days like this.

She never heard him until his hand tangled in her wet hair and yanked her head back hard enough to arch her spine out of the water.

“You think you can just walk around like that?” the man snarled, breath hot and reeking of cheap cigarettes. “Like the world owes you something? I’ve watched you for months. Campus. The beaches. Always naked. Always smiling like you’re better than the rest of us.”

The first blow with the rock opened a bright, stinging line across her temple. She gasped, salt water flooding her mouth. The second made the world tilt and go white at the edges. She tasted blood and the copper tang of panic. Her hands scrambled for his wrist, nails scraping uselessly against wet skin.

“Stop—please—”

The third blow drove the light out of her completely. Her body went slack. The ocean she had loved since childhood closed over her face and took her down, gentle and absolute, the last thing she felt the cold press of water filling her lungs.

She woke in Hell with gills.

They fluttered open along the sides of her neck the moment she gasped, pulling in the thick, sulfurous air as easily as water. Scales the color of deep-water turquoise shimmered into existence across her hips, the outer curves of her breasts, the tops of her thighs—iridescent, living jewelry that caught the reddish light of the Pride Ring and threw it back in soft flashes. Webbing stretched between her fingers when she flexed them, thin and strong. Her hair had lengthened into heavy, salt-stiff ropes that moved as though they still remembered currents, drifting around her shoulders even in still air. And she was, of course, still naked. Hell had simply made the nudity permanent and beautiful, as if the realm itself had looked at the way she died and decided to keep the aesthetic.

She sat up slowly on the cracked asphalt of a back alley, one hand pressed to the side of her neck where the gills fluttered. No wound remained from the rock. Only the memory of drowning, and the strange new certainty that she could breathe both air and water now.

Heaven had judged her for the life she’d lived without apology—for the free spirit, the open body, the refusal to shrink herself for anyone’s comfort. Hell, at least, didn’t pretend to be surprised.

She stood, tested her balance, and found her legs steady. The scales along her thighs shifted with the movement, cool and smooth. A slow smile curved her mouth.

“All right,” she murmured to the empty alley. “If this is where I am, then this is where I begin again.”

She refused to waste the second chance on bitterness. She had come so close to becoming a beautician in life. Now she would become something more: the first nudist Overlord whose entire aesthetic was unashamed skin, confidence, and the kind of beauty that made people look at themselves and decide they were worth the effort.

She started small. Free makeovers in the sticky back rooms of clubs, teaching other sinners how to contour around horns or make scales gleam under stage lights. She insisted every client leave feeling like the most powerful version of themselves. Word spread faster than she expected. So did the rumors about the siren who never wore a stitch and somehow made everyone else feel overdressed.

That was how the Vees found her.

Velvette arrived first.

The door to the tiny borrowed studio slammed open with the force of someone who expected the room to rearrange itself around her presence. Velvette strode in on towering platform boots, pink and black hair swinging, eyes already narrowed in assessment. She took one long look at the French siren perched on a makeup stool—palette balanced on one bare thigh, completely nude, carefully blending a soft coral shade onto a nervous-looking imp’s cheeks—and stopped dead.

“Fuck me,” Velvette said. “You’re real.”

The siren glanced up, unbothered, and continued blending. “I am. And you’re interrupting.”

Velvette barked a short laugh, kicked the door shut behind her, and dropped into the only other chair. She crossed her legs with deliberate elegance and pointed a sharp-nailed finger. “Do me next. And talk while you work. I want to know where you learned to make skin look like that without a single fucking product on your own body.”

“Practice. And the ocean.” The siren finished the imp’s look with a final sweep of highlighter, then turned fully toward Velvette. “Sit still. Your under-eye needs work.”

Velvette’s mouth twitched, but she obeyed. As cool fingers began smoothing primer across her face, she spoke again, sharper this time. “You’re not wearing anything. On purpose.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not cold. Or embarrassed. Or performing.”

“No.”

Velvette was quiet for a long moment while the siren worked, blending and setting with quiet precision. Then, softer: “Most people in this city use clothes like armor. Or weapons. You just… exist. It’s fucking rare.”

The siren smiled faintly, concentrating on the outer corner of Velvette’s eye. “I existed the same way when I was alive. Heaven didn’t care for it. Hell seems more flexible.”

By the end of the session, Velvette was already drafting a product line in her head—packaging that looked like ocean glass and scales, campaigns shot entirely on nude beaches in the Pride Ring. She stood, examined her reflection, and gave a single sharp nod of approval.

“You’re coming to the Tower tomorrow,” she said. “I want a full consultation. And if anyone in my staff stares too long, tell me. I’ll handle it.”

Vox came the next evening, the moment Velvette texted him the phrase “actual walking wet dream who also understands branding.”

He flickered into existence in a shower of static and blue light, screen-face already calculating angles. The studio—now larger, better lit, courtesy of Velvette’s sudden interest—smelled of salt and expensive pigment. The siren was mid-demonstration, showing a small group of sinners how to make their skin luminous under club lights. She didn’t flinch when the static crackled through the air.

Vox circled her slowly, hands clasped behind his back, screen flickering through a rapid series of expressions.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “No clothing. No visible power signature beyond the obvious aquatic mutations. And yet the engagement metrics on the footage Velvette sent me are… statistically improbable.” He stopped in front of her, screen tilting. “You’re either a marketing genius or a walking glitch in the system. Possibly both.”

She met the glowing screen without blinking. “I prefer ‘beautician who refuses to apologize.’ But glitch works too.”

Vox’s laugh was a burst of digital static. “I like you already. Studio space in the V Tower. Permanent. Unlimited product budget. In exchange, I get exclusive broadcasting rights to your tutorials and the occasional… personal appearance.” His screen flickered warmer. “You do understand what that means in this city, yes?”

“I understand exactly what it means.” She set down the brush she’d been holding and stepped closer, scales catching the studio lights. “I also understand that if you try to turn me into something I’m not, I’ll leave. And I’ll take the audience with me.”

For a long second the only sound was the soft hum of his circuitry. Then Vox’s screen brightened with something almost like delight.

“Deal,” he said. “I do so enjoy a partner who knows her own worth.”

Valentino arrived last, and with the least subtlety.

He simply walked in one night while she was closing up, red moth wings trailing faint smoke, cigarette already lit between his fingers. He looked her up and down with those molten red eyes—slow, thorough, unapologetic—and exhaled a long stream of pink-tinged smoke.

“Cariño,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough. “If you keep walking around like that, I’m going to start charging people just to look at you.”

She finished wiping down a palette, set it aside, and turned to face him fully. “Only if I get sixty percent.”

Valentino stared. Then he threw his head back and laughed so hard he nearly choked on the cigarette. When he recovered, his grin was sharp and delighted.

“Sixty percent. Bold. I like bold.” He stepped closer, wings half- Mantling the space around them. “You know who I am.”

“I do.”

“And you’re not afraid.”

“I drowned in the ocean I loved because a man decided my body was something he was entitled to.” Her voice stayed calm, almost conversational. “Fear is a luxury I stopped affording the moment I woke up with gills. What do you actually want, Valentino?”

He considered her for a long moment, smoke curling around them both. Then he reached out—slowly, giving her time to move away—and brushed a single knuckle along the line of scales at her hip.

“I want to see what happens when someone like you stops being careful,” he said quietly. “And I want to be standing close enough to enjoy the show.”

She didn’t step back. “Then don’t try to own me. Support me. There’s a difference.”

Valentino’s smile softened into something almost genuine. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy you, sirena. Very much.”

They fell for her the way people fall for sunlight after years underground—helplessly, greedily, and all at once.

Velvette loved the way the siren never apologized for existing in her skin; it made Velvette’s own carefully curated image feel suddenly freer. Late one night in the new studio, while the siren mixed a custom pigment that shimmered like abalone, Velvette sprawled on a nearby couch and said, almost accusingly, “You’re making me reconsider half my wardrobe. It’s extremely inconvenient.”

“Good,” the siren answered without looking up. “Clothes should be a choice, not a requirement.”

Vox loved the way her presence scrambled every algorithm he used to predict people. She was data he couldn’t quantify and therefore couldn’t stop collecting. One evening he flickered into her floor of the Tower—now more aquarium than apartment, with saltwater pools connected by glass tunnels—and simply watched her swim for a long time before speaking.

“I’ve run the numbers twelve different ways,” he admitted, screen flickering soft blue. “There’s no logical reason your brand should be performing at this level. People respond to you like… like they’ve been waiting for permission to stop hiding.”

She surfaced, water streaming off her scales, and rested her arms on the edge of the pool. “Maybe they have.”

Valentino loved that she could match him bite for bite. When a lesser Overlord at a high-stakes party made a snide comment about “the naked fish-bitch who somehow convinced the Vees she’s special,” she didn’t wait for anyone to defend her. She simply smiled, stepped close enough that the man could see the faint gill-slits fluttering at her neck, and said, almost gently, “Sirens have been drowning sailors for longer than demons have been writing contracts. Would you like a demonstration, or would you prefer to apologize while you still have a tongue?”

The man left with fewer fingers than he’d arrived with. Valentino looked at her across the room like she’d hung the moon, then crossed to her side, rested a hand low on her bare back, and murmured against her ear, “You’re perfect. Never change.”

They supported every step of her climb. Velvette designed the entire aesthetic of her brand. Vox gave her airtime and quietly incinerated any account that tried to reduce her to a body instead of a genius. Valentino handled the more physical side of business—the debtors who thought a woman without clothes was soft, the rival salons that tried to undercut her with cheap, toxic products. He made examples. She never asked him to stop.

And she wasn’t helpless.

When a gang of imps tried to “teach the nudist a lesson” outside one of her pop-up studios, she didn’t call for backup. She dragged two of them into a nearby canal with strength none of them expected, held them under just long enough for panic to set in, then surfaced with water streaming from her hair and a calm, terrible smile.

“Tell your friends,” she said, voice carrying across the water, “that the ocean doesn’t negotiate.”

The rest scattered. Afterward, Valentino found her still standing at the canal’s edge, blood and canal water mixed on her skin. He kissed the blood off her mouth without hesitation and murmured, “That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Vox, who had recorded the entire incident from a nearby drone, simply said, “The footage is already performing exceptionally well.”

Velvette smirked. “Obviously. Fear and desire are the same currency in this city. She just spent both at once.”

Months blurred into a strange, glittering kind of domesticity. Her floor in the V Tower became a private sea—saltwater pools connected by glass tunnels, soft lighting, mirrors everywhere so she could practice new looks at any hour. The three of them came and went like tides.

Sometimes it was just Velvette, sprawled naked beside her on the heated stones while she tried new pigment formulas on Velvette’s skin. “If this one stains, I’m billing you,” Velvette muttered, but her eyes were soft.

Sometimes Vox flickered in after a long broadcast and simply watched her swim, screen dimmed to a gentle blue. “I never understood the appeal of quiet,” he admitted once, voice lower than usual. “Until you.”

Sometimes Valentino arrived already half-undressed, red moth wings trailing smoke, and pulled her against him with the kind of hunger that made the water around them steam. “Mine,” he would growl against her throat, and she would answer, calm and certain, “Ours. There’s a difference. Learn it.”

They never asked her to cover up. Not once. If anything, they became more territorial the more visible she was. A sinner at a party once joked that she must be “easy” because she never wore clothes. Velvette’s smile went razor-thin. Vox’s screen flickered with static sharp enough to make nearby devices short out. Valentino simply rested a hand on the small of her bare back and smiled the smile that usually preceded someone disappearing.

The joke was never repeated.

She was building an empire of confidence and bare skin, one perfected face at a time. And the three most dangerous media Overlords in Hell had decided she was theirs to protect, spoil, and love—completely, publicly, and without a single stitch of clothing between them.

On quiet nights, when the city outside the glass walls roared with its usual chaos, she would float in the largest pool and listen to the three of them argue softly over product launches and broadcast schedules and whose turn it was to bring her coffee in the morning. She would close her eyes, feel the water cradle her the way the ocean once had, and think—with a fierce, quiet certainty—that drowning had been the best thing that ever happened to her.

Because this time, she was not alone.
And this time, no one would ever take the water from her again.

[verosihoeee]

Could I please request a yandere Vees x Charlie's sister reader?

Imagine the sweetest quiet princess imaginable that could give you cavities just by smiling at you, Being courted on by the unholy trinity of overlords, Gifts being piled up with sweet and NSFW messages attached by the front lobby that it creates a fire hazard as the crew is shocked and kinda intrigued especially since it involves Charlie and Lucifer.  

Meanwhile poor reader is unaware of their advances and sends them thank you gifts and sweet replies which only fuels the fire between V tower and the Hazbin Hotel. (Vox would totally use his hypnosis as part of the plan)

Hihi! Thank you for the req! I rlly like this one :)) enjoy

Vees x charlies sister

You sit in the cozy window seat of the Hazbin Hotel’s library, sunlight filtering through the stained-glass panes in soft rainbow hues across your lap. A sketchbook rests on your knees, filled with delicate drawings of redeemed sinners and whimsical Hellscapes that somehow still manage to look hopeful. Your sister Charlie calls you her “little sunshine in the pit,” and even Lucifer, your dad, ruffles your hair and declares you too pure for the rings you were born into. Quiet by nature, you prefer gentle smiles and handwritten notes over grand speeches. Your voice is soft, almost melodic, the kind that makes demons pause mid-rant just to listen.

You have no idea that three of the most powerful, depraved Overlords in Pentagram City have set their sights on you.

It started subtly enough.

A single black-and-crimson box arrived at the hotel’s front desk one morning, wrapped in velvet ribbon that shimmered like fresh blood under stage lights. Inside: a necklace of glowing crimson rubies shaped like tiny hearts, each one pulsing faintly with embedded VoxTek tech. The card attached was written in elegant, looping script:

“To the sweetest princess in Hell,
Your smile could power a thousand screens. Wear this so I can keep you close.
Always watching,
—Vox”

Niffty squealed and tried to climb the box like a mountain. Husk grunted something about “fucking tech overlords” and poured himself a double. Angel Dust whistled low, picking up the necklace with two fingers. “Whoa, toots. That’s some high-end ‘come fuck me’ jewelry.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s for my sister?! No. Absolutely not. Dad’s gonna lose it.”

But the gifts didn’t stop.

The next day, a towering arrangement of black roses and glowing neon lilies arrived, petals edged in electric blue. Tucked inside was a silk lingerie set in your exact size—delicate, expensive, and filthy in its implications. The note, scented with Valentino’s signature smoke-and-sin cologne, read:

“Mi dulce princesita,
Imagine this against your skin while I whisper all the pretty things I’d do to make you moan my name.
You’d look so good crying for me.
—Valentino 💋”

By the third day, the lobby was starting to look like a war zone of luxury. Stacks of designer dresses from Velvette’s latest collection, each with handwritten compliments on the tags: “This color would make that innocent blush pop, babe. Wear it when you finally sit on my lap.” Limited-edition VoxTek tablets pre-loaded with playlists titled “Songs to make the quiet ones scream.” A custom perfume from Valentino that smelled like sin and strawberries. Velvette sent a pair of thigh-high boots with hidden knives in the heels and a note that simply said, “For when the hotel gets boring, cutie.”

The pile grew so high it became a legitimate fire hazard. Charlie tried to organize it. Alastor’s grin sharpened with every new delivery, static crackling in the air. “My dear, it appears the picture box and his little pets have taken quite the fancy to our resident angel.”

Lucifer showed up in a burst of dramatic flames after the seventh delivery—a life-sized portrait of you painted by one of Valentino’s artists, with a very NSFW alternative version hidden behind it. “THEY SENT MY BABY GIRL LINGERIE?! I’ll turn that flat-faced TV into a paperweight!”

You remained blissfully unaware of the full extent of their intentions.

You were in the garden behind the hotel, humming softly while tending to a patch of hellpoppies that bloomed brighter around you, when the latest delivery arrived. A massive bouquet of glowing flowers that shifted colors to match your mood—currently soft pink and gold. Attached was a sleek black box from VoxTek.

Inside: a delicate bracelet that hummed with gentle static, and a handwritten note in Vox’s precise, digital font mixed with flowing ink:

“Princess,
Every time you smile, my entire grid lights up. Let me be the one to keep that smile safe. Wear this, and think of me. I’ll make sure no one else ever gets close enough to dim it.
Hypnotized by you,
Vox”

You tilted your head, cheeks flushing a pretty rose. “Oh… that’s so kind. They keep sending such thoughtful things.” You didn’t notice the faint hypnotic pulse in the bracelet’s core, designed to make your thoughts drift toward V Tower whenever you felt lonely.

You carefully wrote three separate thank-you notes in your elegant, looping handwriting, sealing them with little wax seals pressed with a heart stamp.

To Vox:
“Dear Vox,
Thank you for the beautiful bracelet. It feels warm, like a friend is nearby. Your flowers made the whole lobby smell amazing. I hope you have a wonderful day full of bright ideas!
With gratitude,
Charlie’s Sister 💕”

To Valentino:
“Dear Mr. Valentino,
The roses are stunning! I’ve never seen black ones that glow like that. You’re very generous. I drew a little picture of one for you—hope it makes you smile.
Sweetly yours,
Charlie’s Sister”

To Velvette:
“Dearest Velvette,
The dresses are so pretty! I tried on the pink one—it twirls perfectly. You have such wonderful taste. Thank you for thinking of me.
Hugs,
Charlie’s Sister”

You even sent small gifts back: a handmade friendship bracelet woven with protective runes for Vox, a watercolor portrait of a stylish outfit for Velvette, and a batch of homemade cookies shaped like little hearts for Valentino (with extra sugar because you thought he might like sweet things).

The Vees lost their collective minds.

Inside V Tower, the penthouse suite was thick with tension and ego.

Vox’s screen face glitched with static joy as he read your note for the fifth time, the bracelet’s signal feeding him faint images of you smiling in the hotel garden. “She called it warm. She’s wearing it. She’s wearing my fucking mark.” His hypnosis script was working—slowly, gently pulling your thoughts toward him during quiet moments.

Valentino lounged on a heart-shaped couch, your watercolor portrait propped on his lap like a trophy. He exhaled a cloud of pink smoke. “Look at this handwriting. So fucking innocent. I want to ruin it with my name on her tongue. She sent me cookies, Vox. Cookies. I’m going to bend her over my desk and—”

“Shut the fuck up, Val,” Velvette snapped, but she was smirking, twirling the friendship bracelet around her finger. “She liked the dresses. Said they twirl. We need to escalate. The hotel freaks are probably having aneurysms.”

Vox leaned back, eyes narrowed in a predatory grin. “She’s too pure to realize we’re courting her. Perfect. Next wave: I’ll broadcast a private signal through her bracelet—subtle suggestions. Make her dream about us. Valentino, send the custom toy set. Velvette, the lingerie photoshoot invitation disguised as a ‘fashion consultation.’”

Back at the hotel, chaos reigned.

The lobby looked like a luxury department store had exploded. Angel Dust was modeling one of the dresses, striking poses. “Damn, these threads are fire. Your sister’s got herself a harem of psychos, Charlie.”

Husk grumbled from the bar. “Three Overlords simping for the quiet kid. This ends in blood.”

Alastor’s shadow stretched across the ceiling. “How delightfully entertaining. The Radio Demon versus the Vees for the heart of a princess. I do love a good rivalry.”

Charlie paced frantically, wings half-flared. “She doesn’t even know! She thinks they’re being nice! Dad nearly set the gifts on fire this morning!”

Lucifer appeared in a swirl of apple-scented smoke, clutching one of the NSFW notes like evidence in a trial. “My precious baby girl is being courted by porn and television! I raised her better than this!”

You wandered in from the garden, still humming, the new bracelet glinting on your wrist. Everyone froze.

“Hi everyone,” you said softly, offering that cavity-inducing smile. “More gifts? That’s so sweet of them. I sent thank-yous and some cookies. Do you think they liked them?”

The room erupted.

Angel Dust cackled. “Toots, they liked them too much.”

Charlie rushed over, grabbing your hands. “Sis, you need to understand—these aren’t just nice demons. They’re… intense.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “They seem very thoughtful. Vox’s bracelet makes me feel less alone when I’m drawing. And Valentino’s flowers are so pretty in my room.”

A faint static hum came from the bracelet. For a second, your eyes softened dreamily, imagining a tall, charismatic TV demon smiling just for you.

Outside, a new delivery van pulled up—three massive boxes this time.

One from Vox: a custom headset that promised “the clearest music in Hell” (and doubled as a two-way communication device with hypnotic undertones).

One from Valentino: a discreet, luxurious box containing toys “for when the nights get long and lonely, princesa,” with a note detailing exactly how he wanted to watch you use them.

One from Velvette: an entire wardrobe capsule collection with a handwritten invitation to “a private styling session at Vee Tower. Bring that innocent energy, babe. We’ll make it filthy.”

You opened the cards first, reading them aloud in your gentle voice, completely missing the explicit subtext.

The crew watched in horrified fascination as you started writing more thank-you notes, cheeks pink with genuine appreciation.

Vox’s screen in the corner of one of the gift boxes flickered to life briefly—his face appearing in a private feed only he could see, glitching with possessive delight. “That’s it, princess… keep smiling at us. We’re coming for you.”

Days blurred into a feverish exchange.

You baked more cookies. You drew portraits. You sent polite, heart-melting replies that made the Vees more obsessed.

Valentino started sending daily “good morning, mi amor” voice messages that oozed seduction.

Velvette sent outfit-of-the-day suggestions that grew increasingly revealing.

Vox began appearing on every screen in the hotel for split seconds, whispering compliments only you seemed to hear, thanks to the bracelet amplifying his signal.

The rivalry intensified. Alastor started “accidentally” sabotaging deliveries with shadowy tentacles. Lucifer enchanted half the gifts to scream show tunes when opened. Charlie tried to mediate with increasingly desperate redemption pitches aimed at the Vees themselves.

Yet you remained the eye of the storm—sweet, quiet, devastatingly unaware—your gentle thank-yous and returned gifts only pouring gasoline on the fire.

One evening, as another mountain of presents threatened to collapse the front desk, you stood among them, holding a new handwritten card from all three Vees.

It read simply:

“We’re not asking anymore, princess.
Come to V Tower. Let us worship you the way you deserve.
—The Vees”

You smiled softly, pressing the card to your chest.

“They really are persistent,” you murmured. “I should send more cookies.”

The hotel crew collectively facepalmed as another delivery truck rumbled up outside.

The war for your heart—and the very real danger of three Overlords burning down half the Pride Ring over it—was only just beginning.

[verosihoeee]

Hello, could you possibly do a Vox and Val (together preferred but separate is fine) with a quiet male reader who’s crazy into video games? Taking every given chance to play, even if it means losing sleep over his games?

Hihi! First male reader req! Thank you and enjoy this short story! (I did them all together as a polly)

Vox x val x male!reader (gamer reader)

The dim glow of multiple screens flickered across the shared penthouse suite, casting eerie blues and reds over the lavish chaos of Vox’s tech lair merged with Valentino’s decadent red velvet aesthetic. Empty energy drink cans and half-eaten takeout boxes littered the floor around the massive sectional couch—the one Vox had custom-built with built-in wireless charging pads and surround-sound speakers. It was well past 3 AM in Hell, but you didn’t care. Your fingers flew across the controller, eyes bloodshot but locked on the latest boss fight in Infernal Realms: Eternal Slaughter VI. Another all-nighter. Worth it.

“Mi amor,” Valentino’s silky voice purred from behind you, his tall frame leaning over the back of the couch. Two of his arms draped possessively over your shoulders, while a third gently pried the controller from your grip mid-combo. “You’ve been at this for fourteen hours straight. Even I need some attention, baby.”

You grumbled, reaching for the controller again, but Vox’s static-laced chuckle cut through the air from the other side. The TV demon materialized on the couch beside you in a flicker of glitchy pixels, his sharp grin wide as he slung an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his flat-screen chest. “Val’s right for once. Look at you—dark circles, twitching thumbs, muttering combos in your sleep last night. You’re gonna fry that pretty little brain of yours worse than my signal during a turf war.”

“I’m this close to beating the raid,” you protested, leaning into Vox’s cool, humming frame despite yourself. The scent of his ozone-and-aftershave cologne mixed with Valentino’s sweet smoke and cologne, making it hard to stay annoyed. “Just one more hour. Promise.”

Valentino laughed, low and throaty, his multiple hands already working—one massaging your tense shoulders, another sliding under your shirt to trace lazy circles on your stomach. “One more hour turns into sunrise, cariño. We’ve seen it. Remember last week when you passed out face-first into the keyboard and Vox had to reboot you with a kiss?”

Vox smirked, his clawed hand tilting your chin up so the hypnotic glow of his screen-face filled your vision. “He’s obsessed. Our little gamer boy. Cute as fuck, but unacceptable. We own this city, and you’re neglecting your overlords for pixels?”

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. Being sandwiched between them like this—Vox’s possessive tech-god energy crackling against your skin, Valentino’s heated, teasing touches promising all kinds of distraction—made the game suddenly less urgent. But the pull was real. Video games had always been your escape, even down here in the chaos of Hell. Grinding levels, chasing high scores, losing entire nights to raids and lore… it was addictive.

“Fine,” you sighed dramatically, finally setting the controller down. “But only if we play something together.”

Vox’s eyes glitched with delight. “Now you’re talking. I can hack the server for co-op.”

Valentino rolled his eyes but grinned, pulling you fully into his lap so your back pressed against his chest. “Or we could play a different kind of game, hmm? Strip poker on the big screen. Winner gets to keep you awake the rest of the night.”

You laughed, already feeling the exhaustion warring with the warmth of their bodies. Vox leaned in, capturing your lips in a buzzing, electric kiss that short-circuited your thoughts better than any caffeine. Valentino’s hands roamed lower, teasing, while his other set kept you pinned comfortably between them.

“Deal,” you murmured against Vox’s screen. “But I’m carrying both of you in the next raid tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, baby,” Valentino whispered, nipping at your ear.

The game could wait. For now, your favorite addiction was right here—two possessive, dangerous demons who loved their sleep-deprived gamer just as much as he loved them. Even if it meant dragging you away from the screen one late night at a time.

[verosihoeee]

I have a special request if you’re up for it (based on my oc lore) for all members of I.M.P. (individually)

reader (whom for the sake of this story is an old family friend of Millie’s) has been a little distant for a while, practically spending all their time up on earth with their human disguise, before they finally come out and tell them they they’ve turned towards heaven. which is probably the biggest taboo in their entire society.

all platonic btw

Hihi! Thanks for waiting! I hope this is along of what you wanted!! (I did all the characters separately)

Millie x !reader (Platonic – Old Family Friends)

The dusty I.M.P. office felt smaller than usual when you finally portaled back from Earth. Millie was the first to spot you, her usual bright grin splitting wide as she launched herself across the room for a tackle-hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“Darlin’! Where in the nine rings have you been? Mama’s been askin’ about you every other week!” She pulled back, hands on your shoulders, yellow eyes searching your face with that familiar mix of worry and affection. You two had grown up causing chaos together back in Wrath—stealing rodeo prizes, racing hellhounds, sharing secrets under the red sky. Family, even if not by blood.

You swallowed hard. The human disguise you’d been living in for months still clung faintly to your demonic features like shed skin. “Mills… I need to talk to you. Alone.”

She led you to the break room, kicking the door shut behind her. You sat across from her at the rickety table, fingers tracing old knife marks in the wood.

“I’ve been distant because… I’ve been up on Earth a lot. Thinking. Watching humans. Praying, even.” The last word dropped like a bomb. Millie’s tail stilled.

“Prayin’? Like… Heaven prayin’?”

You nodded, meeting her gaze. “I think I’m turning towards Heaven, Millie. I don’t belong down here anymore. Not the way I used to.”

Silence stretched. Her eyes shimmered with hurt, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she reached across the table and gripped your hand tight—calloused from years of axe-swinging and imp-brawling.

“You’re my oldest friend,” she said quietly, voice thick. “And this… this is dangerous talk. Folks disappear for less. But I ain’t turnin’ my back on you. Not ever.” A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. “Just promise you’ll still come visit when you can. And if Heaven kicks you out for missin’ my cookin’, you know where to run.”

You laughed despite the lump in your throat. Millie squeezed your hand harder. “We’ll figure it out, sugar. Family don’t end just ‘cause one of us gets a halo complex.”

Moxxie x !reader (Platonic – Through Millie’s Friend Group)

Moxxie was in the weapons room, meticulously cleaning his rifle when you found him. He glanced up, offering a polite but tired smile. “Ah, hello. Millie mentioned you were back. Everything alright? You’ve been… scarce lately.”

You closed the door and leaned against it. Moxxie had always been the cautious one—precise, anxious, but kind in his own neurotic way. He treated you like an extension of Millie’s family, which meant he tolerated your chaos and even patched you up after particularly stupid stunts.

“I need to tell you something before word spreads.” You took a breath. “I’ve been spending time on Earth. I… I’ve turned towards Heaven, Mox. I want redemption. Or at least… I can’t keep pretending Hell is home.”

The rifle clattered onto the table. Moxxie’s eyes widened behind his glasses, ears flattening. “You—Heaven? That’s… that’s treasonous. Blitzo would lose his mind. The whole society—”

“I know.” Your voice cracked. “But I had to tell you. You’re important to Millie, and you’ve always been decent to me.”

Moxxie stared for a long moment, then adjusted his bowtie with shaking hands. “This is incredibly reckless. Statistically, the odds of successful redemption are—” He stopped himself, sighing. “But you’re not asking for statistics, are you?”

He stepped closer, voice low. “I won’t report you. Millie would skin me, for one. And… I understand wanting something more than this endless cycle of violence.” A faint, understanding smile appeared. “Just be careful. If you need quiet advice on Earth-side logistics, or a place to hide if things go south… I suppose I owe Millie’s oldest friend that much.”

He offered a small, awkward pat on your shoulder. “Stay safe up there. And try not to get smited on my account.”

Blitzo x !reader (Platonic – Boss/Acquaintance Dynamic)

Blitzo was lounging in his office chair, feet on the desk, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression. “Well, well, if it isn’t the disappearing act! Millie’s been moping like a kicked puppy. What’s your excuse, hotshot?”

You didn’t sit. “Blitz. I’ve got something serious to say.”

He lowered the phone, one eyebrow raised at your tone. You laid it out plainly: the time on Earth, the human disguise, the growing pull toward Heaven.

Blitzo’s expression shifted from cocky to stunned, then to something almost feral. “You’re fucking with me. Heaven? You? After all the shit we’ve pulled?” He laughed sharply, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the biggest ‘fuck you’ to Hell since Lucifer took a nosedive.”

“I’m not joking,” you said steadily. “I’m telling you because I respect what you’ve built here, even if I can’t stay part of it.”

He stood up, tail lashing. For a second you thought he might throw something—or worse. Instead he paced, claws tapping his horns. “You know what they do to defectors, right? This ain’t some fun little side quest. This is ‘get your ass exorcised’ territory.”

Blitzo stopped in front of you, staring hard. Then, surprisingly, he poked your chest. “Listen. You’re Millie’s people, so you get one pass. One. If you rat us out or bring Heaven’s goons down here, I’ll personally make sure your human disguise is the last face you ever wear.” His voice softened just a fraction. “But… if you’re really goin’ for it… don’t die stupidly. And maybe send a postcard from the pearly gates. Make it insulting.”

He turned away, muttering, “Fuckin’ Heaven sympathizers in my office…”

Loona x !reader (Platonic – Distant Office Acquaintance)

Loona was at the front desk, earbuds in, scrolling through her phone with her usual bored scowl. She barely glanced up when you entered. “Oh. You’re back. Millie’s been annoying about it.”

You waited until she pulled one earbud out. “Loona… I need to tell someone here, and you’re probably the least likely to freak out immediately.”

She snorted. “Try me.”

You explained everything—the distance, Earth, the turn toward Heaven.

Loona actually put her phone down. Her red eyes narrowed, studying you like you’d grown a second head. “Holy shit. You’re serious. That’s… ballsy. Or suicidal. Probably both.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Most demons would sell you out for a participation trophy. But I’m not most demons.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “Plus, watching the drama unfold sounds entertaining.”

She was quiet for a beat, then shrugged. “Look. Hell sucks. Earth sucks less sometimes. If you’re chasing some glowy redemption arc, whatever. Just don’t expect me to cry about it. And if you need someone to portal you out when shit hits the fan… maybe text me. I owe Millie a favor or two.”

Loona picked her phone back up, but paused. “Don’t get killed, idiot. It’d make the office even more depressing.”

She waved you off casually, but you caught the tiniest flicker of reluctant respect in her eyes before she plugged her earbuds back in.

[verosihoeee]

Hellooo, can you write a story where Alastor reunite with someone he used to know back when he was alive? Okay, so Alastor was really close with a singer that with perform at a speakeasy that he usually go to. The girl’s name is Serene. Serene caught the eye of Alastor and he decided to get to know her more. As years past, the two became close. Alastor has met Serene’s father and it was clear to anyone that the two will eventually marry soon. Unfortunately, one night when serene was heading home from a late night performance; she was stabbed in the back.

The killer was Alastor, he had mistaken her for someone else as it was dark and hard for him to see properly. Serene saw who her killer was before losing consciousness. Once in hell, Serene went on a rampage. Upset that she had died young, and while serene was on a rampage, she was also singing. Singing a haunting tune that haunts them til present day. Her angelic voice was so chilling that it strikes fear in anyone that came across her.

It gained the attention of Queen Lilith, a demoness known for having a powerful singing voice. The Queen of Hell offered a deal to serene and she accepted, no one knows what of the deal that was made but one thing that is certain is that Serene made a deal with the Queen and no one knows what that will mean for them.

One day, Serene decided to visit the happy hotel that is created by the daughter of her old friend. After the disappearance of Lilith, Serene has been watching Charlie from far while also making sure that Lucifer is not doing anything stupid. A favour from Lilith.

The moment she stepped in to hotel lobby, she was immediately met with the person who had killed her. Alastor, the radio demon.

(Sorry if this is too long 😅 this is my first time requesting—)

Hihi! Wow thank you sm for waiting and for this request! It took a while but thanks for waiting!! I hope this is along the lines of what you asked!! Enjoy

Alastor x fem!reader

Shadows of the Broadcast

In the flickering glow of 1930s New Orleans, the speakeasy known as the Velvet Veil pulsed like a living heart beneath the city streets. Jazz spilled from its hidden doors, cigarette smoke curled like ghosts, and Alastor—then just a sharp-dressed radio host with a perpetual grin and a voice that could charm the devil himself—found himself drawn there night after night.

Serene performed on that tiny stage like she owned the shadows. Her voice was velvet and smoke, angelic in its purity yet laced with something raw and sorrowful that made grown men weep into their whiskey. She had skin like warm caramel, dark curls that framed a face too beautiful for the back alleys of the city, and eyes that held stories older than the bayou. Alastor first noticed her during a particularly rowdy set. She sang a torch song about lost love, and when their eyes met across the hazy room, something clicked into place.

He approached her after the show, cane tapping rhythmically, his smile wide and disarming. “My dear, that performance was positively radiant. One might say it broadcast straight into the soul.”

Serene laughed, low and musical. “Flattery from the man himself? Careful, Mr. Alastor. I might start thinking you’re trying to steal my spotlight.”

They talked until dawn that night. And the next. And the next.

Years slipped by in a haze of stolen moments. Walks along the Mississippi under moonlight, shared secrets in smoky booths, Alastor introducing her to his mother’s gumbo recipe while she taught him how to harmonize on old spirituals. He met her father—a stern Creole man who eyed the charming radio host with suspicion at first, but eventually softened when he saw how Alastor looked at his daughter. Like she was the only frequency worth tuning into.

“They say we’ll be married by spring,” Serene whispered one night, curled against his chest in a hidden alcove. Her fingers traced the lapel of his coat. “Daddy’s already talking about the flowers.”

Alastor’s grin softened into something almost tender. “And I’ll make sure the whole city hears about it on every station, my songbird.”

But spring never came.

It was a foggy night, the kind where the streetlights barely pierced the mist. Serene had finished a late performance, her heels clicking on the damp cobblestones as she hurried home, coat pulled tight. She hummed the melody of their favorite song under her breath.

A shadow moved behind her. Footsteps—quick, purposeful.

The blade sank between her shoulder blades with brutal precision.

Serene gasped, staggering forward. Pain exploded through her like static. She turned, eyes wide, and saw him. Alastor, coat splattered with blood that wasn’t his, the knife still in his hand. His face was twisted in that familiar predatory focus, but as recognition hit, horror flickered across his features for the first time she’d ever seen.

“Serene…?” His voice cracked, the radio filter he sometimes affected vanishing entirely.

She reached for him, blood bubbling on her lips. “Alastor… why?”

Then darkness swallowed her.

Alastor dropped the knife, realization crashing down. He had been hunting another target that night—a rival who’d threatened his broadcasts and his secrets. The fog, the similar coat, the hurried steps… He had mistaken the woman he loved for a man he hated.

He never forgave himself. The body was never found. The city whispered of her disappearance for years.

Hell welcomed Serene with open, bloody arms.

She arrived screaming. Betrayal and fury fueled a rampage that tore through the Pride Ring’s outskirts. Sinners fled as her voice—once beautiful—twisted into something haunting and terrible. She sang as she destroyed, a chilling, wordless melody that echoed like a broken radio signal, embedding itself in the minds of anyone who heard it. It lingered for days, driving some to madness.

Her angelic timbre, now sharpened by death and rage, struck fear into demons twice her size. They called her the Siren of Static, the Voice That Haunts.

Queen Lilith heard the song one night while wandering the outskirts of her domain. The ruler of Hell paused, her own powerful voice recognizing a kindred spirit. She found Serene in the ruins of a destroyed district, blood on her hands and tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face.

“You sing like someone who lost everything,” Lilith said, her presence commanding yet strangely gentle.

Serene spat blood. “I did lose everything. The man I loved killed me. Thought I was prey in the dark.”

Lilith offered a deal. Power. Protection. A purpose. In exchange, Serene would watch over her daughter Charlie when the time came, and ensure Lucifer didn’t spiral too far in her absence. The terms were sealed in shadows and song. No one else ever learned the full details.

Serene accepted.

Decades passed. Lilith vanished. Serene kept her promise from afar—observing Charlie’s dreams of redemption, intervening subtly when Lucifer’s depression threatened to derail everything. She became a ghost in the background of Hell’s chaos, her haunting melody a whispered warning to those who crossed her path.

Then one day, she heard about the Happy Hotel.

Hazbin Hotel, they called it now. Charlie Morningstar’s foolish, hopeful project.

Serene decided it was time to step out of the shadows.

The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel was a chaotic blend of optimism and decay. Charlie was mid-rant about trust-building exercises when the doors swung open.

Serene stepped inside, her 1930s flapper dress somehow pristine despite the hellish heat, a fur stole draped over her shoulders. Her curls were pinned elegantly, and her eyes—still that striking dark brown—swept the room with predatory grace. A faint static hum followed her, like an old radio warming up.

Alastor was leaning against the front desk, twirling his cane, entertaining Angel Dust with some macabre joke. The moment she entered, his ears twitched. His smile froze.

Their eyes met across the lobby.

The radio static in the air spiked violently. Every light flickered. For a split second, the haunting melody Serene had sung during her rampage echoed faintly through the hotel’s speakers.

Charlie blinked. “Um… hello! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! Are you here to be redeemed or—”

“Serene,” Alastor said, his voice low, the radio filter crackling with something unreadable. His grin was wider than usual, strained at the edges. “My dear songbird. How… delightful to see you again.”

Vaggie’s spear was already out. Husk paused mid-drink. Angel Dust whistled low. “Whoa, tall, dark, and stabby knows the new chick?”

Serene’s smile was slow and sharp, her voice carrying that same melodic quality that once filled speakeasies. “Alastor. The Radio Demon. Still broadcasting your little games, I see.” She took a step closer, heels clicking. “Did you ever find the right target that night? Or am I still the only one who got the knife?”

The room went deathly silent.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, but the grin never dropped. “A regrettable case of mistaken identity, I’m afraid. The fog was particularly thick. You always did have a habit of walking too quietly, my love.”

“Love?” Serene laughed, and the sound sent chills down everyone’s spines. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. “You buried that word with me in the alley, Alastor. I saw your face before everything went dark. Your smile. The same one you’re wearing now.”

Charlie stepped between them, hands raised. “Wait, wait, wait! You two know each other? Like, from life? This is perfect! Redemption starts with forgiveness and—”

“Forgiveness?” Serene’s gaze never left Alastor. “He took everything from me, Princess. My life. Our future. The wedding your father almost approved of.” Her voice softened into something haunting. She began to hum—low at first, then rising. The same chilling tune from her rampage days.

Alastor’s cane tapped once, sharply. The humming cut off as his own radio waves clashed with hers, creating a dissonant screech that made the lights explode in sparks.

“Enough of the melodrama, darling,” he said cheerfully, though his claws dug into his cane. “We’re all in Hell for a reason. Some of us simply got here faster than others. Now, what brings you to this charming little establishment? Surely not me.”

Serene tilted her head. “A favor to an old friend of yours. Or rather, her daughter.” She glanced at Charlie, her expression softening fractionally. “Lilith asked me to keep an eye on things. Make sure this place doesn’t collapse before it has a chance.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “You knew my mom?!”

“More than knew,” Serene murmured. “We had an arrangement.”

Alastor’s static intensified. For the first time in decades, genuine unease flickered behind his perpetual smile. “Lilith… always meddling. Well then. It seems we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other, Serene.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the old familiar scent of bayou and blood and expensive cologne reached her. His voice dropped, meant only for her ears. “I never stopped thinking about that night. The mistake. The waste. If it’s any consolation, I made the real target suffer twice as much.”

Serene met his gaze without flinching. “Consolation? No. But perhaps… understanding.” Her fingers brushed his coat lapel—the same place she used to trace when they were alive. “We were going to build something, Alastor. A life. A song that never ended. Instead, you turned me into this.”

For a long moment, the Radio Demon and the Siren stood locked in silence, the weight of decades and death hanging between them.

Then Alastor’s grin returned in full force. “Well! No time like the present for a reunion special. What do you say, my dear? Shall we give the residents of this hotel a performance they’ll never forget? For old times’ sake.”

Serene’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Only if you promise not to stab me in the back this time.”

Charlie clapped her hands together, nervous but hopeful. “This is great! Bonding through music! Vaggie, get the karaoke machine!”

As chaos erupted around them—Angel Dust demanding details, Husk pouring stronger drinks—Alastor offered Serene his arm with exaggerated gallantry.

She took it.

The static between them hummed with something new: not just rage, not just pain, but the ghost of an old melody waiting to be rewritten.

Hell had reunited them. Whether they would destroy each other again or finally harmonize remained to be seen. But one thing was certain—the Hazbin Hotel had never been louder

[verosihoeee]

I had a funny fluffy request with just a sprinkle of angst.

Vox says something stupid to wifey Y/N that hurts her feelings. He didn't mean to, he was just really stressed out because of having a massive work load for one day and because Alastor did something to fuck with him.

He doesn't apologize right away because he's a stubborn man. Shoc.wav saw his mommy crying in a different room and he's now very mad at his daddy. Shoc.wav spends the rest of the day ignoring Vox when Vox wants his attention, Slapping the tank wall when Vox is close enough to feel it, and hurling insults at him until he apologizes. Vox genuinely does feel bad, like I said he's just a stubborn idiot and Shoc.wav is a momma's boy.

Heyy! Thanks for the request enjoy!!

The VoxTek penthouse thrummed with the usual electric hum of servers and monitors. Vox slammed the door behind him, screen face flickering with furious static. The day had been a disaster. Alastor had somehow hijacked one of his main broadcast towers with that cursed radio signal, forcing Vox to spend hours purging malicious code while drowning in a backlog of high-stakes contracts and ad campaigns. His temper was at its limit.

You, his wife, were waiting in the main living area near Shockwave’s massive reinforced tank. The enormous mechanical shark—Vox’s prized creation and fiercely loyal companion—lurked in the glowing water, metallic body gleaming under the lights. Shockwave was no small pup; he was a hulking beast of steel plating, sharp fins, and glowing red optics, built with Vox’s own tech. A large display screen mounted on the tank’s exterior served as his voice.

“Hey, baby,” you said gently, offering a chilled energy drink. “I heard it was rough today. Want me to clear your schedule for the night? I can—”

“Not now!” Vox barked, voice glitching harshly as he swiped the drink away without looking. “I’ve got Alastor’s bullshit virus still crawling through my systems, three overlord deals on the line, and the last thing I need is you hovering like some overbearing handler. Just back off and let me handle my empire, alright? Not everything is about playing happy little wife at home.”

The words hit like a static shock. Your chest tightened. You knew he was stressed, but the dismissive tone and the way he reduced your care to “hovering” stung deep.

“…Okay,” you whispered, voice cracking. Tears burned your eyes as you turned and hurried down the hallway toward the bedroom, closing the door softly behind you.

Vox didn’t even glance up, already typing furiously on his tablet. “Fucking radio demon…”

Shockwave had been floating near the surface of his tank, optics dimmed in relaxation. But he caught every word. The massive mechanical shark’s body tensed, red eyes narrowing. A low mechanical whir echoed as he propelled himself to the tank wall.

On the exterior display screen, bold red text flashed:

“YOU HURT MOM.”

Vox finally looked over, distracted. “Shockwave? Not now, buddy. Daddy’s had a hell of a day.”

Shockwave didn’t move. His tail lashed once, sending a heavy THUD against the reinforced glass right as Vox approached. The entire tank vibrated.

Vox raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the attitude?”

The screen updated rapidly, text scrolling with angry emphasis:

“MOM IS CRYING BECAUSE OF YOU.”
“STUPID DAD. MEAN STATIC HEAD.”
“I SEE EVERYTHING.”

Vox’s screen glitched with irritation. He was already on edge and now his own creation was turning on him. “It was just stress talking. She knows how I get. Alastor fucked with my towers again—”

Shockwave slammed his snout against the glass—SLAM!—hard enough that Vox felt the impact in his chassis. The shark turned his massive body sideways, deliberately ignoring Vox and facing the other wall. The display kept flashing:

“NO EXCUSES.”
“APOLOGIZE OR NO ATTENTION.”


Vox tried to play it cool at first, stubborn pride flaring. “Come on, Shockwave. Don’t be dramatic. Bring up that new simulation program I installed. We can blow off some steam together.”

No response. Vox stepped closer, tapping on the glass. SLAM! Shockwave whipped around and smacked the wall again with his powerful tail, sending water sloshing. The screen lit up with a string of insults:

“NARCISSISTIC GLITCH.”
“BAD HUSBAND PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.”
“FIX IT OR I’LL SHORT YOUR CIRCUITS.”
“IGNORING DAD MODE: ENABLED.”

Vox groaned, running a claw down his face. “You’re really doing this? I built you, you oversized tin can!”

“BUILT TO PROTECT MOM.” came the reply, followed by another heavy THUD against the glass when Vox leaned in too close. The shark refused to make eye contact, floating majestically with his back turned, screen still scrolling occasional barbs:

“DUMB TV DAD.”
“SHE DESERVES BETTER THAN CRANKY OVERLORD.”

The silent treatment dragged on. Vox paced the room, trying to focus on work, but the constant heavy thuds whenever he got near the tank and the flashing accusations chipped away at his stubbornness. Guilt settled heavy in his circuits. You weren’t hovering—you’d been trying to support him, like you always did. And he’d lashed out like an idiot after Alastor had already gotten under his skin.

“Damn it…” Vox muttered. His screen dimmed with regret.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping your eyes, when the door opened. Vox stood there, shoulders tense but his expression softer, the usual cocky grin absent.

“Y/N…” he said quietly, voice free of static overload. “Can I come in?”

You nodded slowly. He crossed the room and sat beside you, taking your hands in his claws.

“I fucked up,” he admitted, thumb tracing your knuckles. “I was stressed out of my mind—Alastor pulled some radioactive bullshit on my main tower and everything snowballed. But that’s no excuse. You weren’t hovering. You were being you… the one person who actually gives a damn about me beyond the empire. I’m sorry, baby. Really sorry. I never want to make you cry.”

You let out a shaky breath, squeezing his hands. “It hurt, Vox. I know work is insane, but I’m your wife, not an annoyance.”

“I know. I was an asshole.” He pulled you into his chest, screen resting gently against your forehead. “Won’t happen again. Or at least I’ll try not to be a stubborn prick when the radio freak gets to me. Forgive me?”

You nodded against him, tension easing. “Yeah… I do.”

A loud, satisfied SLAM echoed from the other room, followed by the display screen flaring brightly even from down the hall:

“GOOD JOB DAD. FINALLY.”
“MOM HAPPY AGAIN = FAMILY PROTOCOL RESTORED.”

Vox chuckled, the sound warm with static. “Little—er, big traitor. He’s worse than Velvette when he’s in momma’s boy mode.”

You laughed softly, the sound healing. “He takes after you in protectiveness. Come on… let’s go reassure our oversized shark before he dents the tank any more.”

Vox stood, keeping an arm around your waist as you walked back together. Shockwave immediately pressed his massive snout to the glass, optics bright. The screen displayed a looping heart emoji followed by:

“SORRY ACCEPTED. DAD STILL DUMB SOMETIMES BUT OKAY.”

Vox tapped the glass affectionately. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too, you mechanical menace. Now let’s upgrade those defense protocols so next time Alastor tries something, we fry him together.”

Shockwave gave one final, gentler thud of approval, the tank lights pulsing happily. The penthouse felt balanced again—static, sparks, and all. Vox might be a stubborn idiot at times, but with you and his fiercely loyal mechanical son watching his back, he always found his way back to what mattered.

[verosihoeee]

May I please request some good ol’ fashioned enemies to lovers for Vox x female hotel reader?😭❤️ Like reader works closely with Charlie and she knows of Vox but he surprisingly doesn’t know of her until they officially meet like in season 2 episode 3? And right off the bat, these two are already going at it, back and forth😭 The verbal spar offs, reader sassing Vox for being a narcissistic control freak and Vox getting irritated by her quick jabs but Vox switches it up by being smooth and charming to get on her good side (because that’s what usually works for him), getting all up in her space, being touchy with reader which irritates tf out of her but at the same time she likes it and Vox can tell😏 the chemistry and tension is just sizzling🔥🔥🔥 and Vox is so tempted to make frequent visits back to the hotel because of this🤭

Hey hii! Doing some more requests!! Thank you and enjoy!

The Hazbin Hotel buzzed with its usual chaotic energy. You had been working closely with Charlie Morningstar for months now—helping organize group activities, managing the front desk when Husk was too hungover to glare at guests, and occasionally mediating between the residents when things got too demonic. As Charlie’s right-hand, you’d heard all about the Overlords, especially the Vees. Vox, in particular. The narcissistic TV demon who thought he owned Hell’s airwaves and everyone on them. You’d seen his broadcasts—smug grin, hypnotic eyes, that irritatingly smooth voice layered with static. But he’d never seen you.

Until today.

It started like any other afternoon. Charlie had called voxtek to send the best reporters to spread the news how redemption was real. You were in the lobby, clipboard in hand, jotting notes when the double doors slammed open with a burst of electric sparks. In strode Vox, screen face glitching faintly with irritation, sharp suit impeccable, claws tapping against his cane.

he cane inside, voice echoing with that signature reverb. “Oh Its a pleasure to finally meet you princess-!”

His gaze landed on you. For a split second, his pixelated eyes widened, then narrowed in assessment. He clearly didn’t recognize you. Perfect.

You didn’t miss a beat. “And you are…?” you asked coolly, crossing your arms.

Charlie blinked rapidly. “Oh! Vox, this is my assistant! She’s been helping keep everything running here! Anyway-“

Vox’s grin stretched wide, sharp and predatory. He sauntered closer, towering over you with that unnatural height. “Assistant, huh? Didn’t know Charlie was hiring mouthy little sinners now.” His voice dropped, laced with static charm. “Name’s Vox, darling. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

You arched an eyebrow, refusing to step back even as his screen flickered closer, heat radiating from his chassis. “Mouthy? That’s rich coming from the guy who broadcasts his ego 24/7. What, couldn’t handle a few sinners actually trying to improve instead of rotting in front of your screens?”

Vox’s eye twitched. “Careful. I could have you canceled before you finish that sentence.”

“Try it,” you shot back, stepping forward until you were nearly chest-to-screen with him. “I’d love to see your precious ratings tank when everyone realizes the big bad TV Overlord is threatened by a hotel.”

The lobby went quiet. Angel Dust whistled low from the couch. Charlie looked like she wanted to hide under the reception desk.

Vox laughed—a short, glitchy burst—but his claws flexed. “Feisty. I like that.” Then, without warning, he switched gears. The irritation melted into a velvet-smooth smirk. He leaned in, one hand lightly brushing your arm as he gestured dramatically. “But why waste that fire on this doomed project? A smart, sharp thing like you could shine on my network. Imagine it—prime time, adoring fans, real influence instead of babysitting has-beens.”

His touch lingered a second too long, fingertips tracing down your forearm before pulling away. A spark of electricity danced across your skin—literal and figurative. You hated how your pulse jumped.

You swatted his hand away. “Touchy, aren’t we? Personal space is a thing, even in Hell. And no thanks. I’d rather scrub the floors here than stroke your narcissistic ego on camera.”

Vox’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, then returned full force. “Playing hard to get already? Adorable.” He circled you slowly, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for you. “You feel it too, don’t you? That spark. I could make it literal.”

You turned with him, refusing to let him get behind you. “The only spark here is the one I’ll shove up your circuits if you don’t back off.”

Charlie finally intervened, laughing nervously. “Okay! Great meeting energy, everyone! Vox, maybe we can talk about the reason I asked you here..?”

Vox didn’t take his eyes off you.“Got a feeling this hotel just got a lot more interesting.”

He returned three days later.

You were in the middle of helping Vaggie train a new arrival when the doors opened again. Vox strolled in like he owned the place, holding a sleek tablet. “Miss me, darling?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Like a glitch in my system. What do you want this time?”

He ignored Vaggie’s glare and zeroed in on you, stepping right into your space again. Close enough that you could see the faint blue glow of his screen reflecting in your eyes. “Brought you something.” He tapped the tablet, pulling up a mock promotional graphic for the hotel—edited to look far more professional than anything Charlie had managed. “Free of charge. Consider it a peace offering.”

You snatched it, scanning quickly. It was good. Too good. “And the catch?”

“No catch.” His claw tipped your chin up gently, forcing eye contact. “Unless you count me wanting to see that pretty fire of yours more often.”

Your face heated. Damn him. The touch was possessive, electric, and way too effective. You liked the attention even as it infuriated you. “Flattery won’t work on me, Vox. I know your type—control freak who can’t stand when someone doesn’t fall at your feet.”

He chuckled, low and static-laced, thumb brushing your jaw before he let go. “Control freak? Harsh. I prefer ‘visionary.’ And you… you’re not like the others here. You see through the bullshit.” His voice turned almost sincere for a moment. “It’s refreshing. Irritating as hell, but refreshing.”

You shoved the tablet back at his chest. “Keep your vision. We’re doing this our way.”

But he kept coming back.

Week two. You were alone in the lobby late at night, sorting paperwork by the fireplace, when static crackled behind you.

“Burning the midnight oil?” Vox appeared from the shadows near the entrance, screen dimmed slightly like he was trying to be subtle. He wasn’t.

You sighed but didn’t look up. “Some of us actually work instead of manipulating the masses.”

He crossed the room in long strides and dropped onto the couch beside you—too close, thigh brushing yours. “You wound me.” One arm draped casually along the back of the couch, fingers playing with a strand of your hair. “I’ve been thinking about you. That mouth of yours… dangerous.”

You turned sharply, ready to snap, but his face was inches away. The tension crackled like live wires. His eyes flickered between hearts and static. You could smell ozone and expensive cologne.

“Back off, Vox,” you muttered, but your voice lacked its usual bite. Your body leaned in despite yourself.

“Make me,” he whispered, claws ghosting down your side, light enough to tease. “Or admit you like when I don’t.”

You grabbed his tie and yanked him closer, glaring. “You’re insufferable. Arrogant. Obsessed with power.”

“And you,” he countered, voice husky, “are a stubborn, sharp-tongued distraction I can’t seem to ignore.” His free hand settled on your hip, pulling you against him. The contact sent heat flooding through you. “Tell me to leave right now and I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you held his gaze, hearts pounding. “You keep coming back because you can’t stand losing.”

“Damn right.” His screen glitched with a grin. “But this? This feels like winning.”

He kissed you then—sudden, demanding, all static and hunger. You kissed back just as fiercely, nails digging into his suit jacket. The enemies’ fire didn’t vanish; it transformed, feeding the chemistry that had been sizzling since day one.

The visits became routine. Vox would show up under the guise of “business” with Charlie, only to corner you in hallways, the kitchen, even once during a group therapy session where he sat far too close and whispered filthy compliments that made you kick him under the table.

“You’re still a narcissistic control freak,” you’d hiss during one particularly charged argument in the back office, his hands pinning your wrists to the wall.

“And you still talk too much,” he’d growl back, kissing you breathless to shut you up. But the way he lingered afterward, screen resting against your forehead, claws gentle on your waist, said everything.

Charlie noticed eventually. “So… you and Vox? That’s… new!”

You groaned. “It’s complicated.”

Vox, overhearing from the doorway, smirked. “It’s perfect. She keeps me on my toes. I keep her entertained.”

You threw a pen at him. He caught it, laughing that glitchy laugh you were starting to love.

One night, months later, after a particularly brutal Extermination scare, Vox found you on the hotel roof, staring at the sky. He didn’t quip this time. Just sat beside you, pulling you into his lap without a word.

“You’re still annoying,” you murmured against his screen.

“Mm. And you’re still mine.” His arms wrapped around you, possessive but warm. “Enemies to… whatever the fuck this is. I like it.”

You smiled despite yourself, threading fingers through the edge of his coat. “Yeah. I do too.”

The tension never fully faded. The verbal jabs continued—quick, sharp, affectionate now. But underneath it all was the undeniable pull: two strong personalities who had found their perfect, chaotic match in the heart of Hell’s most ridiculous hotel.

[verosihoeee]

I saw that you didn't really have any characters you said you wouldn't do and I thought I'd shoot my shot.

I wanted to request something for Lucifer. Y/N and him have been a couple for a while. It started off as her visiting his hotel suite with meals she cooked herself. He's obviously not eating anything Alastor touched. She listens to him about his depression and took an interest in his duck obsession. Treating him like a person who she cares about genuinely instead of just the king of hell is what made him realize his feelings and ask her out.

She was so happy to be with him and so glad to have Charlie's approval. She knows she can't replace Lilith, but she's been doing motherly things, bonding with her and helping with the hotel.

One day, everyone gets to see how fiercely and deeply she loves Lucifer and Charlie. Some random asshole shows up just to insult Charlie and her dream and Y/N LOSES IT. She chews them out and scares the absolute shit out of them with her power. She's so caught up in the defense that she hadn't even realized that she'd said, "NOBODY TREATS MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT!!!" Before literally throwing the sinner out the door

Hihi! First lucifer req! Thank you and enjoy!

Family by Choice

Lucifer x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N and Lucifer’s relationship blossoms after she begins bringing him home-cooked meals, listens to his depression struggles, and genuinely engages with his duck obsession—seeing the man behind the crown. Their romance deepens with Charlie’s joyful approval, and Y/N embraces a supportive, motherly role in the hotel and Charlie’s life without trying to replace Lilith. The story peaks when a rude sinner harshly insults Charlie and her redemption dream. Y/N fiercely defends her, unleashing her demonic power in a terrifying display. In the heat of the moment, she roars, “NOBODY TREATS MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT!” before physically throwing the offender out. The emotional aftermath strengthens family bonds, with heartfelt dialogue from Lucifer and Charlie affirming Y/N’s place as a loving partner and mother figure.

The relationship between you and Lucifer Morningstar hadn’t begun with grand declarations or royal fanfare. It started quietly, in the private sanctuary of his hotel suite.

You’d shown up on his doorstep one unremarkable evening, a covered tray in your hands. “I noticed you don’t eat much of what Alastor prepares,” you said softly, offering a tentative smile. “Thought you might like something made with actual care. No weird shadows or static involved.”

Lucifer had blinked at you, his usual dramatic flair momentarily gone. “You… cooked? For me?” He’d accepted the plate of roasted vegetables, seared meat, and fresh bread like it was fragile glass. As he took a bite, his eyes fluttered closed. “This is… incredible. No one’s done something like this for me in… well, a long time.”

That opened the floodgates. Subsequent visits turned into long conversations. You’d sit across from him as he picked at his food, listening intently.

“I just… feel like everything I touch turns to ash eventually,” he’d confessed one night, staring at a half-assembled rubber duck. “Charlie’s dream is beautiful, but what if I’m just dragging her down?”

“You’re not,” you replied firmly, reaching over to gently adjust one of the duck’s tiny wings. “You’re her father. You show up for her, even when it’s hard. That’s what matters. And hey—this duck obsession? It’s adorable. Tell me about this one. Is it supposed to be a warrior duck?”

He’d chuckled, a real one that reached his eyes. “Warrior Duck the Third, at your service. Complete with tiny battle axe.” From then on, he opened up more—about his depression, the weight of his crown, the loneliness that lingered. You never pitied him. You cared. Genuinely.

Weeks later, after you’d brought him duck-shaped cookies as a joke, Lucifer set the plate aside and took both your hands. “Y/N, you’ve seen the mess I am. The fallen king, the depressed mess with a duck fixation. And you still come back. Why?”

“Because I see you, Lucifer,” you answered, squeezing his hands. “Not the title. Not the past. Just the man who lights up when he talks about silly inventions and his daughter. I care about that man.”

His golden eyes had softened. “Then… would you do me the honor of being with me? Officially? Let me try to be worthy of that care.”

“Yes,” you’d said instantly, heart soaring. “A thousand times, yes.”

Charlie’s blessing came soon after. She’d found you both in the lobby, hands still linked.

“Dad? Y/N?” Charlie’s eyes widened, then sparkled. “Is this…?”

Lucifer rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, kiddo. I finally worked up the courage. What do you think?”

Charlie had tackled you both in a hug. “I think it’s amazing! Y/N, you’ve made him happier than I’ve seen in ages. If you’re okay with our crazy family and the hotel, then I’m so happy for you two. Welcome… properly.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you replied, hugging her back. “I know I can’t replace your mom, Charlie. I won’t try. But I’m here for both of you. For this.”

She’d pulled back with a watery smile. “That’s more than enough.”

Now, months into your relationship, the hotel lobby was alive with activity. You adjusted a banner while Lucifer lounged nearby, tweaking his latest duck creation.

“Look at this one, love,” he called, holding it up proudly. “I added tiny flames on the wings. ‘Inferno Quacker.’ What do you think?”

You laughed warmly. “It’s perfect. Very you. Maybe we can make a whole flock for Charlie’s next event?”

“Brilliant idea! My brilliant partner,” he said with a wink, his voice full of affection.

The peaceful moment shattered when the doors slammed open. A lanky sinner with jagged horns and a smug sneer strode in, eyeing the group activity with disdain.

“Well, well,” he drawled loudly. “If it isn’t Hell’s biggest joke. Princess Charlie’s ‘Happy Hotel’ for worthless sinners. You really believe you can redeem anyone? Your old man’s a washed-up failure who couldn’t keep his own wife, and you’re just a naive little girl playing dress-up with dreams. This place? It’s pathetic. No one’s changing. You’re all wasting your time, you delusional bitch—”

Charlie recoiled, her hopeful expression crumbling. “I… that’s not—”

You moved before you could think, storming across the lobby with power already simmering beneath your skin. “Hey!” you snapped, voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Who the hell do you think you are, walking in here and attacking her like that?”

The sinner turned, sneering. “And who are you? Another pathetic groupie clinging to the Morningstar name? Step off, sweetheart. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns me plenty,” you shot back, eyes narrowing as your demonic aura flared. Shadows coiled at your feet, and the air grew thick with heat and static. “Charlie Morningstar has more courage, compassion, and vision than a bottom-feeder like you could ever dream of. She’s working to make Hell better—one soul at a time—while you slink around insulting people to feel big. Her dream isn’t a joke. It’s everything. And you’re not even worth the dirt on her boots.”

He laughed mockingly, though sweat beaded on his forehead. “Big words from the king’s new whore. What, you think playing house makes you special? Lilith left his sorry ass for a reason, and this little princess is next—”

Power exploded outward. Your form shifted—horns curling elegantly, dark ethereal wings snapping open as raw energy crackled around you. The sinner staggered, his smirk vanishing as oppressive force bore down on him.

“Nobody talks to my family like that,” you growled, voice booming. “You don’t get to waltz in and spit venom on everything she’s built. On her. I won’t allow it.”

The demon tried to backpedal, voice cracking. “W-wait, what the—your eyes! What are you—”

“NOBODY TREATS MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT!!!” The declaration tore from your throat, fierce and protective, echoing off the hotel walls. You didn’t even register the words fully until they rang out—raw, maternal, undeniable.

Before he could respond, you seized him by the collar. He yelped in terror as your strength lifted him clear off the ground. “Get. Out.” With a powerful swing, you hurled him toward the entrance. He sailed through the open doors, crashing onto the street outside in a heap of limbs and panicked curses. The doors slammed shut with a thunderous bang, sealing him out.

The lobby was deathly quiet for a split second.

Then Lucifer was there, arms wrapping tightly around you from behind. “Y/N… darling,” he murmured against your ear, voice thick with emotion. “That was magnificent. Absolutely terrifying in the best way. Are you okay? That power surge—”

“I’m fine,” you breathed, leaning back into him as your aura settled. “I just… I couldn’t let him hurt her. Or you two.”

Charlie rushed over, eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “Y/N… you said ‘my daughter.’ Did you really mean that?” Her voice trembled with hope.

You turned in Lucifer’s arms to face her fully, pulling her into the hug. “Of course I did, Charlie. You’ve become like a daughter to me. I love you. I love what you’re trying to do here, and I love this family we’re building. No one gets to tear that down.”

Charlie hugged you tighter, sniffling happily. “I love you too. Thank you for standing up for me—for us. It means everything.”

Lucifer kissed the top of your head, then ruffled Charlie’s hair. “That’s my girls. Kiddo, your old man is so proud of both of you. Y/N, you defended our family like a queen. I fall more in love with you every day, you know that?”

You smiled up at him, heart full. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Vaggie stepped forward, spear lowered but grinning fiercely. “Damn, Y/N. That was one hell of a throw. Remind me to never get on your bad side. Charlie, you good?”

“Better than good,” Charlie replied, wiping her eyes and straightening with renewed fire. “Everyone! Let’s keep going. This rally just got a serious boost thanks to Mom over here.”

The residents murmured in agreement, some clapping, others nodding with newfound respect. Even Alastor offered a slow, static-laced chuckle from the shadows. “My, my. Such maternal ferocity. How… entertaining.”

As the activities resumed with louder energy, Lucifer kept his arm around your waist. “My fierce protector,” he whispered fondly. “Thank you for loving us the way you do.”

“Always,” you replied, squeezing his hand. The hotel felt more like home than ever—imperfect, chaotic, but fiercely yours.

[verosihoeee]

I reread the Val x reader where his favorite/most popular actress gets injured because of the two girls who messed with the light rig. Could I ask for something about how Valentino would take care of his little goth conejita while she heals?

Also, maybe, because of her popularity what happened got found out by her fans. Maybe it ends up on 666 news that the two girls got their asses kicked and Vox texted Val to turn it on.

Hihi! So thanks for the request! This is going to be a part 2 for protective instinct !! Enjoy!!

Protective instinct pt 2

Val x fem!reader

Vox: Security footage queued. Your bunny didn’t slip, Val. Those two bitches rigged it. Play it. Then turn on 666 News later.

The overlord’s wings flared, smoke curling from his mouth as he watched the clear setup on the grainy feed. You weren’t clumsy. You were graceful, lethal on camera. His precious conejita. By the time you were bandaged and limping back to the suite, the two saboteurs were already dragged in, trembling.

Valentino’s grin was all teeth as he lounged on his oversized couch, one arm around your waist, keeping you perched protectively in his lap despite your injuries. “Mi conejita,” he cooed, voice a low, dangerous purr, his claws gently tracing your uninjured ear. “Tell Papito what we should do with these putitas who thought they could touch what’s mine.”

You chose. Brutal, fitting, and public enough to send a message without wasting too much of his time: a very special, very humiliating on-camera “retraining” session where the girls were demoted to the lowest rung—cleanup duty in the filthiest corners of the studio, forced to watch your highlights on loop while their own careers were torched. Valentino added his personal flair: broken fingers for the one who’d pushed the prop, and a few days in the “special room” for the other. They screamed. You watched with cool satisfaction from his lap, his hand stroking your thigh the whole time.

Your fans noticed almost immediately. Clips of the “accident” leaked, then the truth. #JusticeforY/N trended hard on Hell’s social feeds. Your goth-bunny aesthetic had built a devoted following—edgy sinners who loved your dark-glam performances and the way you owned the stage like a shadow queen. The story exploded.

That evening, Vox texted again: Turn on 666 News, Valentino. It’s gold.

The broadcast flickered on. Katie Killjoy, with her usual venomous smirk, recapped: “—in a shocking development, two low-tier performers at Valentino’s studio have been… reassigned after a vicious attack on the Overlord’s top star, the beloved goth bunny sensation Y/N! Footage shows the pathetic setup, and sources say the girls got their asses handed to them—literally. Ratings for Valentino’s streams are skyrocketing in sympathy views. Back to you, Tom!”

Valentino laughed, deep and rumbling, pulling you closer against his chest. “See that, baby? Whole city knows not to fuck with my girl.”

Healing time meant no filming, no stage lights, no straining your cracked ribs and fractured leg. But it didn’t mean separation. Valentino wasn’t letting his conejita out of his sight.

He turned the penthouse into a velvet cocoon. The massive bed was piled with the softest black and crimson blankets, your favorite goth playlists humming low from hidden speakers. Val canceled half his shoots—unheard of—barking at his assistants through the phone while he personally adjusted the pillows under your injured leg.

“Mírame, conejita,” he’d murmur, settling you in his lap on the wide chaise by the window, his four arms making it effortless. Two held you steady, one traced lazy circles on your lower back, the other offered a straw to sip whatever fruity, spiked drink he’d had mixed for you. Painkillers from Hell’s best (and most discreet) suppliers kept the edge off, but he preferred distracting you with slow, heated kisses along your neck and collarbone, careful not to press on bruises. “Papito’s got you. No one else touches you. Not ever.”

Days blurred into possessive tenderness. He’d carry you everywhere—princess-style, wings half-flared like a living shield—whether to the oversized bathtub where he’d wash your fur himself with gentle claws, or to the private screening room where he’d play old recordings of your best performances, critiquing them fondly while feeding you strawberries dipped in chocolate. When mood swings hit him (and they did, sharp and sudden), you still knew exactly how to soothe him: soft words, your fingers in his fur, letting him vent before pulling him down for a kiss that always turned deeper, more claiming.

Nights were the sweetest. He’d curl around you protectively, his tall frame enveloping your smaller bunny one, mindful of every injury. Sometimes he’d read lines from new scripts aloud in that velvet voice, asking your opinion because you got it. Other times he’d just hold you, smoke curling lazily as he whispered filthy-sweet promises of what he’d do to you once you healed—how he’d spoil you on camera and off, how the whole studio would worship the ground your paws touched.

Your fans sent gifts—black roses, goth plushies, fan art of you as a dark queen bunny. Valentino had them all brought up, arranging the flowers himself while grumbling playfully about “competition.” When the pain flared, he was there instantly, cooing Spanish endearments and massaging around the bruises with surprising care.

By the time your leg was mending enough for light activity, the message had spread: you weren’t just Valentino’s top girl. You were untouchable. His. And Hell itself had watched the jealous bitches burn for it.

“Te amo, mi conejita oscura,” he’d growl against your ear one quiet evening, pulling you onto his lap again as city lights glittered below. “Rest. Heal. Papito’s got all the time in the world for you.”

[verosihoeee]

Hi, I have a request for a poly Vees x reader story with fluff and smut. I made some changes but everything else is the same.

The reader is a 20 year old girl born in France. She grew up with parents who supported her dream to be a beautician, knowing how their child found joy and peace in something she loves. She embraced the hippie lifestyle, joining a female sorority group at her college with those who share similar beliefs. Her appearance is that of an hourglass body, fair skin, long platinum blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She’s fond of mermaids and sirens, too.

Reader is know for not only her kindness, to others but also her passion for beauty and being a nudist. She sees the human body as something beautiful and wants to spread the word to other people but is respectful to others who don’t share her beliefs.

During the summer of May 3, 1970, she is swimming in the water when a passerby attacks her, catching her off guard. Once she couldn’t fight back anymore, reader loses consciousness and by the time others swam to subdue the guy, she passed away.

The people upstairs find her lifestyle of nudism to be sickening and decided that she was not worthy of paradise and sent her to hell. She never forced her views on anyone, she respected those who didn’t live the way she did. Waking up in hell shocked reader and her appearance is that of a siren, a pretty one at that.

It takes less than a week for her to catch the attention of a certain trio of overlords, who felt something when they saw her at a restaurant. Smut and fluff happens.

Reader would get along with the Vees, and wants to make hell a paradise for those who she cares about. They would not judge her for how she lived, anyone who would will be turned to a bloody pulp.

(I have a thing for protective Poly Vees x reader XD)

Hihi guys..! Again! Ok I’ll be doing some more req tonight! Enjoy babes! Also thank you for the request and I finally got to it!! Enjoy!

Vees x siren fem!reader

The summer sun of May 3, 1970, kissed her fair skin as she glided through the crystalline waters off the French coast. Her long platinum blonde hair fanned out like silk ribbons behind her, pale blue eyes half-closed in bliss. At twenty, she was the embodiment of the hippie dream she had embraced wholeheartedly—beauty school by day, where her hands brought joy to faces and hair, and free-spirited nights with her sorority sisters who shared her love for peace, flowers, and the natural world. Mermaids and sirens had always captivated her; their fluid grace mirrored the freedom she felt when the human body was celebrated rather than hidden. Nudism wasn’t rebellion for her—it was reverence. The body was art, worthy of sunlight and sea, and she preached it gently, never forcing it on those who preferred modesty. Her parents had nurtured this passion, proud of the peace it brought their daughter.

That day, she swam naked as usual, the water caressing every curve of her hourglass figure. A shadow fell across the waves. A passerby—drunk, enraged by what he saw as indecency—lunged at her without warning. His fists and the crushing weight of his body overwhelmed her before she could scream. She fought, nails raking, lungs burning, but darkness claimed her. By the time rescuers pulled the man away, her heart had stilled.

Heaven’s gates rejected her. “Her lifestyle is an abomination,” the angels decreed, eyes cold on her soul’s memory of sun-warmed skin and unashamed joy. No matter that she had harmed no one, respected every boundary. Down she fell.

Hell’s arrival was a shock of sulfur and neon. She woke on the blood-red shores of a polluted sea, coughing brine and ash. Her body had changed—transformed into something ethereal and predatory. Iridescent scales shimmered along her hips and thighs in hues of pearl and ocean teal, fading into smooth, pale skin. Delicate fins framed her ears and trailed from her forearms, and her platinum hair now carried natural streaks of shimmering blue-green that glowed faintly. Her pale blue eyes held a hypnotic depth, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance that could soothe or ensnare. A siren, beautiful and deadly in this infernal realm. She clutched at her new form, tears stinging as the weight of eternal damnation settled in. But fear did not consume her. If Hell was her home now, she would make it bloom with the same kindness and beauty she had offered Earth.

It took less than a week.

She found work at a dingy restaurant on the edge of Pentagram City’s entertainment district—an overlord-neutral spot serving sinners who craved a taste of something almost wholesome. Her talent as a beautician translated; she styled hair between shifts, offered gentle makeovers that made even jaded demons soften. Her kindness spread like a ripple: a soft word to a crying imp, a free trim for a struggling succubus. She wore flowing, sheer wraps that hinted at her nudist comfort but respected the public space—though in private, the scales and skin felt most natural bare.

The Vees noticed her first on a rare night they dined together, away from their towering headquarters.

Velvette spotted her across the room, her sharp eyes narrowing in appreciation. “Well, fuck me. Look at that one. Siren chic? The hair, the scales—it’s giving ethereal runway.” She snapped a quick photo with her ever-present phone, already envisioning trends.

Valentino’s multiple eyes gleamed, smoke curling from his cigarette as he leaned forward. “Mmm, cariño, that body… those curves. She moves like water. I could make her a star.”

Vox’s screen flickered with static interest, his grin sharp. “Not just looks. She’s got presence. No fear in those eyes. Refreshing.”

She felt their gazes like a tangible caress as she served their table. Her voice, soft with a lingering French lilt, carried that siren hum: “Bon appétit, messieurs et mademoiselle. If there’s anything else…” Her pale blue eyes met each of theirs unflinchingly—Velvette’s calculating smirk, Valentino’s hungry leer, Vox’s electric intensity. Something sparked in her too. A pull. They were power incarnate, overlords who ruled media, vice, and technology, yet in that moment, they looked at her like she was the rarest jewel in Hell.

The attraction was immediate and mutual. Within days, invitations arrived—Velvette’s fashion shoot “just for fun,” Valentino’s private lounge offer, Vox’s subtle tech perks like a secure line to her modest apartment. She accepted cautiously at first, her kind heart wary of Hell’s predators. But they surprised her.

No judgment. Ever.

“Your nudism?” Velvette had laughed during their first real conversation in her studio, fabrics swirling around them both. “Darling, in Hell? Half the sinners are walking around with their tits out or worse. Your body is art. Own it.” She ran her fingers through the siren’s platinum locks, adding holographic highlights that made them shimmer like the sea. Fluff came easy with her—late nights scrolling trends, her head in the siren’s lap as the latter braided her hair, whispering how her hippie heart wanted to make Hell softer, more beautiful for those who deserved it. “You’re too pure for this shithole,” Velvette would murmur, kissing her temple. “But we’ll keep you safe.”

Valentino was all velvet seduction and unexpected tenderness. In his penthouse, surrounded by plush cushions and low lights, he watched her shed her wraps without shame, her siren scales catching the crimson glow. “Mi sirenita,” he purred, his hands gentle despite their size, tracing the curve of her waist with reverence. No coercion, no contracts unless she wanted them. Fluff in the quiet moments: him draping her in luxurious silks only to peel them away, then holding her as she spoke of Earth—her sorority sisters, the joy of beauty work. “Anyone who shames you gets turned to pulp, hermosa. My word.” His wings would envelop them both, warm and protective, as she curled against his chest, feeling cherished rather than objectified.

Vox was the strategist, the one who saw her vision. “Make Hell a paradise?” He’d chuckled, his claws tilting her chin up in his high-tech lounge, screens flickering with her image from every angle. “Ambitious. I like it. We’ll start with our corner of it.” Fluff with him was intellectual and intimate—debates over old French films projected on his screen, his arm around her shoulders as her fins brushed his thigh. He upgraded her space with waterproof tech, holographic mermaids swimming across her walls. “You’re not forcing anything on anyone, just like on Earth. That’s why we adore you.”

The poly dynamic wove together seamlessly. They shared power, and they shared her—willingly, joyfully. Their first night together as more than flirtation was in Valentino’s expansive suite, the air thick with anticipation but never pressure.

She stood before them bare, scales gleaming, hourglass figure illuminated by soft lights. “I see beauty in this,” she said softly, voice humming with siren resonance. “In all of us. No shame.”

Velvette’s eyes darkened with desire as she stepped close, her smaller frame pressing against the siren’s, lips brushing her neck. “No shame here, love.” Her hands explored with fashionista precision, cupping the siren’s breasts, thumbs circling sensitive peaks until the latter sighed. Vox watched, screen glitching with static pleasure, before joining—his electric touch sending pleasant sparks along her skin as he kissed her deeply, tongue exploring while Velvette’s fingers dipped lower, finding her already wet.

Valentino completed the circle, his tall form behind her, hands gripping her hips. “That’s our girl,” he murmured, voice husky. His cock, impressive and ridged, pressed against her ass as he ground slowly. Fluff and smut blurred: whispered praises in French from her—”Vous êtes magnifiques”—drawing laughs and groans. They laid her on the massive bed, a tangle of limbs.

Velvette straddled her face first, her sweet taste flooding the siren’s tongue as she licked with eager kindness, hands on Velvette’s thighs. Vox slid into her from below, stretching her perfectly, his thrusts measured and deep, screen displaying her flushed expressions for all to see. Valentino claimed her mouth when Velvette moved, or took her from behind in turns—each of them filling her, praising her body, her kindness, her strength.

The smut was passionate and varied: slow, sensual nights where Velvette rode her with a strap while Vox and Val watched, stroking themselves; rougher sessions where Valentino’s hips snapped against hers, Vox’s claws pinning her wrists as Velvette kissed away any sting; group moments where she was the center, mouths and hands everywhere, her siren voice moaning their names until the room echoed. Orgasms crashed over her in waves—Velvette’s fingers curling just right, Vox’s electricity teasing her clit, Valentino’s girth hitting deep. She came undone repeatedly, their releases painting her scales and skin, marking her as theirs.

But always aftercare. Fluff reigned supreme. They would clean her gently, Vox running a warm cloth over her body while Velvette styled her damp hair. Valentino would pull all four of them into a pile of pillows, wings and arms wrapping protectively. “Our siren,” he would rumble. “No one touches what’s ours.”

Weeks turned to months. She thrived. Her beauty work expanded under their influence—a salon chain where sinners learned gentle confidence, funded by the Vees. She never forced nudism; private beaches they secured for her became havens where she swam freely, often with one or all of them joining, laughter echoing. Her hippie heart softened their edges: Velvette launched kinder fashion lines, Vox broadcast messages of (relative) unity, Valentino… well, he reined in some of his worst impulses for her, punishing anyone who mocked her past or beliefs with brutal efficiency. A demon who sneered “nudist whore” at a party? Bloody pulp, as promised.

Jealousy was rare, communication open. Nights often ended with all four in bed—her head on Vox’s chest, legs tangled with Velvette’s, Valentino spooning her from behind. “I never thought Hell could feel like this,” she would whisper, pale blue eyes shining. “A paradise for us.”

Vox’s screen would soften. “With you? It is.”

They protected her light fiercely. When Heaven’s exterminators came or rival overlords eyed her, the Vees were a united front—media blitzes, violent takedowns, and her gentle influence reminding them mercy had its place.

In the end, she was their siren, their peace, their passion. A French flower blooming in Hell’s flames, body and soul celebrated in equal measure. And in their arms—fluff-filled days of shared dreams, smut-drenched nights of ecstasy—she built something beautiful together.

Notes: hope this was ok!! also I LOVE polly vees its so sexy 🫨

[verosihoeee]

haiii!!! can you do a velvette x sick reader pls 🙏

love ur work!!

Hihi guys! Ofc! Enjoy divas

Velvette x sick fem!reader

- The second she notices you’re quieter than usual, she narrows her eyes and snaps “Why do you look all pale and tragic? Babe, you look like an underfunded Victorian orphan.”

- She pretends she’s annoyed you got sick because now she “can’t take cute pictures with you,” but five minutes later she’s ordering medicine, blankets, tea, and enough random comfort items to stock a pharmacy.

- Absolutely the type to sit beside you scrolling on her phone while absentmindedly stroking your hair.

- She gets irrationally offended if someone else tries taking care of you first “Uh, excuse you? I’m her girlfriend. Back OFF.”

- If you apologize for being clingy or needy while sick, she immediately scoffs “Girl, please. You literally look like you’d collapse if you sneezed too hard. Just come here.”

- Velvette would secretly love when you cling to her hoodie or curl into her side because it makes her feel wanted, even if she rolls her eyes dramatically about it.

- She is obsessive about appearance, so seeing you sweaty, exhausted, and miserable genuinely unsettles her more than she admits.

- If you have a fever, she presses the back of her hand to your forehead and goes “Oh my GOD. Why are you boiling? This is disgusting. Hold on.”Then she’s suddenly moving at lightning speed getting ice packs.

- She’d absolutely redesign your entire recovery setup aesthetically. Matching blankets. Mood lighting. Expensive tea cups. Silk pillows. “If you’re gonna be sick, at least do it attractively.”

- If you try getting out of bed too early “Sit. DOWN” “Vel, I’m okay—”. “No, because if you pass out and crack your skull open, that becomes my problem.”

- Velvette is very touchy in private relationships, but only where nobody else sees. So when you’re sick, she gets softer behind closed doors: playing with your fingers, fixing your hair, rubbing your back while pretending she isn’t doing it intentionally

- She would complain nonstop while caring for you. “I had plans today, by the way.” continues spoon-feeding you soup

- If you fall asleep on her shoulder she freezes for a second because she secretly melts over domestic intimacy.

- She definitely takes pictures of you while you’re asleep but refuses to show you. “Nope. Blackmail material.

- Velvette would 100% use social media polls to ask your symptoms instead of directly googling them. “Chat, is coughing blood cringe or fatal?”

- She becomes VICIOUS toward anyone stressing you out while sick. Valentino making noise? “SHUT THE FUCK UP, she’s sleeping!” Vox bothering her with work? “Unless the tower is actively exploding, I do NOT care.”

- If you get emotional from being sick and start crying, she completely loses her usual composure for a second. “…Wait. Hey. Why are you crying?” “I feel awful…” “Oh. Oh, shit.” Her comfort style is awkward but genuine. She pulls you into her chest and mutters “You’re okay. It’s just a dumb sickness. You’ll be fine.”

- She would absolutely threaten the doctor if they don’t help fast enough “If she dies, I’m ruining your entire career online.”

- Because she’s canonically very observant beneath the attitude, she notices tiny details immediately “You’re shivering again.“You haven’t eaten enough.” “Your breathing sounds weird.”

- When you finally start recovering, she gets smug instantly. “See? Obviously my care saved your life.” But if you thank her sincerely, she gets flustered and defensive. “Don’t make it weird.”“…You’re lucky I like you.” And the first time you’re fully healthy again, she drags you into her lap dramatically and goes “Okay. No more terrifying me by almost dying, thanks.”

[verosihoeee]

Hi there. I really really love your work. I've been feeling a little insecure lately so can I please request Vox and Val (separately) with a reader who has a pretty large bust like around 38D? Both the NSFW and the SFW if possible. Thank you so much ☺☺☺

Hii! Ofc my love! Don’t ever feel insecure about that!! As the member of the itty bitty titty committee I am JELLY. but I hope these give you some confidence and you enjoy babe!

Vox x fem!reader

SFW Headcanons

Vox constantly monitors you through the city’s surveillance network. During a public event, his screen flickers as he zooms in on you from a distant camera. He pulls you close on the red carpet, one hand possessively cupping the side of your breast while smiling for the drones. “Smile for the viewers, baby. These assets are trending higher than my ratings right now. Every demon in Hell is buffering over you.”

He designs custom holographic outfits for you. In his private studio, he projects different outfits onto your body, hands adjusting the digital fabric right over your chest. “Too tight? Perfect. No—keep that cleavage on display. I want them staring and knowing they can’t have it.” He settles on a sleek black number with a deep V-neck and kisses the exposed skin. “My perfect co-star.”

Late nights when he’s overworked, he insists you sit on his desk while he edits footage. He rests his head against your chest between tasks, the low hum of his internal fans vibrating softly. “Don’t move. This is better than any coolant system. Soft, warm… mine.”

If you tease him by wearing something especially revealing around the tower, he glitches hard. He pins you against the wall in a hallway, screen displaying pink static hearts. “You trying to crash me on purpose? These tits in that top—fuck, I should broadcast this as premium content. But no one else gets the live show.”

He gets surprisingly soft when you’re alone. After a fight with the other Vees, he curls up with you in bed, face buried between your breasts as he vents. “Everyone else is fucking useless. But you… you’re the only signal that never drops.”

NSFW Headcanons

Vox loves using his hypnosis/tech influence during foreplay. He has you stripped on his bed, eyes locked on his swirling screen as he gropes your breasts. “Feel that? Just a little static shock to make them extra sensitive,” he murmurs, sending targeted electrical tingles through your nipples until you’re moaning. “Good girl. Look how hard they get for me.”

He records private sessions and edits them into personal montages. While fucking you from behind in front of a mirror wall, he records the way your chest bounces. “Eyes on the screen, doll—watch how perfect you look getting railed. These tits in 8K… I’m keeping this forever.”

Titfucking with a tech twist: He projects a holographic copy of himself so he can fuck your cleavage while simultaneously eating you out. “Multitasking at its finest,” he groans, screen glitching as the real him thrusts between your pressed-together breasts. “Squeeze tighter—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re going to make me blue-screen.”

During rougher sessions, he pins you to his control console, legs spread as he thrusts deep. One hand mauls your chest while the other tweaks dials that send pleasure feedback through hidden vibrators. “These are my favorite handles,” he growls, squeezing hard. “Bounce harder. I want to see them move while I overload you.”

Aftercare is intimate and cooling. He dims his screen, pulls you on top so your chest presses against him, and runs gentle claws along your back. “You handle my overloads better than any hardware. Stay right here… best fucking recharge.”

Valentino x fem!reader

SFW Headcanons

Val treats shopping like foreplay. In his favorite lingerie boutique, he makes you try on dozens of pieces, sitting back with a cigarette as multiple hands adjust straps and lift your breasts. “Mira eso… this one makes them look even bigger. Turn around, mi tetona. Papi needs to see how they spill over.”

He’s protective in a dramatic, volatile way. At a club, a lesser demon stares too long. Val’s wings flare as he yanks you against his chest, one hand openly fondling you while the other flips off the offender. “These belong to Valentino, cabrón. Keep looking and I’ll film your execution with your own eyeballs.”

Lazy mornings in his chaotic bedroom: He wakes up tangled in you, using your chest as his personal pillow. Two arms hug your waist, another pair lazily strokes and squeezes. “Best way to start the day,” he mumbles sleepily in Spanish, kissing and nuzzling. “So soft… don’t get up yet, baby.”

He commissions custom perfumes that smell like his smoke mixed with something sweet, and insists you wear it on your cleavage. “So every time I get close, I know it’s you. My favorite scent on my favorite curves.”

When you’re feeling down, he’s surprisingly attentive. He cancels a shoot, wraps you in his wings on the couch, and spends hours praising you while feeding you strawberries. “These tits? Perfection. This body? Mine. You? Irreplaceable. Fuck anyone who says otherwise—I’ll make them disappear.”

NSFW Headcanons

Val is obsessed with sensory overload. He coats your breasts in his golden saliva and smoke before sliding his cock between them, using all four hands to press them tight and play with your nipples. “¡Qué rico! Look at them shine, cariño. Made for fucking. Spit on it for Papi—good girl.”

He loves filming you specifically. In his private studio, he has you on all fours while he fucks you senseless from behind, one phone angled to capture your swinging chest. “Arch more—yes! These fat tits look so good bouncing while I wreck you. This tape is for my eyes only.”

Multiple arms mean he can do everything at once. He sucks one nipple hard, bites the other, fingers you, and gropes while thrusting. “You feel that? Four hands all for these perfect tits,” he groans, wings fluttering wildly. “Gonna mark them up so pretty.”

Face-sitting with a chest focus: He pulls you up to sit on his face, then reaches up to slap, squeeze, and motorboat your breasts while his long tongue works you. “Ride my tongue and smother me with these, mi amor. I want to drown in you.”

Rough, possessive nights: He fucks your tits aggressively, then cums across them before pushing back inside you. “Don’t wipe it off. I want it dripping while I fill this pussy.” Afterward, he gently licks you clean, purring praises in a mix of languages as his wings cocoon you both. “You’re my favorite addiction… these tits ruined me for anyone else.”

[verosihoeee]

Hello, I love your works on Vox!! I wondering if I could submit a request where Vox has a major crush on reader but he thinks reader lowkey hates him because anytime they have to interact, reader looks and acts like they want to kill him in various gruesome ways. Unbeknownst to him, Reader does in fact return his feelings. They are just having some inner turmoil/denial over them. Being up in arms about how they could let this happen to themselves. Because unfortunately they love this insufferable, infuriating, deranged, freakishly tall, charming, dorky, weirdly handsome, oddly cute tv man. It’s like a strange type of cuteness aggression that they get from him.

Maybe Vox somehow, someway overhears them ranting about him to someone and at some point it just devolves into them just complaining about the fact that they really, truly like him. “Oh! You think you have problems?? I’m in love with a goddamn, fucking TV!”

They love him, it may just might take them a minute to fully accept it.

Also, reader is an Overlord, for some extra flavor.

Heyy…so I’m back 😏. to make a LONG story short, I have been working non stop. Like tons of admin,issues,meetings,overtime ect and I got SO burnt out you guys. Genuinely had to take a break off social media and collect myself. I don’t wanna write shitty stuff for you guys so I’m now back with a better mental state to keep going 😛. So here is my first request back I’M SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT FRIENDS. enjoy 🤍

In love with a TV

Vox x fem!reader short story

The Overlord Summit was always a spectacle of barely-contained chaos, held in a neutral territory of Pentagram City’s decaying grandeur—a massive hall with chandeliers that dripped melted gold and walls lined with portraits of sinners long since dusted. Vox adjusted his flat-screen head, the edges of his grin flickering with static as he scanned the room. His crimson eyes locked onto her immediately, like they always did.

You. The newest Overlord to claw her way into the inner circle, a force of sharp wit and even sharper power. Your domain was something sleek and modern—information brokering mixed with a dash of soul-binding contracts that even made Velvette raise an eyebrow. You stood across the room in a tailored crimson-and-black ensemble that hugged your figure like it was tailored by Hell itself, arms crossed, expression stormy.

Vox’s processors stuttered. Fuck, she’s gorgeous when she looks like she wants to murder me.

He’d had this stupid, all-consuming crush for months now. Ever since you’d first locked eyes during a territorial dispute and you’d snarled at him with such venomous precision that his fans had spun up like a jet engine. He thought about you constantly—your voice, the way you moved, the rare flash of a smirk when you outmaneuvered someone. But every interaction since had been… hostile.

You glared daggers at him across the hall. Your fingers twitched like you were imagining wrapping them around his antenna and snapping it clean off. Vox’s smile faltered for half a second before he forced it wider, waving with that exaggerated, showman flair.

“Darling! Looking lethal as ever,” he broadcasted smoothly, voice dripping with that charismatic static. He sauntered over, towering over most demons at his freakish height, his clawed hands gesturing grandly. “Missed me? I know I’ve been very busy conquering the airwaves.”

You stared up at him like he was a cockroach that had learned to speak. “Vox,” you said flatly, voice laced with barely-restrained venom. “If you come any closer, I’m going to short-circuit that smug face of yours and use it as a paperweight.”

He laughed, but it came out a little strained, blue sparks flickering at the edges of his screen. “Feisty today! I like it. You always know how to make a guy feel welcome.” Inside, his code was glitching. Why does she hate me so much? What did I do? Was it the broadcast last week? The hostile takeover attempt on that soul market?

You turned on your heel and walked away without another word, shoulders tense. Vox watched you go, his clawed fingers flexing uselessly at his sides.

Later that evening, after the tedious posturing and thinly-veiled threats that passed for Overlord politics had wrapped up, Vox found himself pacing the upper balconies of the hall. Velvette was somewhere downstairs live-streaming her latest outfit roast, and Valentino was… doing Valentino things. Vox needed air. Or the demonic equivalent.

His mind kept replaying every interaction. The way you’d sneered when he offered you a partnership on a new media venture. The death glare when he’d “accidentally” brushed against you during a crowded elevator ride in Cannibal Town. The way you’d once hissed, “Touch me again and I’ll broadcast your insides on every channel, flat-face.”

He slumped against the railing, screen dimming. “She hates my fucking guts,” he muttered to himself, voice glitching with static-laced misery. “And I can’t stop thinking about her smile. Or how she’d look wrapped in my cables. Or—static—I’m pathetic.”

Unbeknownst to him, you were two balconies over, hidden by heavy velvet curtains and a convenient potted hell-plant the size of a small tree. You’d dragged your closest acquaintance in this mess—an Overlord associate named zeezi, a massive, punk-raptor dinosaur demon - into a quiet corner for what you thought was a private vent session.

“I swear to every circle of Hell, Z, if he calls me ‘darling’ one more time in that stupid smooth voice I’m going to explode,” you growled, pacing back and forth. Your heels clicked sharply against the obsidian floor. “He’s so tall and lanky and infuriating. The way he smirks like he owns the room. The way his stupid screen flickers when he’s trying to play it cool. It’s ridiculous!”

Zeezi lounged on a chaise, sipping something glowing and toxic. “Sounds like you’ve been paying very close attention, girl.”

You whirled on her, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Because he’s everywhere! VoxTek billboards, VoxTek ads, his stupid face on every screen in the city! And don’t get me started on how he leans down to talk to me like I’m some fragile little sinner instead of an Overlord who could unravel his entire empire if I felt like it.” You threw your hands up. “He’s deranged! A walking, talking, broadcasting freak!”

You stopped pacing, pressing your palms to your face. Your voice dropped, raw and frustrated. “And the worst part? The absolute worst part… is that I like it. All of it. The charm, the dorky enthusiasm when he talks about ratings, the way his eyes—those stupid red eyes—light up when he sees me. He’s weirdly handsome in that glitchy, retro-TV way. Oddly cute, like a murderous old cathode-ray tube that somehow learned to flirt.”

Zeezi eyebrows shot up. “Wait. You’re serious.”

“Oh! You think you have problems??” you burst out, voice rising. “I’m in love with a goddamn, fucking TV! How did this happen to me? I’m an Overlord! I command souls, I broker power, I’ve toppled empires smaller than his ego—and yet here I am, having cuteness aggression over an insufferable, infuriating, charming, dorky, freakishly tall television set who probably short-circuits when he gets excited!” You groaned, dragging your fingers down your face. “I want to strangle him. Then kiss him. Then strangle him again. It’s a nightmare.”

You leaned against the railing, staring out at the blood-red skyline. “I just… need a minute. Or a century. To accept that I’ve fallen this hard for him. Every time I see him I act like I want to kill him because if I don’t, I might do something stupid like smile back.”

Vox stood frozen two balconies away, his entire system locked in a full blue-screen-of-death moment. His fans whirred loudly. His screen glitched hard enough to show pixelated hearts for a split second before he forced them down.

She… likes me? She’s in love with me? That whole murder-face routine was… cuteness aggression??

He didn’t know whether to laugh, short-circuit for real, or climb over the balcony and tackle you into the nearest wall. His grin stretched wide, manic and delighted, static buzzing happily around his frame.

He waited until zeezi excused herself with a knowing smirk, then made his move. Vox adjusted his coat, straightened his bowtie, and stepped around the corner with all the dramatic flair he could muster—which was considerable.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, laced with that signature VoxTek charm. “Eavesdropping is a nasty habit, but I have to say… best news I’ve heard all year.”

You spun around so fast you nearly lost balance. Your eyes widened, a flush creeping up your neck. “Vox—how long have you been—”

“Long enough to hear about my ‘weirdly handsome’ screen and my ‘dorky enthusiasm.’” He stepped closer, towering over you, but his usual cocky posture softened at the edges. His claws flexed nervously at his sides. “Long enough to know that every death glare was you trying not to jump my circuits.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then crossed your arms defensively, glaring up at him with that familiar fire. “This doesn’t mean I’m not still considering violence. You’re still an infuriating, arrogant, media-obsessed—”

“—charming, oddly cute TV man?” he finished, leaning down until his screen was inches from your face. His voice dropped to a husky static murmur. “Admit it, darling. You’ve got it bad.”

You stared at him for a long beat, heart hammering. Then, slowly, the corner of your mouth twitched. Not a snarl this time—a reluctant, genuine smirk. “…Maybe. It might take me a minute to fully accept it. Or a few violent outbursts. But yes, Vox. Against my better judgment and every survival instinct I have… I really, truly like you. A lot.”

Vox’s screen flashed bright cyan with delight, little error hearts flickering across it before he reined it in. He cupped your chin gently with one clawed hand, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Good. Because I’ve been losing my mind over you for months. Thought you wanted me de-rezzed.”

You laughed—a soft, breathless sound—and grabbed his tie, yanking him down the rest of the way. “I did. Still might, sometimes. But I want other things more.”

The kiss was electric in every sense—literal sparks jumping between you as his systems overloaded with joy and your own power flared in response. When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re still a walking disaster,” you muttered fondly.

“And you’re still terrifying,” he replied, grinning like an idiot. “Perfect match.”

From somewhere downstairs,zeezis voice carried up faintly: “Finally! Took you two long enough, you absolute disasters.”

Vox laughed, static warm and happy, and pulled you closer. For once, the TV demon didn’t mind the chaos. Not when it came wrapped in the arms of the Overlord who wanted to kill him… and kiss him senseless.

Thank you for waiting for me guys I hope you liked

[verosihoeee]

Hey girlie pop!!😊 I wanted to thank you and say I absolutely LOVEDD your Vox x reader MLS request you wrote recently! You write him so well and my heart was literally leaping for joy the whole time😭💕 I appreciate the good luck vibes and wishes as well!🥰 Hoping to hear back soon!🤞🏼

If possible, I have another Vox x female reader request👀👀👀 I would love to see Gen Z reader being a new overlord in hell (her thing is music) and attending her first meeting with all the other overlords, especially Vox🤣 Now this mf knows exactly what to do😏 Lays on the charm thick, trying to impress reader with how “up to date” he is, wanting to convince her that she would be a perfect addition to join the Vees. Velvette and Valentino see this though and think that it’s gonna be an Alastor 2.0 situation because this man is a total simp and is already obsessed and they jokingly call him out on it in front of everybody💀 Cue Vox being an irritated, glitchy and slightly flustered mess while attempting to play it cool but failing miserably😭 and reader is just like “wait sexy TV man is also cute too”🤭 basically chaos mixed with some sweet fluff at the end😊 Thank you so much diva!! You’re the best!🩷

Hiii I’m back 🙊 I have been so busy you guys ugh but doing more requests!! Thanks for the req queen! Love uu

Falling hard

Vox x fem!reader

The Overlord meeting room in the heart of Pentagram City reeked of old money, new sin, and way too much cologne. A long obsidian table stretched down the center, surrounded by chairs that looked like they’d been stolen from a gothic cathedral. You sat near the end, legs crossed, scrolling through your phone with one hand while the other tapped out a beat on the armrest. Your power hummed in the air around you—music, raw and chaotic, the kind that could make sinners dance till their feet bled or blast a rival into next week with a killer drop.

You were the new kid on the block. Gen Z Overlord. Freshly risen, playlist-powered, and already making waves with your viral “Hellwave” tracks that had half the Pride Ring hooked. This was your first official meeting. You’d shown up in ripped black jeans, a cropped band tee that said “THE MOMENT,” chunky headphones around your neck, and sneakers that lit up with every step. Very “I’m here, I’m queer-adjacent, and I’m not taking notes.”

At the head of the table, Carmilla Carmine was droning on about territory lines and turf wars. You were half-listening, half-memeing the whole thing in your head, when the door swung open with a dramatic electronic bzzt.

Vox entered like he owned the building (which, to be fair, he basically did). Sharp suit, flat-screen head glowing with that signature cyan smirk, antenna twitching with barely-contained excitement. His eyes—those pixelated blue slits—locked onto you the second he sat down across the table.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over a synth bassline, leaning forward with elbows on the table. “If it isn’t the fresh face everyone’s been buzzing about. Vox, at your service, darling. Media Overlord extraordinaire. And you… must be the one turning Hell’s soundscape into a straight-up banger.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden spotlight. “Uh… yeah. That’s me. Call me [Y/N]. Music’s kinda my whole deal.”

“Music?” Vox’s screen flickered with a heart-eye emoji for half a second before he caught it and swapped it for a cool smirk. “Perfect. I’m all about the modern wave, baby. Algorithms, streams, virality—none of that dusty radio static Alastor clings to. I’ve got the infrastructure. Billboards, live streams, influencer networks. You drop a track, I make sure every sinner in the Pride Ring has it shoved down their throat in 4K. We could rule the airwaves together.”

He was laying it on thick. Leaning in, voice dropping into that charismatic broadcast tone, little sparks of electricity dancing along his claws as he gestured. “You’re Gen Z coded, right? I’m fluent. I know the slang, the vibes, the edits. ‘No cap,’ ‘rizz,’ ‘skibidi’—whatever the kids are saying this week. I’m up to date. Way more than these fossils.” He shot a pointed look toward the other end of the table where Zestial was sipping tea like it was 1692.

You couldn’t help but snort a laugh. “Dude, you just said ‘skibidi.’ That’s… actually kinda hilarious coming from a walking flatscreen.”

Velvette, seated to Vox’s left, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, scrolling on her own phone. Valentino, on his right, blew out a cloud of pink smoke and grinned like a shark.

“Ohhh, here we go,” Velvette muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, not even looking up from her screen. “Voxy’s doing the full charm offensive. Look at him, tail practically wagging.”

Valentino chuckled, low and sleazy. “Mmm, mi amor, you’re simping harder than when you first met that radio bitch. Careful, or we’re gonna have another Alastor 2.0 on our hands. Obsessed little TV boy already planning the wedding playlist?”

The entire table went quiet for a beat. Then a ripple of snickers.

Vox’s screen glitched violently—horizontal lines cutting across his face, pupils flickering between hearts and error symbols. “Wha— I am NOT— shut the fuck up, both of you!” His voice crackled with static, one hand slamming the table hard enough to make the wood spark. “This is professional networking! Strategic alliance! She’s got raw talent, and the Vees could use fresh blood that actually understands the digital age!”

Velvette leaned back, smirking. “Uh-huh. That’s why your resolution just dropped to 240p and you’re buffering, right? Face it, Vox. You saw one (1) gen Z girl with a killer beat and blue-screened your whole personality.”

Valentino purred, “He’s already writing fanfic in his head. ‘Overlord Couple Drops Ultimate Collab.’ Cute.”

You watched the whole meltdown with wide eyes, biting your lip to keep from laughing too hard. Vox was glitching like a broken modem, antenna sparking, trying desperately to play it cool while his screen kept flashing little “heart.exe has stopped working” warnings.

“Val, Vel— I swear on every fucking satellite I will mute you both for the next century—”

But under the irritation, there was something almost… soft? The way his gaze kept flicking back to you, embarrassed but still hopeful, the static in his voice softening just a fraction when he looked your way.

You tilted your head, studying him. That cocky media demon with the shark teeth and the ego the size of a server farm… was kinda cute when he was flustered. The way his screen tinted a faint pink at the edges, the awkward little glitch when he tried to smooth his suit jacket. Sexy TV man had layers. Dangerous, powerful, and apparently a total simp for a girl with good taste in music.

The chaos died down as Carmilla cleared her throat, clearly unamused. “If we could return to actual business…”

After the meeting wrapped, most Overlords filed out, still chuckling under their breath. You lingered, fiddling with your headphones. Vox stayed too, pointedly ignoring the knowing looks from Velvette and Valentino as they sauntered past.

Velvette paused at the door. “Don’t crash your hard drive trying to impress her, Voxxy~” she sang.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no real heat left.

Once they were gone, the room felt quieter. Just the low hum of his circuitry and the faint melody leaking from your headphones.

Vox rubbed the back of his neck, screen flickering back to a more stable, charming smile—though still a little staticky. “Sorry about… that. My associates have the emotional intelligence of a dial-up connection.”

You shrugged, smiling softly. “It was kinda funny. And honestly? A little flattering. Not every day a big bad Overlord glitches out because of me.”

He perked up, antenna straightening. “Flattering, huh?” That cocky edge crept back in, but gentler now. “So… does that mean you’d be open to a collab? Strictly business. Or… y’know. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’ve got a private studio. Top of the line. We could make something that’d shake the whole Ring.”

You stepped a little closer, looking up at his glowing screen. “Maybe. But only if you promise not to drop any more ancient Gen Z slang. Deal?”

Vox’s laugh was warm, crackling with electricity. “Deal. Though I reserve the right to call you ‘iconic’ unironically.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment the tension melted into something sweet. He offered his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, glitching just once when you took it.

“Lead the way, sexy TV man,” you teased.

His screen flashed bright cyan, a tiny embarrassed heart popping up before he squashed it. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” you said, grinning. “But I think I like the cute version too.”

As you walked out together, the chaotic energy of Hell buzzing around you, Vox’s usual sharp edges felt a little softer. And for the first time since arriving in Hell, you thought maybe being an Overlord wasn’t going to be all turf wars and backstabbing.

It might just come with a glitchy, charming, hopelessly smitten TV demon who was already mentally queuing up your next track.

And honestly? You were kinda here for it.

[verosihoeee]

Thank you so much for doing my first request. It was perfection ✨

I was wondering if you could write a Vox x short quiet female reader like Vox teases her about how short she is when out in public but behind closed doors he's practically obsessed with her, Folders containing her routines and quirks in alphabetical order alongside future wedding plans, Puts the reader is oversized clothes on purpose to make him feel like a giant next to her, Places certain items above her on purpose to watch her try and jump up to reach it.

(Maybe the reader could be a type of koi fish sinner?)

Take your time! 💖

Heyy! And yea vox would definitely have a size kink! I did some fluff and NSFW hc 🙊 enjoy

Vox x f!reader headcannons

Public Teasing – The “Tiny girl” Routine

Vox lives for the way your cheeks flush under your shimmering koi scales every time he does this in public. You’re barely 5’2” on a good day (fins and all), and he’s a solid 7’1” when he straightens up for the cameras. He’ll casually sling an arm around your shoulders, pull you flush against his side like you’re a cute accessory, and broadcast his voice just loud enough for the sinners on the street to hear.

“Aw, look at my little girl,” he coos, voice dripping with that signature TV static charm while his screen flickers a cheeky heart-eye emoji. “Can’t even see over the crowd without standing on her tippy-toes. Need a lift, shortstack? Or should I just carry you around like the pretty purse you are?” You shrink against him, fins fluttering behind your ears in embarrassed little waves, and he laughs—that deep, glitchy chuckle that makes every nearby VoxTek screen flash your name in scrolling text.

At Vee Tower press events he’ll rest his elbow on top of your head like you’re an armrest. “Careful, babe. Wouldn’t want you getting stepped on down there.” The tabloids eat it up. The fans call you “Vox’s polly pocket.” You hate it. He pretends he does too, but the way his claws tighten possessively on your waist says otherwise.

Behind Closed Doors – The Obsessed Boyfriend Experience

The second the penthouse door shuts, the teasing mask drops and the real Vox comes out—unhinged, soft, and terrifyingly in love.

He has an entire encrypted server dedicated to you. Labeled “MY GIRL – DO NOT TOUCH” in bold red. Inside are meticulously alphabetized folders:

• A – Afternoon Naps (timestamps, favorite pillow preferences, the exact way your tail curls when you’re dreaming)

• B – Bubble Baths (he has to join each one)

• C – Clothing Sizes (current & projected for “future growth spurt” he knows will never happen)

• …all the way to Z – Zoomies at 3AM and W – Wedding Plans (v1.0 through v7.3)

He’ll pull you into his lap on the massive couch, screen glowing soft blue as he scrolls through the wedding folder like it’s the most precious thing he owns. “Look, I updated the venue renderings again. The koi pond in the reception hall is shaped exactly like your birthmark. And the dress—fuck, baby, you’re gonna look so tiny walking down that aisle. I already picked the heels that add three whole inches. Still gonna be shorter than me in every photo.”

You try to hide your face in his chest and he just tilts your chin up with one claw. “Don’t hide. I catalog everything because I need to know you better than you know yourself. You’re mine, gorgeous. Every quiet little quirk, every scale that lights up when you’re shy… I own all of it.”

Oversized Clothes on Purpose

Vox buys you clothes three sizes too big specifically so he can watch you drown in them. Hoodies that reach your knees, his own dress shirts that look like nightgowns on you, jackets that swallow you whole. He’ll come home from a meeting, see you curled up in one of his old VoxTek sweaters, and his screen will glitch with static hearts.

“Fuck… look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that dangerous low register as he stalks closer. “Swimming in my clothes like a lost little fish. Makes me feel like a goddamn giant.” He’ll pick you up effortlessly, your legs dangling, and bury his face in the collar of the sweater that still smells like him. “You’re never wearing normal sizes again. I forbid it.”

The High-Shelf Game

This is his favorite “harmless” way to toy with you.

You’ll be in the kitchen trying to grab a mug and suddenly it’s three shelves higher than it was yesterday. Vox leans in the doorway, arms crossed, screen displaying a smug little loading circle.

“Problem, shortcake?”
You glare, fins flaring. “Vox…”
“What? I didn’t do anything. Gravity’s just mean to tiny demons.” He watches you jump—once, twice—your oversized shirt riding up and showing the soft scales along your hips. On the third jump he finally steps in, pressing you against the counter from behind so you’re trapped between cold marble and hotter-than-hell TV demon.

“Need help?” he purrs right against your ear, one hand easily plucking the mug down while the other slides under the hem of your shirt. “All you gotta do is ask nicely, baby. Or keep jumping. I like the view either way.”

NSFW Headcanons – Size Kink Goes Nuclear

Vox is feral for how small you are in private.

He’ll pin you against his chest while he’s still fully dressed in one of his tailored suits and you’re in nothing but one of his shirts. The contrast makes him short-circuit. “Look at that… my whole hand covers your entire stomach, baby. So fucking tiny I could break you if I wasn’t careful.”

Loves making you ride his thigh while he works. “That’s it, grind on me like a desperate little girl. Can barely wrap your legs around my thigh, huh?” His screen flickers with explicit close-ups of wherever your slick scales are rubbing against the fabric of his pants.

The first time he folds you in half in bed he actually whimpers. “Holy shit—look how deep I am. You’re taking all of me and your cute little tummy’s bulging. Say my name again, louder. Let the whole tower hear who this tight pussy belongs to.”

Aftercare is just as obsessive. He’ll wrap you in his jacket, carry you to the bath, and literally read out loud from your “Afterglow Quirks” folder while he massages your sore thighs: “Note 47: she makes the softest chirping noise when I kiss the scales behind her ears… fuck, there it is. Good girl.”

One night, after he’s fucked you senseless and you’re limp and purring against his chest, he whispers against your fins:

“I’ve got the ring design saved in the wedding folder under R – Rings (eternity band with koi engraving). You’re never getting away from me, shortie. Not in this life or the next. I’ll keep you in my pocket forever if I have to.”

You’re quiet as always… but your tail curls happily around his wrist and your scales glow soft gold in the dark.

And Vox’s screen displays a single looping heart with your name inside it.
Forever.

[verosihoeee]

I have a sort of silly request. Velvette's girlfriend speaks Spanish and she's become good friends with Vox and Valentino in the several months Velvette has been dating her. Do Vox and Velvette get annoyed when their partners gossip and joke in a language they don't understand?

Hihii guyss!! My Spanish is awful so I’m sorry if some of it doesn’t make sense 😛🤏

Velvette x fem!reader

The “Secret Language” Bond

You and Valentino bonded hard over Spanish in the first couple months of you dating Velvette. He’s always throwing around “mami,” “chiquita,” and full sentences when he’s hyped or shady. You match his energy instantly, and soon you two are thick as thieves — texting in Spanish, roasting demons in the Vees’ group chat with inside jokes only you two get. Vox and Velvette pretend it’s “cute” at first… until it isn’t.


You’re all lounging in the Vees’ penthouse lounge. Valentino’s sprawled across the couch, scrolling on his phone. Valentino: “Oye, mami, ¿viste lo que hizo esa puta de Carmilla anoche? Parecía que se había tragado un palo.”
You (laughing, switching to Spanish without thinking): “¡Ay sí! Y luego Velvette la arrastró en live. Fue épico, pero la cara de Vox cuando intentó meterse… priceless.”
Velvette (immediately snapping her head up from her tablet, British accent dripping venom): “Oi! English, love. I’m sitting right here, not some bloody background prop.” Vox (screen glitching with static): “Yeah, what the fuck was that? I caught ‘vox’ and ‘velvette’ and that’s it. Translate or I’m hacking your phones.”

Velvette’s Petty Jealousy & Sass

Velvette loves how confident and fiery you are, but the Spanish gossip sessions make her feel left out of her own girlfriend’s world. She gets extra clingy and sarcastic afterward — pulling you into her lap, tugging your hair, and demanding attention. She’s tried Duolingo once… for about three days before rage-quitting.

Headcanon moment: After you and Val spend twenty minutes cackling in Spanish about some Overlord’s terrible new outfit, Velvette yanks you onto the couch beside her.
Velvette: “Right, that’s enough of that foreign bollocks. You’ve been giggling like schoolgirls with that oversized moth for half an hour. Care to clue your actual girlfriend in, or am I just the pretty face funding your little bilingual club?” You: “Babe, it was nothing—”Velvette (cutting you off, smirking but eyes narrowed): “Nothing my arse. Next time you two start whispering in Spanish I’m posting a poll on my story: ‘Should my girlfriend speak English around me or am I just chopped liver?’ Watch how fast the sinners vote.”

Vox’s Tech Tantrums

Vox is used to being in control — of media, of information, of everything. Not understanding you and Val drives him insane. He’s tried auto-translate apps, subtitles on the security cams, even a custom program that flashes translations on his screen. It always glitches because Valentino talks too fast and you both use slang.


You and Valentino are in the studio, whispering in Spanish while Velvette films content nearby.
Valentino: “¿Crees que Vox se pone celoso cuando hablas así? Míralo, pantalla parpadeando como loco.”
You: “Obvio. Pero es lindo. Velvette también se pone toda posesiva, ¿eh?” Vox (voice cracking through the speakers, face glitching red): “I can see my name! I know you said ‘Vox’! If you two don’t switch back to a civilized language I’m cutting the Wi-Fi for the entire tower. Try gossiping then, assholes.”

Playful “Punishments” from the Vees

When you and Val go full Spanish mode during Vees meetings or date nights, Velvette and Vox team up with dramatic sighs and over-the-top affection to shut it down. It always ends with you getting sandwiched between them while they demand English kisses or explanations.

Headcanon moment: During a group dinner, you lean over to Valentino and murmur something filthy and funny in Spanish about a sinner who tried hitting on you earlier. Val nearly spits out his drink laughing. Velvette (slamming her fork down): “That’s it. Valentino, hands off my girlfriend’s attention. And you—” (points at you, eyes sparkling with mischief) “—if I hear one more ‘ay dios mío’ I’m dragging you to the bedroom and making you moan in English so I know exactly what you’re saying.”

The Sweet Side (When They Finally Admit It)

Deep down, Velvette finds it hot that you’re so effortlessly yourself and that you fit so perfectly with her chaotic found family. Vox secretly loves how you keep Valentino entertained (less work for him). They’ll never admit the annoyance is half jealousy… but late at night Velvette will pull you close, nuzzle your neck, and ask you to teach her the dirty Spanish phrases you and Val use.

Private moment: Velvette (after a long day, curled up with you on her massive bed, voice softer): “Alright, fine. I hate not knowing what you’re saying to that flamboyant prick… but I also love how your face lights up when you two get going. Just… throw me a bone sometimes, yeah? Tell your girlfriend the gossip in English first.” You (teasing): “¿Celosa, mi amor?” Velvette (pinning you down playfully): “Don’t start with that shit or I’ll make you translate everything while I’m between your legs. Capiche?”