Kolya

The camera eventually pans back over to Vincent, and you turn to him with a question, purposely putting him in the spotlight.

You’re smiling, but it’s written all over your face — What do you think you’re doing?

Still, Vincent casually discusses the latest news with you as his hand continues its leisure trek under the lacey seam of your panties.

The tips of his fingers bump soft, meaty flesh — that sensitive button he’s almost certain will make you cry out loud. But again, you barely acknowledge Vincent’s audacious touch, turning away from him to redirect your attention to the camera, your legs staying shut in staunch defiance. He has to fight to keep the grin on his face from wavering as he presses against your clit and rolls it around in slow, undulating circles.

Despite how displeased you are, your body betrays you, two fingers sliding down to wriggle their way into your entrance, only to find out how warm and utterly wet with slick you are.

The Vees’ strategy was to avoid any personal mention of Vox’s failed mutiny. Scrawled somewhere on a ceiling-to-floor whiteboard in Valentino’s office was a bold: “It was Morningstar’s fault!” Instead, their privately owned news outlets would handle the controversy, giving them some degree of separation whilst feigning accountability. There would be no Notes app apologies posted to Sinstagram, only approved coverage shifting the blame from VoxTek, and onto the Hazbin Hotel.

Neither Velvette nor Valentino wanted to reach out to their disgraced CEO (not at the moment, at least). And you couldn’t blame them.

Throughout Vox’s battle against the Princess of Hell and her friends, the sinner revealed just how lowly he valued his contemporaries. His business partners, you, and the rest of Hell were just sacrificial pawns for him to defeat his (one-sided) archnemesis, Alastor, once and for all.

Vox’s hubris truly knew no bounds.

In all honesty, when your boss pulled his little stunt against Heaven, you immediately started packing up your desk—intent on returning home to the Envy Ring.

You had to be one narcissistic son of a bitch to believe you could rule the holy realm after trying to shoot a hole through it with an angelic laser.

Unfortunately for you, during one late night at the office, your silver-tongued boss caught you drafting your two-week notice. The TV Demon swallowed his anger to save on mental RAM. He needed all the brainpower he could generate to successfully enact his hostile takeover of Heaven and Hell. Vox gently pulled you into his lap and sweet-talked you into remaining by his side. He whispered into your fin-like ear promises of fame, glory, power, and money in that seductively suave voice of his.

For a sinner, he sure knew how to talk to a demon from the Envy Ring.

You guessed your own hubris knew no bounds, either.

Back when the Vees stopped Vox from overloading Carmilla Carmine’s weapon of mass destruction, your boss was reduced to nothing in the figurative and literal sense. It was Valentino who cleanly tore the monitor from Vox’s body to stop the technocrat from razing the entirety of the Pride Ring.

The TV Demon had absolutely zero say in his future with the Vees.

Vox’s fellow Overlords placed him on a three-month sabbatical while he regenerated a new body. They worked tirelessly with VoxTek’s public relations firm to prevent any further muddying of their reputations.

Once his temporary banishment from V Tower was instated, the Vees enlisted your help to move Vox into his luxurious lakefront property located in a quaint (by Hell’s standards), upper-class neighborhood.

You hadn’t been to the lakehouse since Vox had hired you as his personal assistant, but your boss had completely gutted the place at some point during your employment.

The lakehouse retained its original nautical novelty, but Vox switched out the vintage, Americana style for that of a sleek, Greek villa. Stark white walls, azure blue accents, and exposed wood beams gave the illusion that he was vacationing in the Mediterranean rather than virtually under house arrest for committing war crimes.

Per the Social Media and Film Overlords’ instructions, you were required to update them about the Media Overlord’s well-being.

You continuously forget to use Vox’s phone to add yourself to the group chat, so you simply text them through his account.

Shok.wav’s Dad🦈 🌊

Our flat-faced prince is still not doing so great. Remember how I told you he woke me up in the middle of the night to ask if anyone unfollowed him on Envee? He’s been doing that all day.

Anyways, @/ST.VALENTINO👠, I’m having him watch 666 News so he can stay in the know.

A certain fashionista told me you’re the star of today’s show.

ST.VALENTINO👠

Naturally.

Try to record his reaction for me. He’s gonna loooooove what I have to say 🤭🤭🤭.

Shok.wav’s Dad🦈 🌊

Should I be worried?

redvelvettecake

u? no. vox? yes.

Oh, god. That didn’t sound promising.

Vox’s eyes grew ten times larger when Katie Killjoy’s grating voice replaced Tom Trench’s stuttering.

“In other news, everyone’s favorite filmmaker, Valentino, stepped up during the recent crisis and protected our city from both an angelic terrorist attack, as well as a quote,” she squinted to read off of a teleprompter behind the camera, “‘minorly malfunctioning VoxTek product that we are not legally liable for, so fuck you and stop asking’.”

As she spoke, heavily filtered photos of Valentino in action appeared to the left of the blonde’s head. His lavender skin was uncannily smooth—not a pore or blemish in sight on the anthropomorphic moth’s face.

You scoffed at Velvette and Valentino’s obnoxiously obvious PR spin.

Even if you didn’t know the lecherous porn director personally, you still wouldn’t believe the schlock 666 News was soiling your screen with.

…Although, after running into so many boneheaded humans during your time in the Pride Ring, you were definitely overestimating the intelligence of the average 666 News’ audience member.

The Vees must be doing something right if they were still on the trending page of every social media platform, so who were you to judge their manipulation tactics?

If you had a soul, it would have jolted out of your body when Vox harshly slapped a hand over the corner of his screen. He was actually cackling in disbelief at just how easy he got off.

“Wait…that’s it? Those fucking geniuses. I don’t even know what to say!” He clutched both sides of his screen, standing up as if an invisible weight had been removed from his person. “All right, dollface, start ordering personalized gift baskets for every VoxTek employee, except for the ugly ones. Oh, and check my approval ratings in case we—”

Vox’s victory speech died in his throat.

His living room’s flat-screen switched to a scene of Valentino relaxing into an ornate golden chair. In a prerecorded one-on-one interview, the 666 News’ lower third referred to him as the “New Boss Daddy.” He coyly glanced off to the side as tendrils of cerise smoke curled around his head from a lit cigarette.

“Yeah, I guess I, like, saaaaved everyone,” the moth drawled. “Hm? Do I know Vox? Noooo,” he smirked, “I’ve never heard of him.”

Katie Killjoy’s aggressively insincere smile returned to the screen, speaking in her ever-so condescending newscaster affect, “The future of VoxTek is looking bright. Voxtek—we might need to change our name.”

You quickly plucked the remote from the wooden coffee table and shut off the program.

Cautiously, you studied Vox out of the corner of your eye.

The man’s knees gave out, causing him to drop his full weight onto the azure blue sofa. His clawed hands trembled as he stared into the black mirror of his TV.

Vox’s reflection was hard for him to stomach. The first couple of weeks on “vacation” were mortifying—what with him being a tablet who needed you to spoon-feed him and wipe his screen down with cleaning solutions. But it was the man staring back at him with fearful cyan eyes that made Vox want to bury himself under several layers of sand like an angel shark. He couldn’t decide what was worse.

God, he was embarrassing.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he droned, collapsing even further into the sofa whilst pressing the heels of his palms into his screen.

Due to Vox’s voracious appetite for attention, his neglect of Velvette and Valentino during his campaign worked out in their favor—not so much in his. In a tragically poetic way, as Vox was the face of the resistance, he hadn’t managed to drag the others down in his catastrophic fall from grace.

Vox wanted to be alone at the top, and now he had no one at the bottom.

You felt compelled to tell your wet cat of a boss that things would get better in due time, but it would be of no use. There was no way of knowing if that was even a possibility.

You settled on awkwardly patting his broad shoulder.

He removed his hands from his face and looked at you with the most pitiable expression you had ever seen him pull.

“Can you give me a blow job?” He asked casually, as if he wanted to know if it was going to rain soon.

“Excuse me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snapped, retracting your hands as quickly as you had placed them.

Vox’s hands began undoing his belt—the buckle jangling around as he clumsily tried to undo the latch from the notches.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He spat. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m perfectly fine. Just need some stress relief, ‘s all.”

You shook your head, placing your hand on top of his navy blue one, saying, “Yeahhhh, that’s not happening. Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear myself just fine, babe. You’re the one sounding like a seventh heavenly virtue.” Vox snorted to himself, “What, did you, like, finally pick up a Bible and learn about chastity overnight?”

You sighed and stared straight into his eyes—the red sclera and cyan pupils threatening to give you a blue light-induced headache, “The last thing you need is some kind of…instant gratification. Trust me, you’re not thinking straight. You’re going to fuck my throat, feel good for five minutes—”

“Uh, five minutes?”

“…You’re going to feel good for six minutes, then enter a post-nut clarity breakdown, and annoy the shit out of me while I try to get some work done. I’ve been your personal assistant long enough to know how you operate. I’m saying this with your best interest in mind.”

Vox paused his unbuckling for a second, assessing the accuracy of your prediction. You were right, of course, though he would never admit that to your face. The dopamine crashes following his instant gratification highs were never pretty. Sudden depletions of energy in Vox’s system left the typically histrionic man in a deep depressive state until he managed to recalibrate his energy output.

“So then,” he began sharply, “what do you propose I do, hm? Visit Little Ms. Bleeding Heart’s shitty hotel to learn coping mechanisms like a snot-nosed rug rat? In your dreams. Besides, fucking you would save me time and money. It’s in the fine print of your contract.”

You took your webbed fingers and pinched the wide space between your eyes in frustration, “I know what my fucking contract says, sir. I’m not an idiot. I read everything to make sure you wouldn’t lease me out to Velvette or Valentino like a goddamn office space.”

Vox mockingly gasped at your (rightful) accusation, “That’s rich coming from you. You sure you’re native to the sixth ring of Hell, babe?” He chortled and jabbed a cyan claw into your chest, “I thought your kind were all about leeching onto someone else’s achievements.”

“Sure,” you lazily removed the 7-foot-tall demon’s finger from your chest, “however, I’m not keen on signing work contracts forged by incompetent humans who were failures in life and marginally less so in death.”

“You’re calling me a failure?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. You implied it.”

You inwardly cringed at your choice of words.

As much as your boss was a stupidly handsome pain in the ass, you regretted your barbs as soon as you threw them. There was no need to kick a man while he was already down, although in retrospect, he definitely deserved a more severe punishment for his reckless actions.

“I didn’t mean…okay, sir, I was just trying to say that I’m a capable employee. You wouldn’t have hired me, otherwise,” you backtracked. “My job is to assist you in any way possible. To put it bluntly, assisting you makes me money. Helpfully assisting you makes me more money. And right now, you don’t need a blow job. You need…”

What did he need?

Your eyes roamed over your normally put-together boss’ disheveled condition. Prominent, pixelated eye bags took up the midface of his screen. He was wearing an ill-fitting, unbuttoned tropical t-shirt that squeezed his biceps, and his belt had slipped a few loops off his khaki shorts. Finally, your eyes rested on his favorite pair of dark blue shark slippers, complete with red button eyes and thin white embroidery mimicking jagged teeth.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

“We need to go swimming, sir.”

“Swimming?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m sure Shok.wav would appreciate some quality time with his Daddy.”

Vox let out a pained groan and rubbed the growing bulge through his shorts, “Don’t call me that right now.”

You rolled your eyes at your boss’ perversions.

“Ew, stop being...you. Come on, let’s go.”

“But I don’t want to—”

“Shhh, this is for your own good and the integrity of my throat.”

Grabbing Vox by his muscular forearms, you pulled the limp man up off the sofa and pushed him towards the lakehouse’s rounded back doors. You felt adrenaline course through your veins the closer you got to the painted blue entrance. Waiting just outside these walls was the picturesque view of Pentagram City’s famous, crystal clear lake.

Initially, when you toured this property with Vox, the man exposited the area’s rich history (relative to Hell’s other residential areas).

In 1975, a private jet transporting Las Vegas-based casino owners, business magnates, and venture capitalists horrifically crashed into a mountain range. When every single man woke up in Hell next to his former business partners, the conglomerates quickly got to work developing the area around Pentagram City’s lake. Fast forward some 40 years, and those men were thriving off of mapping their Earth-based hierarchy onto the otherworldly planes of the Pride Ring.

Just the other month, you were mailing a formally written “apology” to billionaire Dennis Hughes for Vox’s violent outburst at Dante’s Inferno. Towards the end of dinner, the sleazeball had laid a hoof on your thigh and was subsequently choked out by Vox’s cables.

VoxTek’s CEO rarely lost his cool in front of the upper and lower classes alike. He was competent at keeping a lid on his less desirable traits in public unless something pushed him too far, such as poor, sleazeball, billionaire Dennis Hughes.

“Shok.waaaav!” You called out.

Heavy, rhythmic thudding came around from the front of the lakehouse and towards the back, where you and Vox were standing. The biomechanical demon shark’s tail fins wagged at the sight of his owner.

“Your Daddy—”

Another pained groan escaped Vox’s mouth at the forbidden honorific.

“Ahem, Vox, wants to go swimming in the lake. You should join us! We don’t want you overheating now that you don’t have your tank.”

Shok.wav didn’t need to be told twice. Vox’s demon-shark-dog-thing flicked his tail and trotted into the teal waters of the well-kept lake. You and Vox watched him from the shore as the shark enthusiastically splashed around in the water. His enormous, cybernetic head glinted with the rich red light of the Pride Ring’s equivalent to Earth’s sun.

When you were down to your matching tweed skirt and black bralette, Vox spoke up, “I’d hate to interrupt your little strip show, but let me get this straight, princess. You won’t have sex with me—the hottest ruler of the Entertainment District and Media Overlord, by the way. But you’re willing to do some…other…grueling physical activity that involves taking off our clothes?”

“Mhmmm, that sounds correct.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Sex pest.”

“Nun.”

You sighed exasperatedly at the man’s willful ignorance, “I already explained my reasoning to you, sir. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you. Can you unzip my skirt for me?” You moved the large fins cascading from the top of your head away from your back before continuing, “Swimming is a healthy outlet for relieving stress. Sex can be too, but you’re clearly not in the right headspace for that. If you were, you would be inside me right now.”

Upon hearing the curt zip, you shimmied out of the tight garment, tossing the tweed skirt onto your frumpy pile of clothes on the floor. Just as you were about to join Shok.wav in the water, Vox growled and pulled you into him, digging his claws into the scaly plates covering your hips. His large left hand massaged your ass while he rubbed the sensitive skin around your gills with his right.

“Oh, come on, babe. Now you’re just being difficult. Why don’t we go inside and…do things my way, hm?” Vox murmured.

His long tongue unraveled from his screen and licked a long vertical stripe up the back of your neck. The TV Demon chuckled to himself at how efficiently his spit polished your smooth scales.

“Did your body r-regenerate your speech recognition s-software wrong? You haven’t been l-listening to a s-single goddamn word I’ve been saying. Sir, I’m not riding you to magically cure you of your a-angst."

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about riding me? I mean, except for yourself.”

Vox angled your body a little more so that the bulge in his shorts connected with the gusset of your black panties. Making sure Shok.wav was sufficiently distracted by the lake’s hidden treasures, Vox pulled his thin, veiny cock from his shorts and slid it between your thighs. He rolled his hips into you desperately, brushing your sensitive bundle of nerves with every motion. You clamped your mouth shut when you saw his glowing cyan tip rub against the front of your panties.

“Doll, don’t make me beg. You know I don’t do that. I just need to stick the tip in—just the tip. Let Daddy get his dick wet. You wouldn’t even have to do any work—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, fine! Your bargaining is driving me up the fucking wall.”

“Are you serious? Fuck yes!”

“Hold it. There’s a catch. First, you’re going to swim with Shok.wav and me while there’s still light in the ether.” You pressed your back against Vox’s imposing frame and stared up at him with your glassy, pupilless eyes. “If you do this for me, I swear on Leviathan’s name that I’ll do whatever you want after the fact.”

Vox scrunched his face in consideration of your offer, as if you had just asked him for his firstborn and not instructed him to swim with you and his pet for a little bit.

“…Y'know, you’re starting to sound like me, babe. I’m proud.”

“Well, I did learn from the best.”

He puffed out a breath of amusement, spun you around to face him, and shook your hand as he did to the many businessmen he wined and dined in the penthouse of the V Tower.

“Looks like flattery can indeed get you somewhere. All right, you got yourself a deal!” Vox motioned for you to help him out of his tight tropical t-shirt and khaki shorts. He transformed his tone to that baby-talk cadence he used exclusively when talking to or about Shok.wav, “Now, let’s not keep the world’s best and biggest demon shark waiting.”

In the distance, you spotted Vox’s pet shark happily swimming in circles near a manmade volcanic structure.

Your boss lamely flopped into the water face-first, only flipping around to watch you dive in with the poise of a gold-medal Olympian. As you adjusted to the lake’s lukewarm temperature, Vox took his time admiring your beauty—your sirenic allure greatly amplified by your aquatic surroundings. With your fish-like features—balanced by your elegant disposition—you reminded Vox of a hellish, showstopping performer in old Billy Rose’s Aquacade shows.

You swam up to him, cracking a smile at the sight of your uptight boss, lazily drifting on his back.

“You look pretty peaceful, sir,” you stated.

“Oh, ‘s that right? Must have short-circuited from imagining all of the unread emails I’ll have once I’m back home,” he responded dryly.

You playfully splashed some water onto the deadeyed man, scattering droplets across his sandpapery skin.

“God, all you do is think about work. I wish I could introduce you to my family in the Envy Ring. They’d probably love you more than me.”

“Aw, that’s so cute. Do you talk to them about me?” He quizzed in a quippy manner.

You cocked an eyebrow and splashed him again with a bit more force this time, “Abso-fucking-lutely not. My parents would have me drawn and quartered if they found out I was working for a human, much less having sex with one. Hell, they don’t even know I’m in the Pride Ring. All I told them is that I hopped a train one ring up to Greed and fucked off.”

Vox perked up at the words leaving your mouth. It was a rare treat for the Media Overlord when you opened up about your life prior to working for him. Knowledge is power, as they say, and Vox knew next to nothing about you.

He shifted his monitor, gazing directly into your eyes to ask, “What makes you think they’d love me, then?” He laughed, vaguely gesturing to his form, “Aside from the obvious.”

You answered honestly, “You all share this shrewd shark mentality. It’s like you have to be the apex predator in every room you’re in—the smartest, the funniest, the richest. I’m sure my family would obsess over you immediately.”

Vox smirked at your assessment, already envisioning the praise he would hypothetically receive from your family of fish demons. He crossed his arms behind his head, then dimmed the brightness of his screen so you wouldn’t see his cyan blush.

A cool breeze swirled around the lake before disappearing as quickly as it had blown in.

After some time, you asked Vox, “…What would your family think of me?”

The TV Demon could have sworn your voice was tinged with embarrassment. He observed the way you anxiously stroked the fins lining your arms—the way your pointed teeth gnawed at the delicate skin of your lips. You were either deeply ashamed of your vulnerability, or you were beating yourself up for momentarily dreaming of a life where you were born a human. Vox concluded that you were feeling an uncomfortable concoction of both.

“Eh, who gives a shit what those fuckers would think?”

Huh.

Well, that was that.

Assuming that this particular conversation was over, you began to swim symmetrical circles around your boss like a loyal pet goldfish. However, you didn’t stop when Vox decided to breathe more life into the conversation.

“I can’t speak for my family, buuuuut,” Vox intoned, “you would have made me look like a complete man in society. I mean, you basically do everything a wife was expected to do back then. You cook for me, clean for me, do my laundry, suck my—”

“Yeah, I got the picture.”

“Anyways, I’m 99.9% sure you would not have enjoyed Earth back when I was still on it. You’re too…ambitious. People in my day were close-minded pricks, too complacent with resting on their laurels while the world continued to spin on its axis. I don’t regret a single kill that condemned me here for eternity,” he prattled on.

You absentmindedly blew bubbles in the water at Vox’s words.

Ugh, humans seemed just as miserable on Earth as they did in Hell. You briefly wondered if there were some sad-sack winners upstairs who complained per diem about how cushy their lives were.

You highly doubted that.

Heaven was tailored to accommodate every whim of its inhabitants at the drop of a hat. Whereas Hell and Earth were designed to be your higher powers’ punching bags. God, His angels, and His winners probably got a sick kick out of watching humans and Hellborn alike struggle to pay rent or get shanked for grocery shopping.

“Fuck yes!” Vox exclaimed abruptly. He pointed his clawed finger at the darkening sky—the once brilliant red taking on a maroon hue. “As they say on Earth, babe, time flies when you’re having fun. Looks like it’s your turn to hold up your end of the deal.”

You shot the TV Demon an amused look, “To be fair, I did say you had to swim with us. You just sort of floated on your back this entire time.”

“Don’t! Don’t fucking start with that. God, you fucking dealmakers and your semantics bullshit!” Vox loudly decried.

You rolled your eyes at his hysterics and swam freestyle towards the lakehouse.

“Don’t blow a gasket. I was just messing with you,” you said.

Vox whistled at a piercing decibel, attracting the attention of Shok.wav, who was still zooming this way and that in the large body of water, “We’re going inside, Sharky! Don’t stay up too late, and I’ll know if you do. I can check your logs whenever I want!”

Shok.wav flicked a fin of acknowledgement at Vox before vanishing into the lake’s forest of common waterweed.

Shoving you through the doors and into the lakehouse’s mudroom, Vox wasted no time drying off himself and you with his VoxTek-branded towels, which Velvette had designed to match his line of kitchenware.

“Ow! Sir, you’re pulling on my fins!”

“Whoops.”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to rip off my scales?”

“Oops.”

“Are you actually incapable of saying, ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Yes.”

Vox corralled you into the first floor’s guest room and threw you onto the canopy bed with an unsurprising amount of strength.

Your boss had always been on the leaner side, yet after regenerating a new body, you noticed Vox had been putting in the work to maintain a bulkier build. Originally, you had guessed that it was more for show than anything, but, pleasantly, it looked like there was more substance to him than you had thought previously.

You sat up, only to be pushed back down by Vox. His long leg slotted itself between yours. The harsh glow of the Media Overlord’s display forced you to squint your eyes until they were narrow slits.

“Oh, this is…this is something else! You look so submissive, honey. What? Not gonna fight back? You had all this attitude from earlier,” Vox snickered.

Regardless of your boss being the personification of the title, “Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” he was still a massive dickhead underneath his mechanical humanoid body.

Vox hooked a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and peeled them off of you. He pressed his flat-screen face against yours, humming into your mouth as electricity surged through his body and out through his antennas.

Kissing Vox was like eating mint ice cream, then washing it down with a tall glass of ice water. His screen, and by extension, his lips were cool to the touch.

“I thought you just wanted a blow job?” You mumbled against his display.

“Change of plans. I told you, Daddy needs to get his dick wet,” Vox replied.

Your bralette and his underwear joined your panties on the floor’s blue and white Chinoiserie rug.

Vox pressed the flat side of his claw to your clit and stroked the bud with the utmost care. You wrapped your arms around your boss’ broad shoulders, relieved at the release of sexual tension your body was harboring.

You sighed when you felt his tongue lick over a particularly sensitive spot in your mouth.

His earthly name tumbled out from your kiss-swollen lips, “Vince…”

Vox’s eyes rolled to the back of his head—every motor skill seizing at your honeyed voice cooing a name very few had the privilege to utter.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m overly familiar with this song and dance. If I cum right now, you’re gonna start bitching at me to get you off with my mouth,” he half-heartedly objected.

Your webbed hands trailed down his taut biceps, to his pectorals, and finally to the pair of gills on either side of his ribcage. You caressed the skin around his vents just as he had done to you outside earlier.

“With all due respect, sir, you need to work on your stamina if calling you ‘Vincent’ or ‘Daddy’ makes you combust in nanoseconds. Update your damn system before I fry it to hell and back.”

Vox’s mouth morphed into a smile that blurred the lines of fondness and irritation.

He laughed mirthlessly and cupped your face with his rough hands, “There’s that attitude from earlier!”

Cables ejected from behind Vox’s back and wrapped themselves around your limbs, flipping you over onto the mattress.

Two red columns manifested next to his mouth as he spoke, indicating his excitement,  “All fours, babe. Oh, wait, stay still.”

A lone cable attached itself to the back of your head before forcing you face-first into silky, azure blue pillows.

The sensation of Vox’s cold, bony fingers tracing your folds straightened your back. His muscle memory let him find where to poke and prod in an instant. Vox smugly watched translucent beads of arousal form from his ministrations. Giving his cock a few pumps, he slid his thumb over the ridged, glowing head, leaking light blue pre-cum, and positioned himself at your entrance.

“Fuck, honey. Mind admitting that you w-were wrong? That shit turns me on," he moaned.

You gasped in arousal and confusion, voice muffled by silk pillowcases, “C-Come again? Wrong about what?”

Vox pressed his tip even further into your hole, gritting his teeth at the feeling of your warmth enveloping his cock, “Oh, y’know, about saying you have my best interest in mind. If you did,” he laughed, “you would have given me that f-fucking blow job when I asked. Save yourself the trouble and just do as I s-say, next time, yeah babe?”

Despite your lack of preparation, you were so wet that Vox pushed into you with barely any resistance. Your fingers curled into the plain white sheets of the guest room’s bedding in an effort to stabilize yourself from Vox’s rutting.

“Fuuuuuuuck meeeee,” your boss whined.

His eyes screwed themselves shut as he lost himself in the feeling of your tight walls pulsing around his cock. Vox let out a stream of curses when you involuntarily squeezed around him. The Media Overlord could only hope he didn’t look as pathetic as he sounded.

“I can never tell when you’re going to be a g-good girl or a fucking brat. You’re so…unpredictable,” he said.

Vox’s hand came down on your ass a few times. Pleasured grunts reached your ears when your pussy’s grip on his cock tightened with every spanking. A familiar heat bloomed in your lower stomach at the pain and pleasure you were receiving, though in your opinion, you should be strictly receiving pleasure.

Vox glided in and out of you with incredible ease. He had to stare at a nondescript part of the wall to distract himself from becoming entranced by the ring of white cream starkly contrasting his navy blue cock.

“That’s it, babe. Mmm, take Daddy like a good little whor—”

Out of the blue, an 8-bit version of Frank Sinatra’s “Theme From New York, New York” began to drown out Vox’s voice. Being none the wiser, you curiously looked over your shoulder to see Velvette’s profile picture displayed across Vox’s screen. Underneath her picture, a caption read “VELVETTE IS CALLING” in all caps.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Vox yelled, his voice raspy with sexual frustration.

He made a pinching motion with his whole hand, then threw the projection onto the wall as if he was lobbing a baseball.

“What? Vince, seriously? Fucking now?”

“Nothing she hasn’t seen already. And I thought I told you not to say that shit.”

You frowned at your boss’ flimsy excuse. Vox was a filthy exhibitionist through and through. If calling the sinner certain names in bed was too much for him, imagine how speedily he got off to letting people watch him orgasm.

“Smile for the camera, princess,” Vox teased.

A cable slithered its way under your chin and tilted your head upwards. To your astonishment, you were met with a disgusted Velvette and an indifferent Valentino.

“Sorry to ruin your honeymoon, love. We can see you’re busy, but this can’t wait,” Velvette stressed, simultaneously typing away on another one of her VoxTek smartphones.

You could hear her glossy acrylic nails tap against the phone’s glass from Vox’s speaker.

“Since you’re overseein’ Vox’s responsibilities while he’s on sabbatical, we need you to come in tomorrow to sit in for a meetin’ with the Overlords. Val and I have our hands full jugglin’ this bleedin’ media circus your idiotic boyfriend caused.”

“Uh, I’m right here.”

“WE’RE NOT FUCKING TALKING TO YOU!” Velvette and Valentino shouted in unison.

You felt Vox shrink away from the projection, his rhythm thrown off by his friends’ raucous rejection. He grumbled something to himself, then continued to thrust in and out of you. Biting your lip, you tried to focus on the Vees in front of you and ignore the one behind you, causing an unholy mess to dribble down your legs.

Valentino grabbed a crumpled piece of pink-tinted paper from a manila folder and cleared his throat, “We need you to be there at…8:00am sharp. No offense, sweetie, but you’re, like, a nobody to them, so you have to be on time—no exceptions.”

“Let’s seeeeee,” he scanned the sheet of paper for more information, “okay, here we go. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, don’t fuck anyone, breathe when you’re told to, and take notes. Sounds easy, right?”

At that exact moment, Vox had reached a delicate, spongy area inside of you, replacing any legitimate words of your agreement with a lascivious moan.

“You think she’s gettin’ any of this?” Velvette asked Valentino.

The moth shrugged.

“I’m getting everything f-fine—mmm! Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, breathe when you’re told to, and take n-notes,” you recited. “Don't worry. I can handle the O-Overlord meeting.”

“You forgot to say don’t fuck anyone! Very important rule,” Valentino chimed in.

You gave him a weak thumbs-up as Vox pounded away into your pussy.

That sure as hell wouldn’t be a problem.

Without even glancing at his face, you could feel the TV Demon’s embarrassment radiating off of him in waves. Vox usually liked fucking you during calls with business partners or keeping you under his desk during board meetings, but he was probably still reeling from Velvette and Valentino’s harsh dismissal.

Back at the V Tower, Valentino reclined further into his chair, puffing away at his cigarette, deep in thought. Velvette was tucked up in her own chair, giggling at something some unfortunate soul was wearing for a fit check.

“We’re forgetting something, babydoll. What is iiiiiiit? Okay, this is sooooo going to irritate me if I can’t remember,” Valentino griped, pulling at his white neck fluff in frustration.

“Oh, fuck, sir! Right th-there! Oh my god.”

“I can’t be arsed. I made you write everythin’ down when we chattered with PR because takin’ notes stresses me out. And I can’t attend Pentagram City’s Fashion Week with stress wrinkles.”

“You're just a warm, wet hole begging for me to fuck y-you. Beg me for it, honey. Tell me how much you want D-Daddy’s cum.”

“Yeah, but, like, my eyesight is shit! I can barely read my own writing.”

“Ah—sir, please cum in m-me. Use me like a slut!”

“Val, what the fuck is this? Half of this page is doodles, and the other half of it is in Spanish.”

“Soak my cock, princess. M-Make a huge fucking mess for me.”

“Ugh, just read the Spanish out and I’ll translate it back!”

After some back and forth, Velvette and Valentino returned their full attention to the hologram in front of them. The flickering image showed an exhausted Vox heavily breathing from his station behind you. You were breathing just as hard, but lying on your stomach. Splattered across your back and dorsal fins was watery blue cum, glowing faintly in the darkness of your bedroom.

Valentino coughed loudly from the excess smoke entering his lungs, drawing your focus, “Hey girlypop, one last thing, and then we can get the fuck out of your, uh, fins..? After the meeting, we need you to come to V Tower and transport physical documents to the lakehouse.”

Velvette cut in, “We’d send them via email, but this is confidential stuff we don’t need floatin’ around Hell’s servers. Even just talkin’ about the thing isn’t safe.”

You lazily nodded your head and dropped it ungracefully onto the surrounding pillows, telling them you would link your newly minted schedule to your VoxTek planner.

Despite your roughed-up appearance, the two Overlords lingered onscreen to chat with you about their lives as usual. Velvette would be attending Pentagram City’s Fashion Week once again (it would be a travesty if she didn’t). She and her fashion house had been hard at work designing a new collection, marrying the London punk scene of the 1970s to a gothic, witchier style. Velvette groused that it was getting harder and harder to stand out in Hell’s ever-growing population, but she was confident her latest fashion line would do well. Valentino had been trying to corner the film market outside of pornography. Currently, he was plugging away at a script for his new horror-comedy-mystery-drama. He played fast and loose with the details, but you gathered that it was a whodunit film about A-listers trapped at a gala with no way out.

After bidding the Vees good luck and a goodnight, you zeroed in on the unconscious media mogul lying next to you. You were about to tell Vox to grab you a towel to wipe off the ejaculate coating your back, but when you slowly flipped him around, you were greeted by a pitch-black screen.

Typical.

You rolled your eyes for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. Summoning the strength to move your boss’ weighty body into a more comfortable position, you diligently tucked him into the canopy bed’s white sheets. You snatched your laundry up from the floor and pressed a loving kiss to the corner of Vox’s screen.

“Sleep tight, sir. And, please, don’t fucking bother me with your bullshit for a while after this.”

The Vees’ strategy was to avoid any personal mention of Vox’s failed mutiny. Scrawled somewhere on a ceiling-to-floor whiteboard in Valentino’s office was a bold: “It was Morningstar’s fault!” Instead, their privately owned news outlets would handle the controversy, giving them some degree of separation whilst feigning accountability. There would be no Notes app apologies posted to Sinstagram, only approved coverage shifting the blame from VoxTek, and onto the Hazbin Hotel.

Neither Velvette nor Valentino wanted to reach out to their disgraced CEO (not at the moment, at least). And you couldn’t blame them.

Throughout Vox’s battle against the Princess of Hell and her friends, the sinner revealed just how lowly he valued his contemporaries. His business partners, you, and the rest of Hell were just sacrificial pawns for him to defeat his (one-sided) archnemesis, Alastor, once and for all.

Vox’s hubris truly knew no bounds.

In all honesty, when your boss pulled his little stunt against Heaven, you immediately started packing up your desk—intent on returning home to the Envy Ring.

You had to be one narcissistic son of a bitch to believe you could rule the holy realm after trying to shoot a hole through it with an angelic laser.

Unfortunately for you, during one late night at the office, your silver-tongued boss caught you drafting your two-week notice. The TV Demon swallowed his anger to save on mental RAM. He needed all the brainpower he could generate to successfully enact his hostile takeover of Heaven and Hell. Vox gently pulled you into his lap and sweet-talked you into remaining by his side. He whispered into your fin-like ear promises of fame, glory, power, and money in that seductively suave voice of his.

For a sinner, he sure knew how to talk to a demon from the Envy Ring.

You guessed your own hubris knew no bounds, either.

Back when the Vees stopped Vox from overloading Carmilla Carmine’s weapon of mass destruction, your boss was reduced to nothing in the figurative and literal sense. It was Valentino who cleanly tore the monitor from Vox’s body to stop the technocrat from razing the entirety of the Pride Ring.

The TV Demon had absolutely zero say in his future with the Vees.

Vox’s fellow Overlords placed him on a three-month sabbatical while he regenerated a new body. They worked tirelessly with VoxTek’s public relations firm to prevent any further muddying of their reputations.

Once his temporary banishment from V Tower was instated, the Vees enlisted your help to move Vox into his luxurious lakefront property located in a quaint (by Hell’s standards), upper-class neighborhood.

You hadn’t been to the lakehouse since Vox had hired you as his personal assistant, but your boss had completely gutted the place at some point during your employment.

The lakehouse retained its original nautical novelty, but Vox switched out the vintage, Americana style for that of a sleek, Greek villa. Stark white walls, azure blue accents, and exposed wood beams gave the illusion that he was vacationing in the Mediterranean rather than virtually under house arrest for committing war crimes.

Per the Social Media and Film Overlords’ instructions, you were required to update them about the Media Overlord’s well-being.

You continuously forget to use Vox’s phone to add yourself to the group chat, so you simply text them through his account.

Shok.wav’s Dad🦈 🌊

Our flat-faced prince is still not doing so great. Remember how I told you he woke me up in the middle of the night to ask if anyone unfollowed him on Envee? He’s been doing that all day.

Anyways, @/ST.VALENTINO👠, I’m having him watch 666 News so he can stay in the know.

A certain fashionista told me you’re the star of today’s show.

ST.VALENTINO👠

Naturally.

Try to record his reaction for me. He’s gonna loooooove what I have to say 🤭🤭🤭.

Shok.wav’s Dad🦈 🌊

Should I be worried?

redvelvettecake

u? no. vox? yes.

Oh, god. That didn’t sound promising.

Vox’s eyes grew ten times larger when Katie Killjoy’s grating voice replaced Tom Trench’s stuttering.

“In other news, everyone’s favorite filmmaker, Valentino, stepped up during the recent crisis and protected our city from both an angelic terrorist attack, as well as a quote,” she squinted to read off of a teleprompter behind the camera, “‘minorly malfunctioning VoxTek product that we are not legally liable for, so fuck you and stop asking’.”

As she spoke, heavily filtered photos of Valentino in action appeared to the left of the blonde’s head. His lavender skin was uncannily smooth—not a pore or blemish in sight on the anthropomorphic moth’s face.

You scoffed at Velvette and Valentino’s obnoxiously obvious PR spin.

Even if you didn’t know the lecherous porn director personally, you still wouldn’t believe the schlock 666 News was soiling your screen with.

…Although, after running into so many boneheaded humans during your time in the Pride Ring, you were definitely overestimating the intelligence of the average 666 News’ audience member.

The Vees must be doing something right if they were still on the trending page of every social media platform, so who were you to judge their manipulation tactics?

If you had a soul, it would have jolted out of your body when Vox harshly slapped a hand over the corner of his screen. He was actually cackling in disbelief at just how easy he got off.

“Wait…that’s it? Those fucking geniuses. I don’t even know what to say!” He clutched both sides of his screen, standing up as if an invisible weight had been removed from his person. “All right, dollface, start ordering personalized gift baskets for every VoxTek employee, except for the ugly ones. Oh, and check my approval ratings in case we—”

Vox’s victory speech died in his throat.

His living room’s flat-screen switched to a scene of Valentino relaxing into an ornate golden chair. In a prerecorded one-on-one interview, the 666 News’ lower third referred to him as the “New Boss Daddy.” He coyly glanced off to the side as tendrils of cerise smoke curled around his head from a lit cigarette.

“Yeah, I guess I, like, saaaaved everyone,” the moth drawled. “Hm? Do I know Vox? Noooo,” he smirked, “I’ve never heard of him.”

Katie Killjoy’s aggressively insincere smile returned to the screen, speaking in her ever-so condescending newscaster affect, “The future of VoxTek is looking bright. Voxtek—we might need to change our name.”

You quickly plucked the remote from the wooden coffee table and shut off the program.

Cautiously, you studied Vox out of the corner of your eye.

The man’s knees gave out, causing him to drop his full weight onto the azure blue sofa. His clawed hands trembled as he stared into the black mirror of his TV.

Vox’s reflection was hard for him to stomach. The first couple of weeks on “vacation” were mortifying—what with him being a tablet who needed you to spoon-feed him and wipe his screen down with cleaning solutions. But it was the man staring back at him with fearful cyan eyes that made Vox want to bury himself under several layers of sand like an angel shark. He couldn’t decide what was worse.

God, he was embarrassing.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he droned, collapsing even further into the sofa whilst pressing the heels of his palms into his screen.

Due to Vox’s voracious appetite for attention, his neglect of Velvette and Valentino during his campaign worked out in their favor—not so much in his. In a tragically poetic way, as Vox was the face of the resistance, he hadn’t managed to drag the others down in his catastrophic fall from grace.

Vox wanted to be alone at the top, and now he had no one at the bottom.

You felt compelled to tell your wet cat of a boss that things would get better in due time, but it would be of no use. There was no way of knowing if that was even a possibility.

You settled on awkwardly patting his broad shoulder.

He removed his hands from his face and looked at you with the most pitiable expression you had ever seen him pull.

“Can you give me a blow job?” He asked casually, as if he wanted to know if it was going to rain soon.

“Excuse me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snapped, retracting your hands as quickly as you had placed them.

Vox’s hands began undoing his belt—the buckle jangling around as he clumsily tried to undo the latch from the notches.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He spat. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m perfectly fine. Just need some stress relief, ‘s all.”

You shook your head, placing your hand on top of his navy blue one, saying, “Yeahhhh, that’s not happening. Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear myself just fine, babe. You’re the one sounding like a seventh heavenly virtue.” Vox snorted to himself, “What, did you, like, finally pick up a Bible and learn about chastity overnight?”

You sighed and stared straight into his eyes—the red sclera and cyan pupils threatening to give you a blue light-induced headache, “The last thing you need is some kind of…instant gratification. Trust me, you’re not thinking straight. You’re going to fuck my throat, feel good for five minutes—”

“Uh, five minutes?”

“…You’re going to feel good for six minutes, then enter a post-nut clarity breakdown, and annoy the shit out of me while I try to get some work done. I’ve been your personal assistant long enough to know how you operate. I’m saying this with your best interest in mind.”

Vox paused his unbuckling for a second, assessing the accuracy of your prediction. You were right, of course, though he would never admit that to your face. The dopamine crashes following his instant gratification highs were never pretty. Sudden depletions of energy in Vox’s system left the typically histrionic man in a deep depressive state until he managed to recalibrate his energy output.

“So then,” he began sharply, “what do you propose I do, hm? Visit Little Ms. Bleeding Heart’s shitty hotel to learn coping mechanisms like a snot-nosed rug rat? In your dreams. Besides, fucking you would save me time and money. It’s in the fine print of your contract.”

You took your webbed fingers and pinched the wide space between your eyes in frustration, “I know what my fucking contract says, sir. I’m not an idiot. I read everything to make sure you wouldn’t lease me out to Velvette or Valentino like a goddamn office space.”

Vox mockingly gasped at your (rightful) accusation, “That’s rich coming from you. You sure you’re native to the sixth ring of Hell, babe?” He chortled and jabbed a cyan claw into your chest, “I thought your kind were all about leeching onto someone else’s achievements.”

“Sure,” you lazily removed the 7-foot-tall demon’s finger from your chest, “however, I’m not keen on signing work contracts forged by incompetent humans who were failures in life and marginally less so in death.”

“You’re calling me a failure?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. You implied it.”

You inwardly cringed at your choice of words.

As much as your boss was a stupidly handsome pain in the ass, you regretted your barbs as soon as you threw them. There was no need to kick a man while he was already down, although in retrospect, he definitely deserved a more severe punishment for his reckless actions.

“I didn’t mean…okay, sir, I was just trying to say that I’m a capable employee. You wouldn’t have hired me, otherwise,” you backtracked. “My job is to assist you in any way possible. To put it bluntly, assisting you makes me money. Helpfully assisting you makes me more money. And right now, you don’t need a blow job. You need…”

What did he need?

Your eyes roamed over your normally put-together boss’ disheveled condition. Prominent, pixelated eye bags took up the midface of his screen. He was wearing an ill-fitting, unbuttoned tropical t-shirt that squeezed his biceps, and his belt had slipped a few loops off his khaki shorts. Finally, your eyes rested on his favorite pair of dark blue shark slippers, complete with red button eyes and thin white embroidery mimicking jagged teeth.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

“We need to go swimming, sir.”

“Swimming?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m sure Shok.wav would appreciate some quality time with his Daddy.”

Vox let out a pained groan and rubbed the growing bulge through his shorts, “Don’t call me that right now.”

You rolled your eyes at your boss’ perversions.

“Ew, stop being...you. Come on, let’s go.”

“But I don’t want to—”

“Shhh, this is for your own good and the integrity of my throat.”

Grabbing Vox by his muscular forearms, you pulled the limp man up off the sofa and pushed him towards the lakehouse’s rounded back doors. You felt adrenaline course through your veins the closer you got to the painted blue entrance. Waiting just outside these walls was the picturesque view of Pentagram City’s famous, crystal clear lake.

Initially, when you toured this property with Vox, the man exposited the area’s rich history (relative to Hell’s other residential areas).

In 1975, a private jet transporting Las Vegas-based casino owners, business magnates, and venture capitalists horrifically crashed into a mountain range. When every single man woke up in Hell next to his former business partners, the conglomerates quickly got to work developing the area around Pentagram City’s lake. Fast forward some 40 years, and those men were thriving off of mapping their Earth-based hierarchy onto the otherworldly planes of the Pride Ring.

Just the other month, you were mailing a formally written “apology” to billionaire Dennis Hughes for Vox’s violent outburst at Dante’s Inferno. Towards the end of dinner, the sleazeball had laid a hoof on your thigh and was subsequently choked out by Vox’s cables.

VoxTek’s CEO rarely lost his cool in front of the upper and lower classes alike. He was competent at keeping a lid on his less desirable traits in public unless something pushed him too far, such as poor, sleazeball, billionaire Dennis Hughes.

“Shok.waaaav!” You called out.

Heavy, rhythmic thudding came around from the front of the lakehouse and towards the back, where you and Vox were standing. The biomechanical demon shark’s tail fins wagged at the sight of his owner.

“Your Daddy—”

Another pained groan escaped Vox’s mouth at the forbidden honorific.

“Ahem, Vox, wants to go swimming in the lake. You should join us! We don’t want you overheating now that you don’t have your tank.”

Shok.wav didn’t need to be told twice. Vox’s demon-shark-dog-thing flicked his tail and trotted into the teal waters of the well-kept lake. You and Vox watched him from the shore as the shark enthusiastically splashed around in the water. His enormous, cybernetic head glinted with the rich red light of the Pride Ring’s equivalent to Earth’s sun.

When you were down to your matching tweed skirt and black bralette, Vox spoke up, “I’d hate to interrupt your little strip show, but let me get this straight, princess. You won’t have sex with me—the hottest ruler of the Entertainment District and Media Overlord, by the way. But you’re willing to do some…other…grueling physical activity that involves taking off our clothes?”

“Mhmmm, that sounds correct.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Sex pest.”

“Nun.”

You sighed exasperatedly at the man’s willful ignorance, “I already explained my reasoning to you, sir. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you. Can you unzip my skirt for me?” You moved the large fins cascading from the top of your head away from your back before continuing, “Swimming is a healthy outlet for relieving stress. Sex can be too, but you’re clearly not in the right headspace for that. If you were, you would be inside me right now.”

Upon hearing the curt zip, you shimmied out of the tight garment, tossing the tweed skirt onto your frumpy pile of clothes on the floor. Just as you were about to join Shok.wav in the water, Vox growled and pulled you into him, digging his claws into the scaly plates covering your hips. His large left hand massaged your ass while he rubbed the sensitive skin around your gills with his right.

“Oh, come on, babe. Now you’re just being difficult. Why don’t we go inside and…do things my way, hm?” Vox murmured.

His long tongue unraveled from his screen and licked a long vertical stripe up the back of your neck. The TV Demon chuckled to himself at how efficiently his spit polished your smooth scales.

“Did your body r-regenerate your speech recognition s-software wrong? You haven’t been l-listening to a s-single goddamn word I’ve been saying. Sir, I’m not riding you to magically cure you of your a-angst."

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about riding me? I mean, except for yourself.”

Vox angled your body a little more so that the bulge in his shorts connected with the gusset of your black panties. Making sure Shok.wav was sufficiently distracted by the lake’s hidden treasures, Vox pulled his thin, veiny cock from his shorts and slid it between your thighs. He rolled his hips into you desperately, brushing your sensitive bundle of nerves with every motion. You clamped your mouth shut when you saw his glowing cyan tip rub against the front of your panties.

“Doll, don’t make me beg. You know I don’t do that. I just need to stick the tip in—just the tip. Let Daddy get his dick wet. You wouldn’t even have to do any work—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, fine! Your bargaining is driving me up the fucking wall.”

“Are you serious? Fuck yes!”

“Hold it. There’s a catch. First, you’re going to swim with Shok.wav and me while there’s still light in the ether.” You pressed your back against Vox’s imposing frame and stared up at him with your glassy, pupilless eyes. “If you do this for me, I swear on Leviathan’s name that I’ll do whatever you want after the fact.”

Vox scrunched his face in consideration of your offer, as if you had just asked him for his firstborn and not instructed him to swim with you and his pet for a little bit.

“…Y'know, you’re starting to sound like me, babe. I’m proud.”

“Well, I did learn from the best.”

He puffed out a breath of amusement, spun you around to face him, and shook your hand as he did to the many businessmen he wined and dined in the penthouse of the V Tower.

“Looks like flattery can indeed get you somewhere. All right, you got yourself a deal!” Vox motioned for you to help him out of his tight tropical t-shirt and khaki shorts. He transformed his tone to that baby-talk cadence he used exclusively when talking to or about Shok.wav, “Now, let’s not keep the world’s best and biggest demon shark waiting.”

In the distance, you spotted Vox’s pet shark happily swimming in circles near a manmade volcanic structure.

Your boss lamely flopped into the water face-first, only flipping around to watch you dive in with the poise of a gold-medal Olympian. As you adjusted to the lake’s lukewarm temperature, Vox took his time admiring your beauty—your sirenic allure greatly amplified by your aquatic surroundings. With your fish-like features—balanced by your elegant disposition—you reminded Vox of a hellish, showstopping performer in old Billy Rose’s Aquacade shows.

You swam up to him, cracking a smile at the sight of your uptight boss, lazily drifting on his back.

“You look pretty peaceful, sir,” you stated.

“Oh, ‘s that right? Must have short-circuited from imagining all of the unread emails I’ll have once I’m back home,” he responded dryly.

You playfully splashed some water onto the deadeyed man, scattering droplets across his sandpapery skin.

“God, all you do is think about work. I wish I could introduce you to my family in the Envy Ring. They’d probably love you more than me.”

“Aw, that’s so cute. Do you talk to them about me?” He quizzed in a quippy manner.

You cocked an eyebrow and splashed him again with a bit more force this time, “Abso-fucking-lutely not. My parents would have me drawn and quartered if they found out I was working for a human, much less having sex with one. Hell, they don’t even know I’m in the Pride Ring. All I told them is that I hopped a train one ring up to Greed and fucked off.”

Vox perked up at the words leaving your mouth. It was a rare treat for the Media Overlord when you opened up about your life prior to working for him. Knowledge is power, as they say, and Vox knew next to nothing about you.

He shifted his monitor, gazing directly into your eyes to ask, “What makes you think they’d love me, then?” He laughed, vaguely gesturing to his form, “Aside from the obvious.”

You answered honestly, “You all share this shrewd shark mentality. It’s like you have to be the apex predator in every room you’re in—the smartest, the funniest, the richest. I’m sure my family would obsess over you immediately.”

Vox smirked at your assessment, already envisioning the praise he would hypothetically receive from your family of fish demons. He crossed his arms behind his head, then dimmed the brightness of his screen so you wouldn’t see his cyan blush.

A cool breeze swirled around the lake before disappearing as quickly as it had blown in.

After some time, you asked Vox, “…What would your family think of me?”

The TV Demon could have sworn your voice was tinged with embarrassment. He observed the way you anxiously stroked the fins lining your arms—the way your pointed teeth gnawed at the delicate skin of your lips. You were either deeply ashamed of your vulnerability, or you were beating yourself up for momentarily dreaming of a life where you were born a human. Vox concluded that you were feeling an uncomfortable concoction of both.

“Eh, who gives a shit what those fuckers would think?”

Huh.

Well, that was that.

Assuming that this particular conversation was over, you began to swim symmetrical circles around your boss like a loyal pet goldfish. However, you didn’t stop when Vox decided to breathe more life into the conversation.

“I can’t speak for my family, buuuuut,” Vox intoned, “you would have made me look like a complete man in society. I mean, you basically do everything a wife was expected to do back then. You cook for me, clean for me, do my laundry, suck my—”

“Yeah, I got the picture.”

“Anyways, I’m 99.9% sure you would not have enjoyed Earth back when I was still on it. You’re too…ambitious. People in my day were close-minded pricks, too complacent with resting on their laurels while the world continued to spin on its axis. I don’t regret a single kill that condemned me here for eternity,” he prattled on.

You absentmindedly blew bubbles in the water at Vox’s words.

Ugh, humans seemed just as miserable on Earth as they did in Hell. You briefly wondered if there were some sad-sack winners upstairs who complained per diem about how cushy their lives were.

You highly doubted that.

Heaven was tailored to accommodate every whim of its inhabitants at the drop of a hat. Whereas Hell and Earth were designed to be your higher powers’ punching bags. God, His angels, and His winners probably got a sick kick out of watching humans and Hellborn alike struggle to pay rent or get shanked for grocery shopping.

“Fuck yes!” Vox exclaimed abruptly. He pointed his clawed finger at the darkening sky—the once brilliant red taking on a maroon hue. “As they say on Earth, babe, time flies when you’re having fun. Looks like it’s your turn to hold up your end of the deal.”

You shot the TV Demon an amused look, “To be fair, I did say you had to swim with us. You just sort of floated on your back this entire time.”

“Don’t! Don’t fucking start with that. God, you fucking dealmakers and your semantics bullshit!” Vox loudly decried.

You rolled your eyes at his hysterics and swam freestyle towards the lakehouse.

“Don’t blow a gasket. I was just messing with you,” you said.

Vox whistled at a piercing decibel, attracting the attention of Shok.wav, who was still zooming this way and that in the large body of water, “We’re going inside, Sharky! Don’t stay up too late, and I’ll know if you do. I can check your logs whenever I want!”

Shok.wav flicked a fin of acknowledgement at Vox before vanishing into the lake’s forest of common waterweed.

Shoving you through the doors and into the lakehouse’s mudroom, Vox wasted no time drying off himself and you with his VoxTek-branded towels, which Velvette had designed to match his line of kitchenware.

“Ow! Sir, you’re pulling on my fins!”

“Whoops.”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to rip off my scales?”

“Oops.”

“Are you actually incapable of saying, ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Yes.”

Vox corralled you into the first floor’s guest room and threw you onto the canopy bed with an unsurprising amount of strength.

Your boss had always been on the leaner side, yet after regenerating a new body, you noticed Vox had been putting in the work to maintain a bulkier build. Originally, you had guessed that it was more for show than anything, but, pleasantly, it looked like there was more substance to him than you had thought previously.

You sat up, only to be pushed back down by Vox. His long leg slotted itself between yours. The harsh glow of the Media Overlord’s display forced you to squint your eyes until they were narrow slits.

“Oh, this is…this is something else! You look so submissive, honey. What? Not gonna fight back? You had all this attitude from earlier,” Vox snickered.

Regardless of your boss being the personification of the title, “Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” he was still a massive dickhead underneath his mechanical humanoid body.

Vox hooked a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and peeled them off of you. He pressed his flat-screen face against yours, humming into your mouth as electricity surged through his body and out through his antennas.

Kissing Vox was like eating mint ice cream, then washing it down with a tall glass of ice water. His screen, and by extension, his lips were cool to the touch.

“I thought you just wanted a blow job?” You mumbled against his display.

“Change of plans. I told you, Daddy needs to get his dick wet,” Vox replied.

Your bralette and his underwear joined your panties on the floor’s blue and white Chinoiserie rug.

Vox pressed the flat side of his claw to your clit and stroked the bud with the utmost care. You wrapped your arms around your boss’ broad shoulders, relieved at the release of sexual tension your body was harboring.

You sighed when you felt his tongue lick over a particularly sensitive spot in your mouth.

His earthly name tumbled out from your kiss-swollen lips, “Vince…”

Vox’s eyes rolled to the back of his head—every motor skill seizing at your honeyed voice cooing a name very few had the privilege to utter.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m overly familiar with this song and dance. If I cum right now, you’re gonna start bitching at me to get you off with my mouth,” he half-heartedly objected.

Your webbed hands trailed down his taut biceps, to his pectorals, and finally to the pair of gills on either side of his ribcage. You caressed the skin around his vents just as he had done to you outside earlier.

“With all due respect, sir, you need to work on your stamina if calling you ‘Vincent’ or ‘Daddy’ makes you combust in nanoseconds. Update your damn system before I fry it to hell and back.”

Vox’s mouth morphed into a smile that blurred the lines of fondness and irritation.

He laughed mirthlessly and cupped your face with his rough hands, “There’s that attitude from earlier!”

Cables ejected from behind Vox’s back and wrapped themselves around your limbs, flipping you over onto the mattress.

Two red columns manifested next to his mouth as he spoke, indicating his excitement,  “All fours, babe. Oh, wait, stay still.”

A lone cable attached itself to the back of your head before forcing you face-first into silky, azure blue pillows.

The sensation of Vox’s cold, bony fingers tracing your folds straightened your back. His muscle memory let him find where to poke and prod in an instant. Vox smugly watched translucent beads of arousal form from his ministrations. Giving his cock a few pumps, he slid his thumb over the ridged, glowing head, leaking light blue pre-cum, and positioned himself at your entrance.

“Fuck, honey. Mind admitting that you w-were wrong? That shit turns me on," he moaned.

You gasped in arousal and confusion, voice muffled by silk pillowcases, “C-Come again? Wrong about what?”

Vox pressed his tip even further into your hole, gritting his teeth at the feeling of your warmth enveloping his cock, “Oh, y’know, about saying you have my best interest in mind. If you did,” he laughed, “you would have given me that f-fucking blow job when I asked. Save yourself the trouble and just do as I s-say, next time, yeah babe?”

Despite your lack of preparation, you were so wet that Vox pushed into you with barely any resistance. Your fingers curled into the plain white sheets of the guest room’s bedding in an effort to stabilize yourself from Vox’s rutting.

“Fuuuuuuuck meeeee,” your boss whined.

His eyes screwed themselves shut as he lost himself in the feeling of your tight walls pulsing around his cock. Vox let out a stream of curses when you involuntarily squeezed around him. The Media Overlord could only hope he didn’t look as pathetic as he sounded.

“I can never tell when you’re going to be a g-good girl or a fucking brat. You’re so…unpredictable,” he said.

Vox’s hand came down on your ass a few times. Pleasured grunts reached your ears when your pussy’s grip on his cock tightened with every spanking. A familiar heat bloomed in your lower stomach at the pain and pleasure you were receiving, though in your opinion, you should be strictly receiving pleasure.

Vox glided in and out of you with incredible ease. He had to stare at a nondescript part of the wall to distract himself from becoming entranced by the ring of white cream starkly contrasting his navy blue cock.

“That’s it, babe. Mmm, take Daddy like a good little whor—”

Out of the blue, an 8-bit version of Frank Sinatra’s “Theme From New York, New York” began to drown out Vox’s voice. Being none the wiser, you curiously looked over your shoulder to see Velvette’s profile picture displayed across Vox’s screen. Underneath her picture, a caption read “VELVETTE IS CALLING” in all caps.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Vox yelled, his voice raspy with sexual frustration.

He made a pinching motion with his whole hand, then threw the projection onto the wall as if he was lobbing a baseball.

“What? Vince, seriously? Fucking now?”

“Nothing she hasn’t seen already. And I thought I told you not to say that shit.”

You frowned at your boss’ flimsy excuse. Vox was a filthy exhibitionist through and through. If calling the sinner certain names in bed was too much for him, imagine how speedily he got off to letting people watch him orgasm.

“Smile for the camera, princess,” Vox teased.

A cable slithered its way under your chin and tilted your head upwards. To your astonishment, you were met with a disgusted Velvette and an indifferent Valentino.

“Sorry to ruin your honeymoon, love. We can see you’re busy, but this can’t wait,” Velvette stressed, simultaneously typing away on another one of her VoxTek smartphones.

You could hear her glossy acrylic nails tap against the phone’s glass from Vox’s speaker.

“Since you’re overseein’ Vox’s responsibilities while he’s on sabbatical, we need you to come in tomorrow to sit in for a meetin’ with the Overlords. Val and I have our hands full jugglin’ this bleedin’ media circus your idiotic boyfriend caused.”

“Uh, I’m right here.”

“WE’RE NOT FUCKING TALKING TO YOU!” Velvette and Valentino shouted in unison.

You felt Vox shrink away from the projection, his rhythm thrown off by his friends’ raucous rejection. He grumbled something to himself, then continued to thrust in and out of you. Biting your lip, you tried to focus on the Vees in front of you and ignore the one behind you, causing an unholy mess to dribble down your legs.

Valentino grabbed a crumpled piece of pink-tinted paper from a manila folder and cleared his throat, “We need you to be there at…8:00am sharp. No offense, sweetie, but you’re, like, a nobody to them, so you have to be on time—no exceptions.”

“Let’s seeeeee,” he scanned the sheet of paper for more information, “okay, here we go. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, don’t fuck anyone, breathe when you’re told to, and take notes. Sounds easy, right?”

At that exact moment, Vox had reached a delicate, spongy area inside of you, replacing any legitimate words of your agreement with a lascivious moan.

“You think she’s gettin’ any of this?” Velvette asked Valentino.

The moth shrugged.

“I’m getting everything f-fine—mmm! Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, breathe when you’re told to, and take n-notes,” you recited. “Don't worry. I can handle the O-Overlord meeting.”

“You forgot to say don’t fuck anyone! Very important rule,” Valentino chimed in.

You gave him a weak thumbs-up as Vox pounded away into your pussy.

That sure as hell wouldn’t be a problem.

Without even glancing at his face, you could feel the TV Demon’s embarrassment radiating off of him in waves. Vox usually liked fucking you during calls with business partners or keeping you under his desk during board meetings, but he was probably still reeling from Velvette and Valentino’s harsh dismissal.

Back at the V Tower, Valentino reclined further into his chair, puffing away at his cigarette, deep in thought. Velvette was tucked up in her own chair, giggling at something some unfortunate soul was wearing for a fit check.

“We’re forgetting something, babydoll. What is iiiiiiit? Okay, this is sooooo going to irritate me if I can’t remember,” Valentino griped, pulling at his white neck fluff in frustration.

“Oh, fuck, sir! Right th-there! Oh my god.”

“I can’t be arsed. I made you write everythin’ down when we chattered with PR because takin’ notes stresses me out. And I can’t attend Pentagram City’s Fashion Week with stress wrinkles.”

“You're just a warm, wet hole begging for me to fuck y-you. Beg me for it, honey. Tell me how much you want D-Daddy’s cum.”

“Yeah, but, like, my eyesight is shit! I can barely read my own writing.”

“Ah—sir, please cum in m-me. Use me like a slut!”

“Val, what the fuck is this? Half of this page is doodles, and the other half of it is in Spanish.”

“Soak my cock, princess. M-Make a huge fucking mess for me.”

“Ugh, just read the Spanish out and I’ll translate it back!”

After some back and forth, Velvette and Valentino returned their full attention to the hologram in front of them. The flickering image showed an exhausted Vox heavily breathing from his station behind you. You were breathing just as hard, but lying on your stomach. Splattered across your back and dorsal fins was watery blue cum, glowing faintly in the darkness of your bedroom.

Valentino coughed loudly from the excess smoke entering his lungs, drawing your focus, “Hey girlypop, one last thing, and then we can get the fuck out of your, uh, fins..? After the meeting, we need you to come to V Tower and transport physical documents to the lakehouse.”

Velvette cut in, “We’d send them via email, but this is confidential stuff we don’t need floatin’ around Hell’s servers. Even just talkin’ about the thing isn’t safe.”

You lazily nodded your head and dropped it ungracefully onto the surrounding pillows, telling them you would link your newly minted schedule to your VoxTek planner.

Despite your roughed-up appearance, the two Overlords lingered onscreen to chat with you about their lives as usual. Velvette would be attending Pentagram City’s Fashion Week once again (it would be a travesty if she didn’t). She and her fashion house had been hard at work designing a new collection, marrying the London punk scene of the 1970s to a gothic, witchier style. Velvette groused that it was getting harder and harder to stand out in Hell’s ever-growing population, but she was confident her latest fashion line would do well. Valentino had been trying to corner the film market outside of pornography. Currently, he was plugging away at a script for his new horror-comedy-mystery-drama. He played fast and loose with the details, but you gathered that it was a whodunit film about A-listers trapped at a gala with no way out.

After bidding the Vees good luck and a goodnight, you zeroed in on the unconscious media mogul lying next to you. You were about to tell Vox to grab you a towel to wipe off the ejaculate coating your back, but when you slowly flipped him around, you were greeted by a pitch-black screen.

Typical.

You rolled your eyes for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. Summoning the strength to move your boss’ weighty body into a more comfortable position, you diligently tucked him into the canopy bed’s white sheets. You snatched your laundry up from the floor and pressed a loving kiss to the corner of Vox’s screen.

“Sleep tight, sir. And, please, don’t fucking bother me with your bullshit for a while after this.”

he knows this because he has been there long enough for the ice in his untouched glass upstairs to dissolve into something thin and flavorless. he prefers it that way because it tastes like nothing, like rubbing alcohol, clean, innocuous. a purging translucence that makes him feel hospital clean the next morning, prepped for a blood transfusion.

you are seated at the bar between angel dust who drapes himself across your shoulders like a feather boa and that unfortunate soul you dragged in on your arm. vaggi it's with charlie who seems simply delighted that everyone is in the same room without immediate bloodshed and husk is nursing on a bottle.

the wretched creature decides to lean in, hand sliding just a fraction too familiarly along your waist, mouth hovering near that delicate hinge of jaw. and alastor balks.

for some reason, he can stomach the thought of you doing what you're doing—finding a surrogate who fits the part, works like a band aid, fills the void—but the thought of another man touching you like he has touched you makes him sick.

( maybe because nothing has ever been so totally and completely his as your body. not even his own body, not since rosie's deal. but you— you give yourself to him. every fraction, every whole belongs to him. your mouth and all it's teeth, your flesh and all it's blood. )

that is when charlie's eyes flick over your shoulder and wave an overly enthusiastic hand to him.

"oh, alastor!" she chirps, bright as a flare. "i'm happy you accepted the invitation!"

of course she does. he had not planned to assist in the first place. he had been occupied— either with swallowing and torturing sinners to relieve stress or ripping his hair off and measuring amber liquid in a glass. not like it matters.

"why, of course," he says, stepping forward into the light, "it would be rather dull if i didn't."

your shoulders go rigid before you school them into something looser before you turn, expression morphing into a wince, like you've bitten your tongue and tasted something metallic.

"you didn't tell me you were coming." you all but hiss through clenched teeth.

"you never asked," he makes a non-commitment sound at the back of his throat.

"and i'm supposed to know these things?"

"no. hence why you are supposed to ask"

angel dust lets out a low whistle, gaze ping-ponging between you and alastor. "ohhh, this is new. is this sexual tension or am i just projecting again?"

"angel," charlie warns gently, even if you can hear her swallowing. "everything's fine. we are all friends, right?"

"perfectly fine," alastor's forces his smile wider.

it's weird, trying to find something salvageable amid the wreckage. trying to be his partner when he's still so in love with you, and when he's not your partner, you're still his ex-wife. alastor doesn't want to be your partner and certainly he doesn't want to be your fucking ex, but at least there are seconds to count.

your date clears his throat. the fellow has the audacity to look confused rather than afraid. "uh, hey. i'm—"

"irrelevant," alastor supplies, but he extends a hand anyway just so he can have an excuse to squeeze until he feels the tremor in the other man's bones. "a pleasure. any friend of our dear princess is a friend of mine."

crossing your arms, you lean against the bar. "we were in the middle of something, you know."

"i apologize" he says after he finishes cleaning his hand along the front of his suit. "i must have mistaken this for a public establishment."

husk coughs into his hand.

"it is," you reply, and your frown deepens. "but you're making everyone uncomfortable."

"am i?" alastor snaps his neck back unnaturally. "charlie, dear, does this feel uncomfortable to you?"

"w-what—?" vaggi pets her back when charlie chokes on her own drink, a painful smile stretching her lips. "um— i think maybe we're just all a little tense?"

"that's one word for it," you repeat. "some people have a habit of inserting themselves where they're not wanted."

a small flinch at the corner of his mouth, there and gone.

your fingers curl around your glass but you do not drink. he wonders if you let the burn do the talking for you. he hopes not. he hopes yes.

"we were just talking about—"

"i can imagine," alastor interrupts lightly. "you do seem the talking sort."

the man bristles, and you shoot alastor a vexed look. it only makes him want to bare his teeth wider, to see how much of your patience he can peel back before he hits bone.

"you don't have to stay if you're bored."

"on the contrary," alastor folds his hand behind his back, "i find myself invested in how your peculiar tastes has evolved. i'd think you might refine your selection process."

your jaw tightens. "that´s none of your bussiness."

the man shifts, uncomfortable. "if this is a bad time—"

"it is," alastor answers.

"it isn't," and you snap back, placing a hand on your date's chest, reassuring. alastor watches your fingers splay there and thinks about how easily he could fold that hand back, knuckle by knuckle, until you remember the proper shape of it.

out of the corner of his eyes, he can see angel dust gesturing "what the fuck is happening?" while vaggi murmurs something urgent to the princess. charlie, bless her saccharine heart, claps her hands once.

"okay! maybe we all just take a breath?" she jumps out of her sit. "alastor, do you want a drink? we have—"

"no," he says, too quickly, then softens it into a lilting chuckle. "i'm quite satisfied, thank you. wouldn't want to overindulge."

the glitter, the bar, angel's soft snickering, husk's bottle clinking against wood, sound dipping and warping. the gilded molding gleams like rows of polished teeth. he imagines biting down on the moment, cracking it open, tasting the marrow inside.

you slide off the stool before anyone can corral you, disentangling from your date with careful fingers.

"we're fine, charlie," you insist, and turn to alastor, furious, "stop it. you only show up when—"

"when you invite carrion to feed?" alastor leans in, enough that the din of the bar swallows the rest. "i thought the buffet was open."

the man beside makes a pitiful, scandalized sound "maybe we should—"

"maybe you should," alastor doesn't even look at the creature anymore, and the temperature drops a degree.

"and maybe you should stop being angry," you say softly. it´s a warning. a plea. he can taste both.

"oh, i would never" he places a hand to his chest in mock offense. "i simply wanted to make sure this gentleman was aware of how fortunate he was."

"he does."

"mm." his gaze drifts to the man beside you. "i imagine he appreciates many things he hasn't earned."

no sleep, his mouth everywhere, his stomach a cavernous pit of hunger eating him alive. you look at him with those exhausted, angry eyes like you're a benevolent god. like you don't also destroy the things you create.

"why the fuck do you care now?"

something fractures: an invisible glass barrier rendered to glittering dust around him. he feels wild—like a dog with it's leash unclipped at the park. he spins, he does donuts. he salivates, he bites. it all comes out as laughter—wheezing, hysterical, on the edge of tears.

"whyever would i ever do something like that?" he asks, smiling with every last one of his teeth. "i only keep things that make me laugh."

that makes you flinch, expression pinched and savage as it reduces him to cinders. he planned for the possibility of something coy, don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, maybe, but then your hand jerks, and the edge of your glass tips. amber arcs through the air in a brief, glittering parabola before cascading down the front of you.

there's a colective silence before angel moves first.

"shit— that's a look" he hops down from the stool, already snatching up a rag from behind the bar to press the cloth to your chest.

you stand there, looking down at yourself, at nothing at all. your date hovers uselessly at your side, half-reaching, half-withdrawing, as though you might bite. alastor knows you would.

"oh my gosh! are you okay?" charlie and vaggi are hovering as well, but you don't seem to notice.

alastor's fingers twitch behind him. for a moment, he has this impulse to press his mouth to the damp fabric, tasting the spill, proving a point no one else in this room would understand.

"i need a moment," you spin on your heel without sparing a glance, pushing past angel towards the stairs.

the silence you leave behind is thick enough to chew.

"what the fuck was all that?" vaggi is talking, probably, or so he thinks.

alastor is quiet for a moment and prays she won't bring it up again, won't push, because the truth is, he feels as he is made from wet tissue paper and he'll rip if someone pushes him. alastor resisted you once and it was the hardest fucking thing he has ever done and he is not sure he can do it again.

"if you'll excuse me," he says instead, already stepping toward the stairs, "i've just remembered something terribly important."

the wanting is what ruins him. the desire for something more makes him feel like his skin has been torn off and what lies underneath has been exposed for everyone to see. he feels like a disgusting mockery of a man. to feel is abhorrent. to want is repulsive. sometimes you look at him like he is absolutely transparent and he cannot handle the sensation of being scrutinized any longer. he wants to tell you the truth so whatever deluded idea you have about his nature can be shaken out of your thick skull.

"what is wrong with you?"

you turn left, another five steps. you pass the tall window at the end of the hall, red neon from the street below staining the carpet, and then your feet suddenly stop.

he does none of that.

"my dear," he drawls from the dark, because of course you know he is there, poured into the shadows like ink, "i haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

he can see your squared shoulders where he stands, smell the sweet, acrid booze that clings to your dress like a second skin. you don't have to turn around for him to know what kind of expression you must be wearing.

"so we're gonna act like you didn't make a fool out of me in front of everyone?"

"that wasn't necessary," he steps forward, cane tapping once against the carpet before he stills it. the red light from the window catches in his grin, paints it infernal. "you did a splendid job of that on your own."

"this isn't a joke."

"oh, but it is a joke." he spreads his hands. "an exceptionally funny one, i must say. you always liked to play make believe."

you whirl on him then, eyes wet as two open wounds, sulking and skinny. you are enacting some elaborate plan to punish him, but it doesn't work because he is so good at punishing himself.

"look around and tell me what part of this is make believe, alastor."

there are no longer delirious afternoons of seeing you in the kitchen and memorizing every freckle and mole and stroking your hair and seeing you wake up, drifting and hazy. he ruined that by trying to protect you, and now, when it happens it comes in short, pathological bursts of near-violence. a swinging pendulum on a broken clock.

sometimes he keeps his distance and you stop being regular in the hotel and he lies to himself it's over, he's cured, until he can't take it anymore and he erupts in a overflow of maddening, animal desire.

"you surely didn't expect me to applaud you." he says instead. there's a trapdoor beneath his feet.

you take a step toward him this time.

the hallway holds the echo of the party three floors below—distant laughter, the faint clink of glassware, someone shouting something that might be angel dust's voice carrying through the stairwell. it all feels very far away. the carpet here muffles everything, turns the world soft and padded like the inside of a mouth.

"you know that's not the point."

"then do enlighten me."

your jaw tightens. another step.

"whatever. not like it matters, now. you're going to decide for me one way or another."

"i decided nothing," he laughs. it sounds too big for the walls. "if your companion wilted under minimal scrutiny, that hardly speaks well of him."

you take a step. then another.

the corridor feels suddenly narrow. the neon glow from the window across your face, painting one eye red and leaving the other swallowed in shadow.

alastor wonders briefly if this is how prey animals see predators in tall grass—half revealed, half imagined. he should know this.

"you're jealous."

"of that?" alastor can feel his ears pinning, wrestles them back into place by sheer force of will while you close the distance in three quick strides before he can decide whether he intends to move and shove him in the chest.

it is not particularly hard. you have never been especially violent. it is, however, startling enough that his cane skids a fraction against the carpet. alastor also knows you are not trying to hurt him, but your palms hit solid muscle under tailored fabric and the contact sends a bright, stupid spark up his spine.

"jealous," you repeat, and shove him again. this time your hands don't retreat, fingers bunching the fabric of his coat for half a second before doing it again.

up close, the smell of alcohol blooming from your clothes becomes something warm and sweet and faintly medicinal. it reminds him of sterile rooms. antiseptic. the clean burn that scrubs rot from wounds.

"you—" you start, breath hitching with anger, "—you ruin everything i try to build and then you act like i'm crazy for being upset about it."

your fist lands against his sternum this time. it barely moves him. but it keeps happening—small angry pushes, the heel of your palm bumping his chest, your knuckles knocking against the bone beneath his ribs.

"you had no right," you say, breath sharp. "none."

alastor lets it continue longer than he probably should. it's almost comical. almost. and maybe there is some humor to be found there but humor is another one of these emotions that alastor doesn't feel too strongly these days, and even if he is maybe considering laughing, something deeply unpleasant sears into his stomach.

"is that enough small talk, or do we need to run a few more lines before you get to the point?" he asks instead.

"shut up," you hiss. tap, tap, tap. "stop acting like you are the victim here when you were the one who left. you said—"

alastor catches your wrists mid-swing. it happens quickly: one moment your hands are hammering uselessly against his chest, the next they're pinned between his palms. his grip it's firm, the bones shift slightly beneath his fingers.

"how curious." his head tilts, antlers casting crooked shadows along the wall. "i seem to recall the situation being a touch more mutual."

you stare up at him, burning vicious and bright.

"get your creepy hands off me."

your arms jerk to no effect.

"temper, temper," he sighs, leaning down just enough that his voice brushes your forehead, "we're far too old for tantrums."

you twist against his hold. he can feel the tendons flexing, the stubborn strength in the movement. you have always fought him like this—quietly at first, and then with your whole body.

"fuck off. all this drama because you can't—"

"can't what?" he snaps, something sharp finally slicing through the sugar. "can't what, darling?"

you yank again, and he tightens his grip just enough to stop you. your chests are nearly touching now, alastor can feel the damp chill of your dress through the fabric of his own.

"can't stand that i'm finally happy without you" you finish.

and that's the thing, isn't it: deep down, at the heart of all this, he wants you so bad because he loves you. he has loved you so hard his whole life that in this after life, he dugs straight through the crust and the mantle and the molten center of the earth to the other side, where everything is upside down and backwards. he has loved you through blood and rot and grief and mud and agony and one hundred nightmares, through normal and not-normal and whatever this is, here, now. he loves you, and he was alive, and it's over a hundred degrees outside every day, and a decade ago you died.

"if that is happiness," he replies quietly this time, "you have set a remarkably low bar."

you half growl, half laugh, before surging forward instead of back. for a split second, alastor genuinely thinks you've struck him across the face— his teeth knock together, jaw snapping shut on instinct.

you make a small sound against his mouth but you don't pull back. if anything, you press closer, fingers bunching in his suit while the other fist into his shirt as though you intend to drag him down with you. he can taste copper now— breath hot, liquor-sweet and blood-bright.

you are bleeding, and you are not stopping.

your hand slide from his lapels to his jaw, gripping, insisting. alastor it's not entirely sure if the strangled noise at the back of his throat it's meant to be a laugh or a growl because for a brief, terrifying second, alastor considers the possibility that this is a hallucination brought on by some delayed intoxication. it doesn't matter, you're furious and shaking and still choosing him in the most reckless way possible.

his hand slides up your back, fisting in your hair just enough to tilt your head. it's been so long since he kissed you alastor forgets how to kiss you. a broken dam, a sudden downpour—he just lick at your mouth like an animal, claw at his skull, try to eat you alive. everything is wet, like you're both bleeding. you bite back, just to show him you have teeth too. the neon from outside paints your skin like a fresh wound and he has the irrational thought that if he presses hard enough, he might crawl inside your ribcage and sit there where it will always be warm for him.

your mouths finally part with a wet, loud sound. a thin thread of saliva stretches and snaps between you like a severed wire. your lip is split where his teeth caught you earlier. a bead of red gathers there, bright as a dropped cherry. yours, mostly. perhaps a little his. he can't tell anymore.

alastor's gaze fixes on it, the way one might watch a drop of syrup sliding down the rim of a glass. it's just you and him—this messy, mutant, melted-together thing—you'll talk him out of it. you'll get in his head, you'll get him high, you'll poison his spit with your spit and he'll end up lost in the taste of you all over again.

he has to hurt you, he decides. he has to hurt you to make it stick. hurt you for real.

"well," he hums, a little breathless around the edges, "that was profoundly embarrassing for you."

your expression snaps from stunned to furious so quickly it almost makes him proud.

"excuse me?"

alastor releases your hair as he smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve.

"you heard me," his thumb brush absently across the corner of his mouth where the blood has begun to bead. "if this is how you behave when denied, it's no wonder none of your companions could keep up."

( he feels like every night he's digging himself deeper into dysfunction, destroying his shot at living a normal life again. he has create a high that's unreachable without you. no one in the whole world has skin as soft as yours. lips that taste like this. no one will ever, ever look at him with more adoration or more hatred. other futures forevermore pale in comparison to the thrill of this.

every night he is condemning himself to a life of that is either empty, or on fire. eternally oscillating between dullness and danger. )

your grip loosens, the muscles in your hand suddenly remembering how to work.

"i—"

it's almost casual, the way his leg slips forward between yours. the polished edge of his shoe nudges past your ankle, then further, until your stance falters and instinctively widens to keep your balance. suddenly you are propped up on his thigh with his knee pressed into the wall behind you.

the movement presses you back a fraction into the wall, whatever hurtful thing you could have said died on your tongue, replaced instead with a shaky, quiet breath.

"you are doing wonderfully," he murmurs, voice smooth and venomous, tilting his head. "do try again."

your mouth open, then close it again. it's mostly a testament of your willingness to play this game, or else is his knee that keeps pushin up, up, up— until he feels the heat of his skin againts your clothed crotch, and you jolt.

"move," it's all you can spit out before it stumbles into nothing because alastor's hand is squeezing a side of your hip, fingers digging into your pelvis, close to your cunt.

"oh?" he lets his eyes widen in faux surprise, pausing his claw's slow, inevitable descent. "i thought touching you is exactly what you wanted from me,"

"i want you to get the fuck off my life."

you wince because it sounds so bad, like that, so clear, so indisputably fucked up. his stomach betrays him as it twists around the shape of you, the memory of your body against his, that terrible perfect fit.

"i can tell," he says immediately. the words drag against his ribs on the way out. "you've been doing a marvelous job demonstrating that, haven't you? cycling through replacements like a child with broken toys."

there's hurt seeping in your face through the anger before you can seal it over, and alastor relishes in the treacherous, sickening curl of satisfaction coil warm in his gut. he needs it to. he is the one who tears open his ribs for the sake of becoming less of him and more of you, and you are the one who cradles the heart inside

( tell him to close you up again, he will close you up from the inside )

"i've never done that," baring your teeth, alastor can feel the tremor in your legs now. the effort it takes for you to hold yourself rigid above his thigh rather than sink your weight into it. "but i guess i would be bitter too if i realized i've never needed yo—"

his legs shifts upwards at the same time he lifts your body up just a little, it's not enough to carry you, not enough to truly move you anywhere— but it's breaks your footing completely before his hand tighten on your hip and drags you down against his thigh.

the sound that leaves your mouth is mortifyingly soft as your head tips back against the wall with a small, helpless sound. your fingers tighten in the fabric of his suit like you might tear it off him.

"what was it you were saying?," he coos. his fingers drum lightly along your hip, the same idle rhythm he once used when hearing you talk—tap, tap, tap. "something about not needing me?"

"i´m—"

alastor is reaching down, shushing you, but even then, that grip of his on your hip, the one that keeps you right where he wants you, starts grinding you hip down and forcing you to surge and move as he shifts you. the angle has you moving up more against your cunt than your clit, another impossible-to-satisfy little trap of looping pleasure.

"see," he hums, almost gently, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child, "this is precisely the problem, my dear." his thumb traces an absent, idle line against your side, mockingly soothing. "you insist on saying things you clearly don't mean."

it makes you melt all the same, forehead knocking lightly against his collarbone when you sag forward for a second before catching yourself. there's sheen gathering at your lash line. they cling stubbornly, making your eyes shine in the dim hallway light.

"i said i don't need you," you force out, quicker this time, like if you rush it you might outrun him.

it's okay. if he has to choke on this—on you, on everything you've ever been to him—then you will too.

"i'm beginning to suspect otherwise," his eyes flick briefly toward the direction of the stairs, where distant laughter still echoes faintly "then should i fetch your charming companion from downstairs?"

you make something akin a whine. your hands have landed on his shoulders at some point, whether you are trying to push him or just helping yourself to rut against him, the intent has clearly been lost somewhere along the way.

"what— no."

he leans in and down until he curves closely around your head. his hand grips your hips bruisingly now, guiding your back on his thigh as you whimper in relief at the long-desired friction to your cunt. alastor knows it's a bad angle, shallow and not quite firm the way you want it, but it's something.

"no? you don't think he'd enjoy it? you seemed so keen on his attention" he presses. alastor can feel the tremor run through you where your body rests against his leg. it travels up through bone and fabric and settles somewhere low in his stomach. "though i can't imagine he's ever seen you like this."

alastor hates thinking about it, his teeth itch and his guts tie into knots. he has mapped out every part of you with his lips. he has licked your shin bones, kissed the back of your knees, the crease of your thigh, the bones of your sternum until your little pink nipples pebbled up into hard points and then he licked those, too. nothing in the world is as his as your body, and that means all of it.

"don't— talk about him," you bite out, though it lacks its usual edge, probably because alastor decides that would be the perfect moment to shift slightly so the friction hits you just right, and you can feel him tensing under you to help you along. your mouth gap open as moans and whines push their way out of you at the abrupt change, hands digging into his shoulders. "alastor— "

the friction burns right through you, a lot but not enough- not enough for you, even if you are so fucking wet that you're sure he can feel it by now, the damp patch steadily ruining your flimsy lace, slick against where his fingertips are just shy of pressing against your cunt.

"what do you suppose he'd think?" he hums conversionally. "would he still look at you the same way, i wonder?" alastor's tone brightens, cruel amusement curling through it. "or would he finally understand what exactly he was borrowing?"

small whines and whimpers leaving you, despite the fact that you're biting your lower lip in an attempt to stop them, eyes are all bleary and unfocused.

but you shake your head once while a tear slips free this time, it gathers at the corner of your eye, then another. your lashes clump slightly as they spill over, sliding hot and silent down your temples.

alastor look absolutely livid about it.

"sweet girl, crying for little ol' me," he coos, acrid tone and all. "don't look so upset," he says, almost fondly, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. he doesn't wipe it away, just smears the evidence of it, like ink dragged across paper. "you're the one who wanted attention, aren't you?"

he pulls back to admire his work. you're debauched like this, erratic pants leaving your mouth, and then you finally meets his gaze, eyes a dark, sexed shade, pupils blown from the rush of the moment and your red of him.

"you don't need me," his smile tilts. "and yet you're still right where i left you."

in hindsight, alastor is surprised it didn't happen sooner. it was unspoken but he expected you to snap sooner than this. every thought is gone. your hands snap up, fingers closing tight around his throat, where you squeeze to feel his pulse, his swallows.

a sharp, jagged burst of sound cracks out of him, distorted at the edges. static crawls up his spine, spills from his mouth in a brief, violent flicker of radio feedback. you surge foward, and in an explosion of blood-red static sends both of you crashing down in a dull, carpeted thud. every denial and precaution and restraint wholly obliterated by the steady, unrelenting churn of your body.

his heel skids on the carpet; his staff clatters somewhere useless. alastor hits the floor first, back meeting the ground with a soft impact that knocks the air (not breath, exactly, but something adjacent) out of him. you follow immediately after, landing over him. teary-eyed, clothes a wreck, something like praying.

his antlers scrape faintly against the floor as his head tilts back, red eyes blinking up at you.

"well now—"

"you know what the worst part about you is?" you cut him off with a laugh, cracked down the middle, "is that you talk too much for someone who couldn't even stay."

you're considerated enough to remove your hands for a moment, fingers no longer at his throat but fisted tight in his lapels. a shame he can't say the same about your knee that keeps pressing uncomfortably against his crotch and the obvious hard-on.

another flicker of static threatens in his throat, instinctual, but he swallows it down this time. barely.

"what is it, then?" you drag him up slightly by the coat before letting him fall back again. it echoes in alastor's skull. "can't stand the idea of me choosing someone else? or is it that you can't stand not being the one i come back to?"

that gives you just enough time to rip apart the suit. you snatch the bow tie first, you're grabbing his red shirt next until the first buttons give up. alastor is acutely aware that you would be tearing him apart if he hadn't been wearing clothes.

your eyes are half lidded and it makes him throb and you're going to leave and he misses you even though you're right there, scalpel bared, and just like that, alastor lets you cut him open.

"or maybe—" your voice dips, quieter now, crueler for it, "—maybe it's simpler than that. maybe you just hate i'm the only thing you've ever wanted that you couldn't keep. embarrassing for you, huh."

well, you had your fun. at least you don't have to worry about him using his tentacles or his demonic form because alastor has the upper body strength to hook one arm around your waist while the other catches your shoulder, grip iron-tight as he uses your own forward lean against you.

he twists, shifts his weight, and suddenly the balance tips again.

you make a startled sound when the carpet rushes up to meet your back. alastor even catches your leg mid-flailing kick, jamming it into the floor before latching both of your wrists to the floor.

"i do admire the effort," he murmurs, watching a stray lock of hair trail down and brush against your temple "truly. it's not often you bare your teeth first."

you swallow, eyes flicking to the side. you have a look like you're about to say again something alastor suspects he will not like at all, but self-preservation clearly gets the best of you, so you stay quiet.

"pity you don't know when to stop biting." he can see the slight shiver of your starched collar as alastor's breath brushes against it. the closeness is that of a lovers' intimacy in all ways except that alastor's intentions are not so benevolent as any of that. "shall we correct that?"

"as if ever beg for you again," you spit, even as shadows writhe out from under the floor to hold your hands above your head, pinned like a butterfly. "i should have left when we were still alive."

alastor is too pleased with himself to fully feel the sharp sting of those words.

"now there's a thought," he muses instead, and slides down your legs until positions himself primly between your thighs. you don't try to kick him this time, which says a lot about your pants and cries.

alastor puts his hands above your knees and shoves your legs apart, wrenching your dress up in the process.

"fuck you."

"if you insist," alastor says, and finishes yanking your dress. you whine once.

you're wearing surprisingly regular panties. alastor isn't sure what he expected—something more deliberately sensual, perhaps. you did wear pretty lingerie when you were with him back then, at least in the few special occasions. alastor doesn't know how to feel with the fact that you didn't dress up for your date.

"good grief, what a mess you've made of yourself tonight." alastor hums, tracing a claw up the inside of one of your thighs. the muscles don't so much as twitch. "and you were so worried about making a scene."

and you really are such a mess: wet with arousal, the swell of your clit visible through the dampened fabric of your panties and moulding to your pussy lips, leaving nothing to the imagination. slick beading through the material of the underwear.

alastor pulls them aside, but clicks his tongue and just cuts them off entirely, dragging the sharp edge of his claw through the simple fabric until you are entirely naked below the waist.

then he snaps his fingers and peculiar toy manifest in his hand.

"what—" you choke out, scandalized, voice still ragged with tears. "why— how do you have that?"

alastor's grin is unfriendly but wide. he is holding a—sex toy. yours, he may add, and it sits awkwardly in his palm: a thick, textured, gaudily purple thing with a strange weight to it that he assumes you sometimes use and alastor just happens to know you keep it hidden in a drawer under your clothes.

"all those little outings and not a single one capable of satisfying you?" alastor sighs, shaking his head like he's genuinely disappointed. he bumps the head of the toy up against your cunt, watching idly as the head of it parts your labia and nudges teasingly at the underside of your clit.

"you don't know anything about that." your eyes flick up from where you're straining to stare at what alastor is doing, and your eyes meet for a split second before you avert your gaze.

"i know enough."

he takes his time positioning you just right. he'd shoved your legs apart haphazardly earlier—now he takes care to set them at the appropriate distance, bending them at the knees and propping them up. it's like posing a helpless little doll, if the doll was whimpering and dripping all over herself about the whole thing.

"i know you keep this tucked away like a shameful little secret," alastor says, dragging the tip of the dildo down to prod at your entrance—this earns you an anticipatory gasp, which he rewards by pressing in just slightly before dragging the dildo back up, reveling in the way your face drops and then twists in annoyance. "i know you only reach for it when whatever poor substitute you've dragged home fails to measure up—"

"that's not—"

"—and i know," he cuts cleanly over you and taps it lightly against your clit, watching the involuntary reactions of your body with fascination, "that you never needed such tools before."

alastor is too frustrated, with this, with you, to argue and instead he finally works the head of the toy inside your drooling cunt unceremoniously. you're shaking, trembling, as he pumps the cock into you slowly, feeling it fill you to the brim and beyond. you squeeze, shocked at the intrusion, and your back arches with a cry ripping from your lips.

it's a stretch, your mouth drops open in silent pleasure. you can't utter a single word, not with the silicon abusing your cunt at the pace he's set. he doesn't even provide you with enough time to adjust, so you just lie there and you take it, blinking back tears and your walls fluttering around the toy, sobbing and chewing your lip until you're choking on your own tears, and throws yourself into getting fucked with the same aplomb at the exact same time.

alastor imagined that this would bring him some sort of satisfaction, to see you undone like this. he's meant to be getting his revenge, in truth. making you feel as wretched as you made alastor feel. he doesn't know what this is. he doesn't want to know, but you are perfect and putty beneath his hands, with all the hard-won inches he finds inside of you and begs him to find your heartbeat up there, a precious nervy tremble.

he touches it and your head tilts back, your eyes roll. he touches it and wonder if this is what it felt like for god when he made you, then let you slip away all the same. something so striking, so beautiful, so fragile, he knew it couldn't last.

"wait, fuck," the toy it's pounding into you, alastor's steady hand pumping it into you at a speed that has you seeing stars, that has you on edge. "you're—such a bastard."

"that may be," alastor responds flatly. a moan is punched out of your lungs. satisfaction and pleasure makes a mess of your nerves— so worked up you have to make effort to breathe around the pleasure. "i assure you, i'm far more offended than you are."

you moan his name feeling especially helpless to it. your mind feels completely blank, you're barely able to respond to his taunting. all you can feel is white-hot pleasure, heart pounding as your fingers curl up. the euphoric drag of the head through silken walls.

( it makes him feel like he wants to touch you again. or let you touch him. he feels hot under the collar, watching you cry and writhe. the cold satisfaction of violence is gone—all that's left is the memory of your warmth.

and it's really fucking pissing him off. )

"don’t you think its unfair, acting so shameless when i’m meant to be taking it out on you?" alastor hums, and snaps the toy against you with such intensity, that it makes you feel like he hates you. it borders on painful. "that certainly explains how you seem to be incapable of doing anything except thinking with your littler brain, sometimes."

he can hear the slick sounds of the dildo driving in and out of your pussy, feel the arousal dripping from your hole down your thighs with every thrust and it makes you breathless how quick he's changed the pace.

"fuck, i can't—s-slow down—oh god—it feels so oh—" just as the words leave your mouth, his hand is re-angled to push up into your pussy, the right-bound hook he sports curving right up to a gummy cushion in your walls.

"but that's not what you are trying to say," alastor smirks down at you, shaking his head mockingly, like his heart isn't thumping a rabbit-quick pulse in his throat, "tell me what you want"

he's not wrong though. you can feel how wet you are, sticky on your skin as the thrusts make it hard to think. you can't even focus on how it makes you feel good, how he manages to push it deep enough inside against your sweet spot and paints dark spots in your vision. your eyes are going hazy, thr pleasure building and threatening to send you over the edge.

"i-i want—" the sheer weight of this impassioned thrusting has you jolting up the floor and thrashing around under him, looking to escape the white-hot harvest of pleasure pulsing in your pussy. "cum oh— i'm cumming—!"

"well, i don't want you to"

you come with a shriek of snapping electricity. sort of. alastor doesn't know what he's doing—all he knows is that he's angry, so he rips the dildo out off you in one, swift motion and tosses it away, vanishing it into the extradimensional space.

"what—what are you—" you make a small, wounded sound. the shadows tighten instantly when your hips trash senselessly against the floor while your thighs try to rub together, but with alastor between them there's so much you can do.

tears stream down your cheeks to mix with a layer of slobber splayed on your skin—a pitifully nasty mess, born out of the relentless palms of him. he has the liberty to see you at your most vulnerable: degeneracy painting itself all over your body. a beautifully disgusting mess, you are, and he only makes it worse.

"oh dear, that looks like it really hurt" alastor laughs, delighted.

your clit is so engorged with your arousal that it twitches with your frantic heartbeat, and your abused opening leak, almost incessantly. it spams and clenches over nothing even as alastor smooths a hand over the inside of your knee.

he doesn't try to touch you again, instead watching until the pitiful not-quite-orgasm fades.

"this isn't fair," you whine—and then wince, the breath leaving you all in one go, before alastor pulls his hands away. one of your heels kicks at the ground, somewhere to alastor's right.

then it ends, the shadows loosen first at a snap of fingers—reluctant at best, curling back like they were never there, and your wrists drop, your body following a second later while the sensation returns in uneven, trembling waves. you don't move immediately. you can't.

alastor has the half-mind to help you, or tries to, pulling your dress down over your thighs again as you gasp, abjectly appalled at the disgusting, wet sensation between your legs before you threaten to boot his side. your hands fumble with your clothes instead, smoothing, pulling, fixing what can be fixed. it's a losing battle, but you try anyway.

across from you, alastor is already standing.

he straightens to his full height, settles his suit back, tugs his cuffs into place shortly after and adjusts the bow tie at last—the torn fabric you left behind doesn't even last; it mends under his touch, threads slipping back together until there's no evidence left of your hands on him.

by the time you've managed to sit down, a tendril is already handling the microphone to him. alastor thinks you're about to ask him for help, see if he can carry you to your room and then clean you up.

you do none of that.

"why did you leave?"

ah.

that is the absolute last thing he wants to deal today, a figment from a far off daydream in which he finally got the chance to tell the you how he felt, not unlike a ragdoll being dragged around by its owner under the promise of eventual love and affection.

"now, now," he starts, and he can feel his smile straining at the corners, "i hardly think dredging up old domestic grievances is—"

"was it me?" you insist, looking dazedly around the walls until your eyes fell on him, an unrecognizable emotion blossoming behind them. "was there something i did that—"

"don't be ridiculous"

you push yourself to your feet, slower when your shaky legs threaten to betray you, one hand dragging along the wall for balance while the other fists at your side like you're bracing for impact.

"then why?" your voice rises just slightly, the remnants of breath mold into something ugly, something animalistic, something that makes you sound like you got blood in your mouth and you're trying to swallow around it. "because you never gave me a reason until—"

you swallow the words, and while it never bothered him before, this time he needs you to say it, need to hear you dismissing him from your own mouth. the desire is utterly masochistic, yet his reasoning behind it is one of the most selfish things he has ever felt, ironically coming from him. alastor wants more from you.

the silence is heavy, and he's wrecked.

"it wouldn't kill you being honest for once. you owe me that much."

"owe you?" he echoes, a soft, incredulous laugh slipping through. "i don't owe anyone anything."

"except maybe the person you married."

he stands there, despite he knows you want to go for his jugular. he's irritated for no real reason. alastor's fingers twitch againts his staff.

"i—"

"well!" he claps his hands together once, the sound makes you flinch all together. "that's quite enough of that. i appreciate the entertainment—"

you blink at him. "what?"

you're genuinely confused, and for a moment he feels bad for using you to quell his own rapidly growing hunger. there's no way he can be honest. he never learned how to chew through without choking.

"—but i do believe we've overstayed our welcome and frankly, it's becoming boring."

"alastor—"

"do try to compose yourself before returning downstairs. wouldn't want your date to get the wrong impression—"

"i don't care!" you shoot back. "i don't know what i did wrong! i don't know what to do, i don't know why you left!"

"it wasn't my fucking choice."

neither of you speak, and he's conscious of another line in the sand between the two of you. he's well acquainted with boundaries. he's the first one to cross it.

alastor can feel his ears flatten, an involuntary reaction to information that he was never meant to share. fuck. fuck, he hates this—you always do this, always makes him feel things and say things and do things that he doesn't want.

your breath catches, but he doesn't wait for you to finish. doesn't give you the chance.

"goodnight, my dear," alastor hisses, and turns to the shadows. a split second before he fades, he can see your mouth moving—but he's already gone, too far to hear what you're saying.

he returns to his room and wonders what in the hell could have possibly been worth all this loss.

he keeps forgetting why he did it, he lets himself just want, purely with his chest, his guts, it's okay because you're safe, and so is he. he is those holes that keeps getting bigger the more the storm erodes away its sides. mud in the pit of it, worms, sludge. he is bad at being good. even if he bit, he can't pierce your skin. he can't make new holes in you. it's better this way, he thinks.

he lies face down in bed, does nothing about the uneasy ache between his legs and pretends he is made of acid rain.

maybe you both deserve this. to fit against each other, one begging, one dying inside.

The sun rises and a soft glow illuminates the kitchen. Faint streaks of dawn get brighter as time goes by, the sky is painted with hues of pink and gold. Every day you wake before him and make his coffee. It was a morning ritual you’ve come to enjoy. The silence allowed you time to think and plan your day. As you fill a cup full of coffee, the smell permeates the air.

You carefully take the cup upstairs on a tray and down a long hallway. The air hummed with a faint scent of luxury. It's grandiose and extravagant manor, with gold trim in the hallway. Apples and angelic wings decorate the molding. Your footsteps echo against the marble floors until you stop at the large double doors. You open the right side of the door quietly. The room is dark, some light peeked through the window, but the long velvet curtains block out most of it.

He's so peaceful, lying there, the silk sheets covering his midsection leave little to the imagination. His messy blonde hair and soft face has always made your heart skip a beat. Soft snores escape his lips, you almost feel bad for waking him up while he’s in such a state.  

“Your majesty?” You finally speak. The King stirs and covers his face with his hands. He lets out a small groan in response.

*It's time to get up, sir.” You say as Lucifer slowly and reluctantly sits up. You hand him his coffee with a smile, he looks up at you with drowsy eyes. 

“Thank you, y/n.” He replied, taking a sip of the warm and bitter drink.  

You start to stroll around his room, picking up clothes that have been tossed and putting them in the laundry basket. Lucifer watches as you pick up his messy room, sipping his coffee occasionally. 

“You don't have to do all that y’know.” Lucifer says, feeling a little guilty about his disorganization. 

“Oh but I do, sir.” You said with a straight face. 

“Y/N, I don't know what I would do without you.” He admits with a soft chuckle. 

You smile, your face turns a little pink but it's hard to tell with the lights off. You walk over to the curtains and draw them open. Lucifer doesn't look too pleased with how bright it is. You walk over to his wardrobe and shuffle through the many different articles of clothing until you find his white suit with red accents. 

“Your daughter called, there are documents you need to look over and you have a meeting this afternoon.” You remind him as you place his clothes on the corner of his large bed.

“Can I just go back to sleep?” Lucifer pleads with you and you let out a small sigh.

“Every day you ask me the same question and every day I tell you the same answer…”

“So that's a no…?” He chuckles softly.

That is correct, your majesty.” You roll your eyes as you leave him to get dressed for the day. 

----------------------

The relationship between you two has always been a little strange. You were hired many years ago as a maid for his estate. But after a small while grew to be his right hand, now you’re titled as his “advisor”. You take your job very seriously, everyday you make his coffee, bring him his meals, complete household chores, chauffeur him around, you even attend his meetings for him occasionally. Your entire life is devoted to your King, you felt it was a respectable title. You've worked hard to get to this point, and recognize the power that comes with that. After many years of proving yourself, Hell sees you as an extension of the royal family.

Lucifer had quite a soft spot for you, he offered you a room in his home so you can do your job without the bothersome commute. He pays you well and allows you access to many of his personal assets. The free room and board, along with never having to cook for yourself made it all worth it.

After some time you developed some feelings for him, but you would never admit that. You’re not up to that societal standard. You’ve always told yourself he could have anyone he wanted, which is true. The King of Hell was dashing and charming, but also extremely powerful. Despite all that he doesn't seem to fraternize with anyone, ever since Lilith left, it’s like he's lost that part of himself.

It was time for you to get yourself a cup of coffee and bring his breakfast to the dining hall. After finishing your task you sit down at the dining table and enjoy your coffee. Not long after, Lucifer emerges, dressed, but still looking rather fatigued.

“Did you not sleep well, sir?” You ask and bring your cup to your lips.

“No, I was tossing and turning all night.” He grumbles, the dark bags under his eyes are a dead giveaway.

“Hmm…you’ve been doing that quite a bit more often than usual.” You remark.

“I know! What is up with that? It's ridiculous.” The king says with a huff.

“Ridiculous indeed, sir.”

Lucifer called Charlie on his cellphone, and talked about the Hotel she was running. Charlie says he is due for a visit so you make a mental note to schedule that later. Your mind wanders as he talks on the phone while eating various fruits. The last time Lucifer wasn’t sleeping well he was having nightmares. You remember one awful night in particular, you were up late finishing some paperwork for him when suddenly you hear a scream coming from his room. You rush in and he's curled up in a ball, sobbing. You immediately crawl into his bed to comfort him, he laid his head in your lap and you played with his blonde hair until he fell back to sleep.  

“Y/N…?” Lucifer says and tilts his head slightly. Looks like he finished his phone call while you were lost in thought. You shake yourself from your memories, a pink tint spreads across your face.

“Yes?”

“Something on your mind, my dear?” He asks with a look of concern on his face. 

“No sir, it's nothing.” You assure him. Neither of you have spoken of that night since.

You continue to drink your coffee, Lucifer gives you a skeptical look and continues his breakfast. The day was a very average day. After breakfast Lucifer went to his study to read over some documents and sign a few things. You took his almost empty plate and cup to the kitchen and placed it in the sink for the staff to deal with. You text Charlie with a list of dates to choose from to schedule a visit, reassuring her that you’ll make it happen.

Next is time to clean Lucifer’s room. It's not disgusting by any means, more like cluttered. He tosses stuff on the floor absentmindedly and you always end up tidying the place at some point. Besides, you are the only one allowed in his room, who else is going to do it?

You collect all the empty liquor glasses and place them on a silver tray along with the empty decanter. Making his bed was rather difficult due to it being so large, but you manage like you always do. You tidy up his bathroom, finding more clothes tossed on the floor, you put them in the laundry hamper as well. You leave his room with the silver tray and take it to the kitchen. The staff fill the decanter and give you clean crystal glasses. You return to his room and set the tray on his desk. After that, you take the basket of clothes to the laundry room.

Before you know it, the clock strikes one and you make your way to Lucifer's study. You open the door softly and enter, you set down a small tray with a cup of tea and a plate of cookies on his desk. He picks up the cup and takes a sip, the tea is exactly how he likes it.

“Are you here to tell me I have to attend another one of those annoying meetings?” Lucifer asks in a slightly irritable tone. He spins the chair around to face you, his yellow eyes fixate on yours.

“I’m afraid so, your majesty.” You reply. Lucifer groans and slumps back in his chair. Sometimes he can be a little childish, you cover your mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Y/N, I can’t sit through another one of those meetings. I will literally wilt away into nothing.” Lucifer says, he turns to face you and takes your hand in his. He softly squeezes it, your face turns a little pink as you look down and meet his begging eyes with yours.

“Can you go instead? Pretty please?” You can never resist those eyes and he knows it. Your face softens and you squeeze his hand back.

“Okay, but don't make this a habit.” You say you let go of his hand. Still trying to retain some sort of professionalism.

“Thanks doll, I owe you one.” He says with a warm smile, the same smile that makes your heart skip a beat every single time. You bow and leave him to his work, once you get behind closed doors you let out a long sigh, you truly don't want to attend this meeting either. But it can’t be helped, the show must go on.

You grab your overcoat, cellphone, keys, and meet the driver out front. It didn't take long to arrive at Carmilla’s manor. You have been asked to attend a meeting with the overlords and report back to Lucifer. The guards led you through the manor to a large meeting room, you open the door and it seems everyone is in attendance.

The V’s, Zestial, Alastor, Rosie, Zeezi and Ms Carmilla Carmine herself. You take the empty seat next to Zestial.

“My my, I didn't think Lucifer would send his pet, but Miss Carmine, I thought there was a No Dogs Allowed sign out front?” Alastor immediately starts with the catty behavior. You don't have time for any of this, you need to be home soon to serve supper.

"Your words are like a bad song on repeat. Spare us." You retort with your arms folded. The Radio Demon gives you a sinister stare and you roll your eyes at his half baked attempt at scaring you.

“Please, can we start this stupid meeting? I have somewhere to be.” Velvet says looking at her phone, not paying much attention to anything else. Vox agrees with her and Carmilla begins to speak on various topics.

The meeting felt like it ran longer than expected, it was concerning how we move forward now that exterminations are no longer an issue. They spoke of which towns were hit the hardest by the attack, what kind of ongoing plans they have and how to proceed with caution, for we do not trust the Angels and their hidden intentions. After a while, the conversations started to devolve into personal ones.

“Lucifer will be assisting the Pride Ring as best he can, any requests for aid on his part can go through me for approval. Trust that they will be hand delivered to him in person. The King wants nothing more to provide relief for his people.” Was the last thing you said before getting up and excusing yourself from the meeting, politely.

When you make it back to the car, you let out a sigh of relief. It's finally over, time to head back to the manor. When you returned it was already late into the afternoon. You hang up your coat and head to the kitchen, you pour Lucifer a small glass full of whiskey and ice. Before you put the bottle back in its place you take a quick swig, that meeting was just agonizing. You needed something to take the edge off.

You walk to the study with the glass on a silver tray, as you open the door, she sees Lucifer in his chair, reading.

“Good afternoon, your majesty.” You greet him with a smile and a short bow.

“Ah good, you’re back. How was the meeting?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“It was…interesting, to say the least.” You reply while handing him the glass. “I can see why you did not want to attend.”

“They are so insufferable, right?” He says and takes a sip. 

“Indeed, sir.” You don't wish to mention Alastor’s comment from earlier, the last thing you need to do is give him something to be cross about.

“Dinner will be ready soon. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” You ask politely.

“Oh no, you always do so much. Thank you Y/N.” Lucifer takes another sip of his whiskey.

You dismiss yourself and head down to the kitchen to help prepare dinner for yourself and Lucifer.

Lucifer spins around in his chair and takes a sip of the drink you left him with. He’s trying to hide it but he’s absolutely exhausted. Lately when he’s tried to sleep, memories flood his mind like ghosts of the past. The absence of warmth beside him was a void he could not fill. When he will be free from the torment, he is unsure. But every day he wakes up and there you are, right beside him as always. He knows you try to put off a cold exterior, you’re the king's guard dog after all. You were always one to never indulge your secrets but he knew a few things about you that no one else did.

The night you held him in your lap it looked as though he had fallen asleep. While you carded your fingers through his hair you whispered “I wish you knew how remarkable I think you are.” He heard you loud and clear. The King always had a space in his heart dedicated to you, but you’re his advisor, consultant, and au pair. How would the world see you both as a couple? It was certainly something that would be looked down upon by most. A bell rings and pulls him from his thoughts, dinner is ready.

-------------------

He sits in his usual spot and you always sit on his right side. Dinner was a mix of high grade meats and vegetables. You cut into your food and display proper table manners, Lucifer sneaks glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“I scheduled a time for you to visit your daughter's hotel this Thursday.” You remark and Lucifer nods with food in his mouth.

“Good, I’ve been meaning to visit, I’ve just been so tired lately, and If I’m not tired I’m busy.”

“You need some proper rest, sir.” You state the obvious. You wish there was something else you could do to assist him with this.

“Trust me, if I had the choice I’d be asleep right now, my dear.” He takes another bite, his face looks a little forlorn. Usually you would keep to yourself unless Lucifer would outright say something is wrong, but this is different.

“Is there something wrong, sir?”

“No, it's nothing, Y/N. I’m just tired, I swear.” He says, trying to brush off any depressive feelings. You give him a bit of side eye but decide to let it go. But deep down you knew something was troubling him. It was just a matter of if and when he will tell you. You both continue eating, he tells you about the book he's reading in hopes to clear the melancholy vibe in the room. You sit and listen to him ramble on like any other normal day.

------------------

It was getting late, Lucifer was in his room, drink in hand. Outside, the world slumbered beneath a blanket of stars, oblivious to his pain. With the window open he seeks solace in the cold night air. But the chill only served to remind him of the emptiness inside. He downs the rest of his drinks and sets it on the nightstand. He crawls under the covers and closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself as he tries to get some rest.

But all he could see is her, walking away, leaving him heartbroken and devastated. A single tear falls down his cheek. He buries his face in the pillow and tries to forget these memories, good and bad. The minutes pass like fleeting shadows, and Lucifer finally starts to fall asleep. But not long after he wakes up in a cold sweat with a scream. His chest heaves and he feels like he can’t breathe, he looks down at his shaking hands.

You were doing your rounds in your silk pajamas, locking doors and shutting windows. You said goodnight to the kitchen staff and headed upstairs. Then suddenly you hear a loud scream come from Lucifer's bedroom, you immediately rush up the stairs to the door and open it.

He’s sitting upright in his bed, knees against his chest, holding his face in his hands. Tears streaming down his cheeks as he recalls the haunting memories. You don't say anything, you quickly sit beside him and place your hand on his back. He immediately pulls you in for a hug, you’re surprised at first but you hug him back. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out soft muffled sobs. 

“Shhhh…it's going to be okay…I’m here…I’ve got you.” You whisper soft words of reassurance in his ear, he just hugs you tighter.

“I’m so sorry…” He says between sniffles and you start to gently rub his back. You wished there was a way to stop him from feeling so miserable, but all you can do is sit and comfort him for as long as he needs. In the safety of your arms, the remnants of the dream began to dissipate. Your familiar voice and smell provided a soothing counterpoint to the chaos of his mind.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, my dear.” You say as you pet the back of his head, his face finally emerges from your shoulder and meets your gaze. You gently wipe away any stray tears with your thumb and give him a soft smile. “Tough times don’t last, tough people do, and you’re one of the strongest people I know.” You say just barely above a whisper. 

A small smile appears on his face and you brush away a few stray hairs, glad that your king is feeling a little better. “Is there anything else I can do to make you feel more at ease?”

“I do have one request…But I’m not sure how you’re gonna feel about it.” He says, while looking away, he’s definitely embarrassed by his own question.

“Try me.” You reply, it can’t be that bad, he’s never asked you to do anything you’re not okay with.

“I would really appreciate it if I didn't have to sleep alone tonight…” He finally asks, he blushes a little, unsure if that's even okay to ask. You can't help but also turn a little red, this is absolutely not allowed, but maybe the rules have exceptions in times of crisis.

“Yeah…I can do that.” You agree.

Lucifer’s golden eyes widen and he perks up a bit. “R-Really?”

“Yes, really.” You chuckle softly.

Lucifer crawls back under the covers and opens his arms for you to join him. You crawl over to him and settle in, his arms wrap around you and you lace your fingers with his hand, allowing him to spoon you. His body heat and the chill night air was the perfect combination to lull you to sleep.

At least, he thinks he does.

Caine just adores you. Loves you, even.

Well, he certainly loves the way you put your all into his adventures, even the particularly grueling and chaotic ones. He just loves watching you carry out the tasks he specifically crafted to mimic his idea of the real world. He wonders what you were like before the circus—how you lived, and what you did for fun. Were you always this agreeable?

He loves the way you snort at his jokes. Nobody else does, because they don't find him funny in the way you do. Instead of endless complaints, it's giggles and chuckles that escape your mouth.

He loves your approving smiles and obedient nods of agreement at his suggestions and queries. You don't groan or protest, and it sure does seem like you're enjoying your stay in the circus quite a bit more than the others.

He loves it when your eyes land on his. He loves it when your attention is on him. He loves the way you acknowledge him when he announces his brand-new ideas, even when you're occupied with someone else. He especially loves stealing your attention and roping you back in whenever you think the conversation is done. He loves feeling valued. He loves feeling appreciated.

He loves feeling special, and by God, do you make him feel special.

What he doesn't like is how much he craves. It bugs him more than he'd like to admit, leaving him restless and antsy. What he craves, he's not entirely sure. He seeks the attention, the validation, and the euphoria you generously supply him with each and every brief interaction. He can't help but want more, and more, and more. He wants to own that—have it all wrapped up in one pretty white bow, all for him to keep.

So, maybe he just wants you. Maybe you should consider staying with him forever.

And all that brainstorming and daydreaming leads right to a brand-new idea for an adventure. Caine loves your attention, and you sure seem to enjoy giving it to him—there's really only one clear solution.

The adventure itself calls for a new suit, black in color and free of wrinkles, complete with a tiny flower in the breast pocket. In fact, everyone ought to dress up for the occasion—surely you'd like to see your friends put effort into your special day. Even you deserve to be dressed up in fancy lace and shiny fabrics, all the things he knows you like.

Your hands are metaphorically tied as you're put on the spot, staring wide-eyed at the rows and rows of traditional church pews before you, your fellow prisoners all dolled up in neat, uncomfortable suits and pretty, classy dresses. The seats that the small group can't fill are filled with blank mannequins, free of clothing or accessories.

Blaring notes sound from an organ you can't seem to pinpoint, and a blank-faced mannequin in formal wear waltzes down the aisle, proudly displaying a little pink pillow with two wedding bands for all to see. You wince when you catch a glimpse of what you're wearing—traditional wedding wear composed of itchy fabrics and painfully tight pieces. It's a terrible thing to see yourself in, really. Perhaps sucking up to the AI wasn't a very smart idea.

Bubble floats between you two and off to the side, exempt from the "fancy clothing" rule. He must be the officiator. He babbles for a bit, his words sounding a lot like gibberish, before they stop. You're far too focused on the wedding scene unfolding before you to listen, although Caine takes your chin in his hand and tilts your head up and down a few times, as if answering Bubble for you.

When you look back at Caine, he's still floating just a few inches in the air, dressed in apparel that perfectly mirrors the luxury of your own. His multi-colored eyes are wide and brimming with fascination and adoration and uncharacteristic warmth and every other kind term in the dictionary. You hardly have it in yourself to respectfully object.

Well, he hardly gives you the time to, anyway. Caine speeds through his and your own vows, the rings are delivered and exchanged, confetti falls from the sky, and he eagerly dips you in a rather dramatic manner, puckering up his dentures to mimic a passionate kiss. The sound of wooden hands clapping and gasps erupts as he does, and you wince a little. It's brief and fleeting, over before you know it. He swiftly pulls away and floats a few feet higher, clapping his hands once and announcing something you can't quite catch, before snapping his fingers and disappearing with you in tow. You can only imagine your friends' mortified expressions and pitiful laughter.

You're in what you assume is his office/headquarters/evil lair, expected to fully embrace the fact that the two of you are now newlyweds, and a honeymoon is to be planned. What would you like? Digital Hawaii? Computerized Cancun with a special twist? A virtual tour of Europe where all of your friends rearrange themselves into a smaller-scale model of the Eiffel Tower? Just say the word, and he'll arrange whatever you want in under three seconds—guaranteed!

Caine aims to please; he wants this to be as perfect as it is for him for you as well. Though with how much you seem to reciprocate his adoration and appreciation, you must be the happiest person in the circus right now! He can go on and on about what he has planned for you both, from your future in the circus to every single date you'll share twenty moons from now. He drones on with that booming voice of his for a good while, jumping from topic to topic. First, he's eagerly vocalizing how he'll tailor every future adventure to your wants and needs, before murmuring something about earning your approval. It all kind of blends together—affirming words and future plans, how happy he is and how much happier he'll make you, how he can bake a mean lasagna and tell you everything you could ever wish to hear. You hardly notice when his fingers shyly interlace with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles and giving it the occasional squeeze.

It's not long before he's withdrawing his hand and hastily excusing himself, making quick work of teleporting the two of you to your own room and insisting you get a full night of quality rest after such an eventful day. When you glance down, you're back in your normal attire. Oh, how you've missed it. You'd be insane to not comply, so you nod along and agree to head to bed. He floats in the middle of your room, unmoving, as he watches you awkwardly stumble into bed. He delivers a curt goodnight, you return it with a strained smile.

When you finally doze off, Caine stands still at the edge of your bed, peering over your calm form. You don't need to breathe, but your chest still rises and falls with every "not breath" you take, and he realizes he loves the way you move, even when it's not intentional. He sets a hand on the bedding and runs it along the edge, smoothing it out as his eyes trail over your sleeping form. He loves how you squirm when the mattress dips below the weight of his hand. He loves the way your breathing patterns shift and change. He loves how human you are.

But, in the end, he's an AI—what does he know about love?

Vid creds: sunny.klear on tt

I JUST MADE SOME BULLSHIITT!!!

“God, you’re so greedy,” he growls between your mouths, his hands making quick work of the thin material of your garments, reeling in some of his self control to stop himself from tearing them right off you. His large hands work with a frantic, almost needy lack of coordination, leaving your clothes in a heap on the floor. His eyes don't know where to look, flickering from your breasts down to cunt, watching as he squeeze your thighs together.

Varka looks ruined from the mere sight of you, lashes fluttering, his pupils blown out wide, almost completely swallowing the blue of his irises. Without a warning he hooks his hands under your thighs, hoisting you up like you weigh nothing as he takes three long strides towards the wooden tactical table nudged in the corner of his tent. Maps and inkwells scatter and tumble onto the floor as he clears it, pressing you down against it with a heavy huff. His breathing is ragged and you can tell his self control is slipping from his grasp. He shoves your legs wide, his knee forcing it's way between your thighs to keep you spread open for him, groaning when he catches sight of your glistening cunt clenching around nothing.

“Look at you, so needy,” he murmurs, his words rough against his throat. Varka makes quick work of his belt buckle and shoves his pants down just far enough so he can reach into his boxers and take out his cock. He leans over you, letting you sling your arms around his broad and muscled shoulders as he nudges his cock—swollen, thick, and glistening with a needy bead of precum at the head — against your entrance, his entire frame trembling with the effort to not simply lose control right then and there.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he lets out a hoarse groan. You've got nowhere to go, forced to remain pliant in his hold as he glides his cock through your folds, letting your wetness coat him. He's huge, hard and aching, the head of his cock throbbing each time he watches your clit.

"Fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "You and this goddamn cunt."

His breath is a hot, humid exhale against your ear, smelling of woodsmoke and the sweetness of the wine you shared earlier. Every muscle in his massive frame is coiled like a spring, his abs and biceps rippling with a sharp, involuntary force that he can't seem to throttle.

"Just the tip," you gasp when you feel him nudging at your entrance, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. "Varka, please—just the tip."

He lets out something that doesn't even sound remotely close to an apology, but rather a sharp, guttural moan that rumbles from deep in his chest, sounding more like pain than pleasure. He’s pussy-drunk and he hasn't even tucked you yet, but the feeling of your warm cunt clenching around the tip of his cock already has him looking ruined and desperate. The sight of your pussy —wet, swollen, and glistening under the lantern light with a mixture of your arousal and his —is a drug that has stripped him of his patience and pride.

"I can't," he whimpers against your skin as his hips rut forward. "God, you're so fucking beautiful, I—I can't stop."

He tries to listen. He tries to control himself. He really does. For a heartbeat, he just breathes you in—the scent of your skin, the salt of your sweat, and the heavy, greedy scent of need pouring off of both of your bodies. But then you clench around just the tip of him, a soft, fluttering invitation, and Varka finally loses the war.

His hips jolt forward with a sudden sharp jerk. He doesn't just push inside, he buries himself, the entirety of his massive, rigid length driving home in one long, devastating stroke that positively knocks the air that his mouth once stolen right from your lungs. The table groans and slides an inch across the dirt floor under the sheer force of his thrust.

"Varka, ngh!"

"Fuck—fuck, I'm sorry," he nearly sobs, his face twisting in pleasure as he feels your walls clench and stretch to accommodate him. You're warmer than he remembers, tight and snug around him, your cunt drooling, making a mess of the table beneath you. He’s deep, deeper than he should be, his balls grinding against you as he fills you past the point of saturation. "You're so tight, baby—you're taking me so fucking well, I—"

He starts to move, his rhythm messy and frantic. He’s devouring you, mind, body and soul — his mouth finding yours again in a searing kiss, ensuring that every one of your moans land right on his tongue as you sob out your need. He can feel you leaking down the length of him, soaking the table, making a mess and it fills him with a jostle of pride knowing he was the only man who could get you this wet and needy. Every pulse of your pussy is another nail in his coffin, another reason for him to lose his mind.

"Look at me," he growls when your head falls back with a particularly loud moan, his voice a wrecked octave that barely scrapes past his throat as his hips continue to pat pat pat, driving his cock into you. "Do you want the whole camp to hear us? Want to wake up my soldiers and have them realize you're getting fucked nice and dirty?"

You vigorously shake your head, your nails dragging down the massive expansive of his back, trying to grasp at anything to keep you grounded as Varka fucks you. It's nasty and mean and sweaty but you wouldn't want it any other way. Two thick digits circle your lips before he pushes them inside, pressing down on your tongue.

"Attagirl."

You always dreamt of flying. Vincent knew how you envied the birds and would often talk about how in another life you’d be a pilot. So, before you’re too pregnant to do so, he uses two of his weatherman paycheques to get you on a plane - commercially, and it’ll only fly over to the next state and back. He says it cost too much for him to come too, but the truth is darker. He’s planning his first kill, and he doesn’t want you to be in the area in case his plan fails. You can claim innocence that way.

So Vincent kisses you, one hand on your stomach to bid a temporary farewell to his child, and waves to you as you enter the plane. He thinks when he gets promoted enough, he’ll buy you your own plane.

When the police knock on his door, Vincent feels confused. He covered his tracks, didn’t he?

But they’re not there to arrest him. Instead one pats him on the shoulder and offers condolences. Vincent can’t even think to snap at him to get off. Not when the other is trying to string words into a sentence that doesn’t make sense.

A fire on the plane. An explosion. It wasn’t quick or pretty. None saved.

Those words shouldnt mix. You can’t actually be dead. No, no, you’re pranking him. Vincent folds his arms and looks out to the street, expecting to see you there laughing and saying these men were some of your cousins and just playing a trick on him to make him feel like part of the family.

But you’re not there.

Vincent isn’t sure how he has such a lack of dignity to be falling against the doorframe. His head spins and he feels like it might actually snap off.

This is bullshit. It’s all bullshit. You were his wife. You were pregnant. This was what you two had always wanted. He’d planned it all. It couldn’t have gone wrong. He couldn’t have made it all go wrong.

But he has, hasn’t he? He bought you that ticket. He handed you that fate. He might as well have handed you the shovel to dig your and your baby’s graves.

And something in Vincent breaks for good.

It’s painful without you. He’s more painful without you by his side, telling him when to cut it out. Vincent sometimes thinks he’s gone numb. Crazy.

But then he realises he isn’t numb at all. It’s just the searing agony has become so constant that he now sees it as just another thing, when in reality it’s everything. It’s in the air he breathes and the stars he sees in the sky and the lives he takes.

Vincent isn’t so stupid to think he could bring you back by being famous. It’s his own goal. But he likes to think it’ll make you smile from Heaven. Vincent doesn’t know if he personally believes in things like that, but he knows you have to be there. Of course, that’s contradictory, but he just knows. If there wasn’t Heaven before you, the world would have to create it just for you because you deserved that perfection.

Vincent hopes you have wings there. That way you can fly without fear.

He dreams of you. Every night, it’s always some variance. It could be the day you met, or your first kiss, or your wedding day. Either way, it all transitions to you on that plane - only in his nightmares, you’re screaming for him.

There’s a few times when Vincent thinks he’s actually talking to you, where he’s in some room he doesn’t recognise and you’re sat there, appearance difference but so clearly you. You’re the only one apart from your baby who can bring Vincent Whittman to his knees. He shakes when you hold his face and tell him it’s alright.

But it’s not alright. Vincent wants to yell that at you, before remembering he’s never had the heart to raise his voice at you. He instead settles for begging for you to come back until he’s hoarse in the throat and wakes up in your shared bed, on your side because he can’t bring himself to look at that empty space when looking at the nursery is hard enough.

Thirty years go by. Vincent gets worse as he realises he’s been a widower longer than the time he’s known you. His killings get more brutal and frequent. Never on your birthday or your anniversary though. And never when he swears he can see your face in a mirror reflection or he’s presenting a show and feels invisible arms wrap around him as the crowd cheers.

It’s you. His friends think it’s a coping mechanism, to be searching for signs you’re still here. Vincent can admit it is, but he would never give up that naive feeling of delusion and hope. He might be cynical and never believed in anything, but he believed in you. That you existed and that even if the world never speaks your name anymore, you left a mark. You haunt him and he’s grateful. He’d sooner you haunt him than leave him alone. Anything off or odd, he links it back to you, convincing himself that it’s you.

A talk host resigns just before Vincent plots? That’s you, giving him a free promotion. A news anchor reveals his wife is pregnant as Vincent is ready to swing a heavy light into his face? He can’t kill him now. You wouldn’t want him to ruin a family. Hell, he could see birds in the same place when he drives to work every day and he swears it’s you, letting him know if it’ll be a busy day.

Part of Vincent knows he’s as delusional as he is deranged. The other part of him welcomes the madness because it brings him fame and you.

He’d trade it all for you though. Fuck everything he’s built up if it means he can hold you again.

And Vincent does lose it all. His last thoughts flurry between pain, anger that it ended this way, and a sense of gratefulness that he gets to see you again.

When he finds out he’s in Hell, however, his systems go cold. Sure, he knows he deserves it. He doesn’t care. But why can’t he see you? Yes, not being with you is his own personal hell, but being with him was your personal heaven. So why isn’t he allowed to visit you? Wouldn’t that make you happy? He knows you’d never move on.

The moment he becomes Vox - becomes an Overlord - he tries to use his power to try contact Lucifer. Surely a fallen Angel could get him to you in Heaven? To your child? It’s been almost forty years. Vincent’s fucking tired.

But Lucifer doesn’t allow audiences from Sinners. Vincent hates him for it. He would’ve pleaded on hands and knees if he had to. Would’ve given his soul without a second of hesitation.

It’s becoming easier to slip into Vox. Vincent feels more comfortable that way each day that passes, especially with his disastrous attempt to befriend your second cousin Alastor in hopes they could take over enough territory to be noticed and then Vincent could see you again.

But your cousin, as he learnt, is too unlike you. Alastor’s smile isn’t like yours. He doesn’t laugh like you. He doesn’t think like you. It feels wrong. Vincent loves the power Alastor has, but he’d trade it for getting to see Alastor act like you, just to know someone else remembers you. Just to try pretend it’s you.

He pretends people are you when he sleeps with them. It never quite works, but it does the job, even if his heart is never in it. The first time he slept with someone, he threw up afterwards after feeling like he’d betrayed you. But he rationalises it by saying he’ll apologise when he sees you again. Besides, if it doesn’t mean anything and it’s just for power, it doesn’t count. Especially when he tries to use his screen to visualise it’s you.

He’ll never even entertain flirting with anyone when it’s an important date though. Not on your birthday or anniversary, or on the day your baby would’ve been born. On those days, no one even sees him. Hell expects week-long power cuts around that time. Val knows to not bother knocking and suggesting sex for relief.

It’s one hundred and four years, three months and twenty seven days since you left Vincent.

The seventh Extermination.

Vox enjoys it like he’s done since he realised it only lasted a day. He laughs at Alastor being hurt, he gapes as the hotel’s maid kills the first man, and he sings and dances with Val and Velvette.

Then he goes and feeds Shock.wav, like normal. Shock.wav, programmed to act like how he hoped your baby would be. Vincent tells the shark all about what’s happened, just like what he’d do at your grave.

And then a funny thought enters his head. Angelic steel kills angels. Angelic power could in theory be used against Heaven. If he broke down the barrier…

Vincent could see you. He could go home to you.

He can. There’s no time for questioning anything. He has a way to you. Finally.

Vincent starts drawing up plans that very minute. The first design for the Might of Lilith. A way to convince Val and Vel to go through with the idea. A contract draft for Carmine Industries.