Amy | 27 | she/her β¦ Hazbin Hotel oneshots β¦
Mostly focused on Lucifer x Female!Reader Minors do not interact β 18+ only
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β Adam can intimidate demons, command an army, and win just about any argument. Holding a conversation with you, however, is another story.
β¦ pairing β Adam x female!reader
β¦ warnings β none.
Adam does not get shy.
He gets louder, cockier, somehow even more insufferable than usual. Confidence is his natural state, volume is his favorite weapon, and if there's a room full of people, he'll make damn sure everyone knows the First Man just walked in.
Which is why Lute notices the difference immediately.
You're standing near one of the training platforms, sleeves rolled to your elbows as another exorcist asks you about the next drill. Adam heads straight toward you with his usual swagger, shoulders squared, wings shifting lazily behind him like he doesn't have a single doubt in the world. Then you look up, your eyes meeting his for barely a second, and whatever speech he'd planned disappears completely. His next step catches just enough to throw off his rhythm before he quickly recovers, clearing his throat like that somehow fixes it.
"You're... uh... late."
You blink.
"No, I'm not."
"...Right."
He nods once, far too confidently for someone who just forgot how clocks work.
"I meant early."
One eyebrow lifts.
"So... I'm on time?"
"Exactly."
Lute watches from across the platform, her arms folding across her chest.
Adam has talked his way through battles, meetings, arguments and speeches without missing a beat. He's never stumbled over his own words before, and certainly not because someone looked at him.
"Did you need something?" you ask, trying not to smile.
"I was just..." He gestures vaguely toward the training grounds, his hand making an impressively meaningless circle through the air. "...checking the drill layout."
You glance in the direction he's pointing.
"There isn't one."
"...The equipment, then."
"The equipment's behind you."
Adam turns just enough to confirm you're right before pretending he'd known that all along.
"Yeah. Exactly."
You step past him to grab a blade from the rack, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you reach for it. The contact barely lasts a second, but Adam freezes anyway, his shoulders locking while his wings twitch behind him, and for one painfully obvious moment he seems to forget what he was doing there in the first place.
Lute doesn't even try to hide her grin as she walks over, stopping beside him just as you slide the blade back into its sheath.
"You get shy around her."
Adam tears his eyes away from you so fast it would almost be convincing if Lute hadn't already caught him staring.
"I do not."
"You literally forgot what you came over here to say."
"I was distracted."
"By what?"
He opens his mouth, confidently ready to answer, then realizes he has absolutely nothing.
"The..." His hand lifts again, pointing toward absolutely nowhere. "...drill."
Lute lets out a quiet snort, and you glance back just in time to catch Adam looking at you again. The second your eyes meet, he looks away so quickly the tips of his ears turn faintly pink, leaving Lute to shake her head with the kind of smile that says she'd already figured it out long before he had.
"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought."
Κα΄ΚΚα΄α΄ α΄Κsα΄ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
β¦ general warnings β violence, blood, injury, emotional distress, grief, trauma, religious and moral conflict, strong language and swearing (canon level), mentions of death, war, and loss, slow-burn romance, tension, and angst, as well as occasional suggestive themes.
β¦ blurb β Adam died during the battle against Hell, and you never believed it could happen to him. He was your commander, your closest ally, and someone you loved in silence. While you grieve, Heaven begins to crumble after Sir Pentious arrives, proving that sinners can change. Angels turn on each other, lost and angry. Meanwhile, Adam wakes up in Hell, alive but fallen, hiding among those he once hated. When you learn the truth, everything you believe is shaken. Adam is aliveβ¦ and he is a sinner. Will love change how you see Hell, redemption, and him?
He dragged in a deep, ragged breath, the motion tearing through him as if his body had forgotten how to function properly. The air that filled his lungs tasted wrongβthick, ashen, laced with something acrid that burned on the way down. His chest arched violently, muscles straining as though each inhale had to be forced past an invisible barrier, the sensation scraping along his throat and settling hot and sharp in his lungs.
For a moment, it felt easier not to breathe at all.
A rough, uneven exhale left him, and he staggered where he stood before his strength failed entirely. The ground met him hard as he collapsed back onto it, palms scraping against cracked earth that was far from Heavenβs polished marble. He lay there, struggling to steady his breathing, each breath shallow and uncooperative, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs.
His vision swam, edges blurring into darkness and red haze. The sky above himβif it could be called a skyβshifted and distorted, unfamiliar and hostile. His mind reached for clarity and found nothing.
Memory came in fragments.
A searing pain in his back. Not a cut, but something deeper. Something that had pierced straight through him, a violent rupture that stole the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. He could almost feel it again, the unbearable heat of steel driven between his shoulders, the pressure splitting him open from spine to chest.
And thenβ
Your voice. Sharp and desperate. Breaking as it tore through the chaos.
You were screaming his name. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went dark.
For a long moment, he remained on the ground, staring up at a sky that felt wrong in a way he could not immediately name. It wasnβt Heavenβs endless blue, radiant and untouched. It wasnβt the battlefield either, torn apart by divine light and infernal fire. This sky was darker, stained in deep shades of crimson and violet, choked by slow-moving clouds that did not drift so much as linger.
Adam inhaled carefully, testing his lungs. The air scraped on the way down, thick and sour, carrying the unmistakable scent of rot and smoke. It settled heavily in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
βWhat the hellβ¦β he muttered under his breath, the words rough and hoarse.
He pushed himself up slowly, bracing one hand against the pavement. The surface beneath him was uneven and grimy, small fragments of glass biting into his palm. He rose to his knees first, steadying himself against a brick wall slick with something damp, then forced himself upright.
His legs wobbled under his weight.
For a second, the world tilted dangerously, and he had to grab onto a rusted fire escape to keep from collapsing again. His jaw tightened in irritation.
βGet a grip,β he hissed at himself, as though his body were a disobedient soldier.
Memory came in flashes. Luciferβs smirk. The impact of the ground splitting beneath him. The blade.
God, the blade.
He reached back instinctively, fingers brushing over his spine where steel had torn through him. There was soreness there, a deep and unpleasant ache, but no open wound. No blood soaking through fabric. No divine glow knitting flesh back together.
And then your voice. Clearer now. You had screamed his name. Not an order. Not a command. A scream. Raw. Desperate.
His brow furrowed deeply.
He finally lifted his head and truly looked around him.
The alley stretched out on both sides, narrow and suffocating, brick walls rising high and blocking out most of the sky. Trash bags were piled haphazardly near overflowing bins, the smell of spoiled food and stale alcohol thick in the stagnant air. A flickering neon sign buzzed at the far end, casting sickly pink light over cracked pavement and scattered bottles.
Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.
It wasnβt a normal laugh. It was sharp. Twisted. Wrong.
Adamβs lips curled in disgust.
βPentagram City,β he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Of course. The battle must have pushed deeper into the city. He must have taken that hit and blacked out. That was it. Heβd been knocked unconscious and dumped here while the extermination continued elsewhere.
Yes. That made sense.
He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders with deliberate control, trying to ignore the lingering weakness in his limbs.
βLute?β he called out, his voice echoing faintly down the alley. βForm up.β
Silence answered him.
No beating of wings. No armored footsteps. No sharp acknowledgment.
He frowned.
βEnough screwing around,β he snapped, louder now. βReport.β
Still nothing.
Only distant music drifting from somewhere beyond the alley. The clink of glass. The murmur of voices that sounded distorted, layered with undertones that didnβt belong to anything holy.
His chest tightened, but not with fearβwith something colder.
Where was his army?
Where were you?
He stepped toward the mouth of the alley, boots crunching over broken glass. As he reached the edge, two figures stumbled past the entranceβtall, twisted silhouettes with glowing eyes and jagged grins, their movements loose and careless.
One of them paused when he noticed Adam standing there.
βWell, Iβll be damned,β the creature drawled, voice warped and amused. βLook what crawled outta the gutter.β
The other squinted at him, head tilting. βNice cosplay, buddy. Exorcist convention in town?β
Adamβs expression darkened instantly.
βWatch your tone,β he said coldly, straightening to his full height, the authority in his voice instinctive and sharp. βYouβre speaking toββ
He stopped.
The demon was laughing. Actually laughing at him.
βOh, this one thinks heβs important,β the first one snickered. βThatβs adorable.β
Adam stared at them, something shifting uncomfortably beneath his sternum.
They werenβt afraid.
The demons moved on, their laughter loud and unrestrained as they continued down the street, their voices echoing and then fading into the distance as if nothing about that exchange had been worth remembering. Adam let out a low, irritated growl, his breathing uneven, sharp with something that felt dangerously close to angerβbut not quite the kind he was used to.
βWhat the fuck is this shit?β he snapped, the words tearing out of him as he pushed forward out of the alley, boots crunching over glass and debris, intent on following them, on correcting that mistake, on reminding them exactly who they had just spoken to.
But the moment he stepped out of the shadows, a flickering neon light from a nearby storefront washed over him in a sickly glow, casting warped colors across his formβand he stopped abruptly.
Something was wrong.
His gaze dropped instantly to his body, and for a second his mind refused to process what he was seeing. His robesβhis armor, his immaculate white uniform that had always marked him as Heavenβs chosen bladeβwere no longer white.
They were black.
Not stained. Not dirtied. Changed.
The fabric itself had shifted, dark and unfamiliar, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it, the once-golden details now glowing in a deep, unnatural red that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the surface.
A cold, creeping unease began to crawl up his spine.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, Adam lifted his head and turned toward the nearest reflective surfaceβthe grimy glass of a storefront window, plastered with obscene posters that he barely registered as his focus locked onto his own reflection.
For a moment, he didnβt recognize what he was looking at.
Everything was wrong.
The silhouette was still hisβbroad, imposing, unmistakably himβbut the colors had shifted into something darker, something corrupted. The sharp lines of his armor remained, but they no longer carried the same divine authority. The red accents burned where gold once gleamed, and the eyes of his helmetβ
They glowed.
Bright. Violent. Crimson.
βFuckβ¦β he muttered under his breath, the word quieter this time, less anger and more disbelief bleeding into it.
His thoughts stumbled over themselves, trying to make sense of it, trying to force it into something logical, something that didnβt immediately shatter everything he knew.
Why was he alone in Hell? Where was his army? Where were you? And why the hell did he look like this?
Something cold and insidious began to settle in his chest then, slipping between his ribs and tightening slowly, steadily, like a hand closing around his lungs.
βNoβ¦β
The word came out quieter, strained, as if saying it too loudly might make it real.
He needed proof, needed to fix this.
Adam reached up sharply, grabbing his helmet with both hands, fingers digging into the edges with sudden urgency as he yanked upward, expecting the familiar give, the simple motion of removing it like he had done countless times before.
It didnβt move. His grip tightened instantly. He pulled harder.
Nothing.
A flicker of panic sparked low in his chest.
He braced himself and yanked again, harder this time, muscles straining, teeth grinding together as he forced the motion with everything he hadβbut instead of the helmet coming free, a sharp, searing pain shot through his head, like trying to rip something that was no longer separate from him.
ββfuckβ!β
He stumbled back a step, breath catching, but he didnβt stop.
βNo, no, noβ!β
His voice broke into something rougher, less controlled, as he grabbed at it again, fingers slipping slightly against the surface as he pulled with more force, desperation bleeding into the movement now, the pain intensifying with every attempt.
βThis isnβt possible!β
His pulse roared in his ears, vision flickering at the edges as the realization pressed harder, heavier, suffocating in its implications.
It wasnβt coming off. It wasnβt something he was wearing anymore.
It was part of him.
βIβ¦β he murmured, the word barely forming as his hands slowly dropped away, fingers trembling slightly as the pain faded into a dull, lingering throb.
He stared at his reflection, and for the first time since waking up, something in him gave way. His shoulders sankβnot in weakness, not quiteβbut in something heavier. Something closer to resignation pressing down on him before he could stop it.
βI canβt beβ¦β he tried again, breath uneven, the words dragging painfully out of him as the realization forced its way in, piece by piece, no matter how much he resisted it.
But there was no twisting this into something else. No reframing it into a tactical error, a temporary setback, a situation he could command his way out of.
Reality stood there in front of him, reflected back in red and black.
βIβm a fucking sinner.β
The words hung in the air, heavy, final, and for a second the entire world seemed to go quiet around him, as if Hell itself had paused just long enough to let that sink in.
Then the noise came rushing back.
Laughter in the distance. Music pounding from somewhere deeper in the street. Voices overlapping, arguing, flirting, shouting. The city moved on, alive and chaotic and utterly indifferent to the fact that Heavenβs former executioner had just fallen into its streets.
Adam didnβt move.
His gaze stayed locked on his reflection, as if staring long enough might force it to change back, might snap something into place and undo whatever cosmic mistake had just been made.
It didnβt.
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, sudden and jagged.
βYeah,β he muttered, dragging a hand down over the front of his helmet as if that would help somehow. βThatβsβ thatβs funny. Real funny.β
His jaw tightened.
βNo,β he went on, shaking his head once, more forcefully now, trying to push back against the thought before it could settle. βNo, thatβs not how this works. Thatβs not how any of this works.β
His voice rose slightly, gaining edge, slipping back into something more familiarβauthority, certainty, even if it was forced.
βAngels donβt justββ he gestured vaguely around him, frustration snapping through the movement, ββend up here after dying. Thatβs the whole fucking point.β
His chest rose sharply with another breath, the air still burning on the way in.
He turned abruptly away from the glass, like looking at himself any longer would make it worse, pacing a few steps before stopping again, agitation building under his skin with nowhere to go.
βThis is a mistake,β he said, more firmly now. βSome kind of glitch. Cosmic bullshit. Whatever.β
That had to be it.
Because the alternativeβ
His thoughts cut off abruptly.
Because the alternative meant everything he had ever believed in was wrong.
And thatβ
No.
Adam clenched his fists tightly at his sides, grounding himself in the familiar tension of it, forcing his breathing to steady through sheer will.
βAlright,β he muttered, tone shifting again, sharper now, more controlled. βFine. Doesnβt matter.β
If this was Hell, then there were rules. Even if they were twisted, even if they were wrong, there were still rules.
And he could work with rules.
His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing behind the glowing visor as he scanned the street more carefully this time, actually taking in what was around him instead of just reacting to it. Demons passed by in loose clusters, some glancing at him with mild curiosity, others not even bothering. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting everything in shifting colors, signs buzzing and crackling, music spilling out from open doors.
No one saluted.
No one moved aside.
No one cared.
His lip curled faintly.
βYeah,β he muttered under his breath. βThatβs gonna change.β
If he was stuck hereβtemporarilyβthen he wasnβt going to stand around having an existential crisis in the middle of some shitty alleyway.
He needed information.
He needed to understand what the hell had happened.
And then he was going to fix it.
But as quickly as that instinct rose, something colder followed, sharper, more controlled, the kind of awareness that had kept him alive through centuries of exterminations. Adam stilled, his gaze sweeping the street again, this time not with arrogance, but with calculation. He had slaughtered demons for ages, cut through them without hesitation, without mercy, and if even a fraction of them recognized himβif word spreadβthis wouldnβt be confusion or mockery anymore. It would be a hunt.
His jaw tightened.
βRight,β he muttered more quietly, the edge in his voice lowering into something more deliberate, βmaybe donβt announce yourself to the entire fucking city.β
He forced himself to relax his posture, just slightly, enough to dull the immediate authority he usually carried without thinking, enough to blendβif that was even possible looking like this. The red glow of his visor dimmed faintly as he tilted his head down, angling it away from the brighter lights, instinctively seeking shadow rather than dominance.
Observe first. Act later.
It felt wrong. It felt like stepping backward instead of forward, like yielding ground he had never once considered giving.Β But this wasnβt Heaven, and he wasnβt at the head of an army anymore.
The thought hit harder than he expected.
He wasnβt at the head of anything.
A flicker of irritation flared in his chest, quick and sharp, and with it came another realization, quieter but far more bitter. No one had come for him. No recall, no retrieval, no divine intervention ripping him out of Hell the second he fell. Nothing. Just⦠silence.
Adam scoffed under his breath, the sound dry and humorless.
βFigures.β
Of course they hadnβt planned for this. Of course Heaven hadnβt even considered the possibility that something could go wrong. To them, the exterminations were routine, controlled, inevitable. Adam went down, Adam came back, rinse and repeat, an eternal cycle they didnβt have to think about because he handled it for them.
And now?
Now he was here.
And they werenβt.
Something darker settled beneath his irritation, something heavier, edged with resentment he hadnβt expected to feel, not toward them. Not toward Heaven.
βThey didnβt even think about it,β he muttered, quieter now, more to himself than anything else, his gaze unfocused for a brief second. βDidnβt even consider I might not walk back through that portal.β
Not one of them had prepared for failure. Not one of them had planned for what happened if their weapon broke.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
Then, unbidden, your face surfaced in his mind.
You.
His second-in-command. His most trusted soldier. The only one who could keep up with him without being told twice, the only one who didnβt hesitate when he pushed harder, demanded more, expected perfection and got it. You had always been thereβat his side, just behind his shoulder, moving when he moved, thinking the same way, anticipating the same outcomes.
His⦠friend.
The word felt strange, unfamiliar in a way that made something in his chest tighten slightly.
Adam exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before letting it fall again.
βYou made it back,β he muttered under his breath, more certain of that than anything else. You were too good not to. Too fast, too sharp, too stubborn to go down that easily. If anyone had survived that mess, it was you.
The question wasnβt if you had lived.
It was what you were doing now.
His brow furrowed slightly.
You had seen it. Him going down. That blade. You had been there at the end.
How had you reacted?
The image tried to formβyour expression, your voiceβbut it slipped just out of reach, replaced instead by that last memory, your scream cutting through the chaos, raw and desperate in a way he had never heard from you before.
His jaw tightened again.
βYeah,β he muttered, quieter now. βYou wouldnβt just let that go.β
No. You werenβt the type to accept it, to bow your head and move on like the rest of them probably would. You were loyal to a fault, relentless when it mattered.
Youβd want answers.
Youβd want blood.
A faint, sharp smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything.
βGood,β he said under his breath.
Because if you were angryβif you were pissed enoughβyou wouldnβt stay in Heaven. Youβd come back down. Youβd tear through Hell looking for whoever did it, looking for Lucifer, for anyone involved.
And if you didβ¦
His gaze lifted slightly, something more focused settling behind the red glow of his visor.
Then he wouldnβt be alone for long.
βJust gotta not get killed again before that happens,β he added dryly, rolling his shoulders as he pushed himself fully into motion, steps slower now, more measured as he merged into the flow of the street, keeping his head down just enough to avoid drawing too much attention while his eyes tracked everything around him, exits, groups, behaviors, patterns.
Information first.
Survive long enough to use it.
Then fix the rest.
Κα΄ΚΚα΄α΄ α΄Κsα΄ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
β¦ general warnings β violence, blood, injury, emotional distress, grief, trauma, religious and moral conflict, strong language and swearing (canon level), mentions of death, war, and loss, slow-burn romance, tension, and angst, as well as occasional suggestive themes.
β¦ blurb β Adam died during the battle against Hell, and you never believed it could happen to him. He was your commander, your closest ally, and someone you loved in silence. While you grieve, Heaven begins to crumble after Sir Pentious arrives, proving that sinners can change. Angels turn on each other, lost and angry. Meanwhile, Adam wakes up in Hell, alive but fallen, hiding among those he once hated. When you learn the truth, everything you believe is shaken. Adam is aliveβ¦ and he is a sinner. Will love change how you see Hell, redemption, and him?
The portal sealed shut behind you with a low, final hum, and the sound seemed to swallow the world whole, leaving nothing but a vast and suffocating silence in its wake.
You were home. Back in Heaven. The air was clean, untouched by smoke or ash, soft light spilling across marble floors as if nothing had happened. You were exhausted, wounded, your body aching beneath torn fabric and drying blood, every muscle trembling with the aftermath of battle. You had made it back to the one place demons could not reach you.
You were safe.
And yet the word meant nothing.
There was no relief settling into your bones, no pride at surviving, no quiet sense of victory. There was only a strange and unbearable emptiness spreading through your chest, as though something vital had been ripped out of you, leaving behind a hollow space that echoed when you tried to breathe.
Adam was dead.
The thought did not feel real, even as it pressed against you from every angle.
He had led the extermination the way he always did, sharp and merciless, commanding the exorcists with that same unshakable confidence that made everyone either follow him or resent him. He had stood at the front of the charge, blade flashing, wings spread wide in defiance. And youβhis second, the one he trusted above all othersβhad followed without hesitation. You had never questioned him. You had never doubted. Your faith in him had been instinctive, absolute, woven into the very core of who you were.
You had fought beside him as you always did, moving in perfect sync, two forces cutting through Hell as though nothing there could ever truly threaten you.
But this time, Hell had decided to answer.
You barely remembered crossing the gates of Heaven. Angels had rushed toward you the moment the portal closed, their white wings flashing in your peripheral vision, their voices overlapping in frantic questionsβWhat happened? Where is he? Where is Adam? Hands had reached for you, trying to steady you, to pull answers from your lips. But all you could hear was a high, relentless ringing in your ears, a sharp, metallic sound that drowned everything else. Their words blurred into meaningless noise, their faces into pale, indistinct shapes. You did not answer them. You did not even slow down. You simply walked past them as if they were not there, moving through the golden streets like something hollowed out and mechanical, your steps unsteady but determined, until you reached your apartment without ever truly seeing the path you took. You dragged yourself across your apartment floor now, leaving faint streaks of blood behind you, your clothes torn and heavy against your skin, the memory looping relentlessly in your mind no matter how much you tried to outrun it.
You had been distracted by Cherri Bomb. One deafening explosion had erupted too close, too sudden, the shockwave tearing through the air and knocking you off balance mid-flight. For a split second you had lost control, wings faltering, and the blast had thrown you down hard against the cracked earth below. Before you could regain your footing, Huskβs claws had been on you, Angelβs laughter ringing sharp and cruel as they dragged you into the dirt. You had been forced to fight from the ground, pinned and furious, struggling for long, endless minutes to break free while the sky above you burned.
And while you were trapped there, Adam had been facing Lucifer.
Luciferβthe fallen angel, the disgrace, the self-proclaimed king of that rotting pit you had spent centuries cleansing. You could still see them clashing in flashes between blows, divine light colliding with infernal power, the force of it shaking the very ground beneath you.
You saw it too late.
Lucifer driving him down with brutal strength, the impact of his body carving a crater into the earth as if Heaven itself had struck him. You screamed his nameβat least you think you didβbut your voice had been swallowed by the chaos.
By the time you tore yourself free and forced your way toward him, it was already too late.
You saw her then, that small, smug maid with blood on her hands, driving her blade straight through Adamβs back. The sword pierced him clean through, the metal emerging from his chest in a sickening flash, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to stop as his body stiffened before collapsing forward.
You stood frozen in your apartment now, the same image replaying over and over in your mind, his body hitting the ground.Β
Your breathing turned uneven, shallow and ragged, as though the air itself resisted entering your lungs. You barely remembered the sound that had torn from youβa scream, raw and unrestrained, ripped from the deepest part of your chest. You barely remembered running to him, Lute reaching him at the same time, both of you dropping to your knees so hard the impact scraped skin from bone.
You had gathered him into your arms without thinking, pressing your hands uselessly against the wound, begging him to stay, to breathe, to fight just a little longer.
You had never prayed so desperately in your existence.
And Heaven had not answered.
Now you stood alone in the quiet of your apartment, blood drying against your skin, your reflection faint and unfamiliar in the polished surfaces around you, and for the first time since your creation, you did not know what to do.
Outside, laughter drifted faintly through the window, light and careless.
Your stomach twisted violently at the sound.
How could they laugh? How could Heaven remain untouched, radiant and serene, while your world had collapsed in a single, brutal moment? How could eternity continue as though nothing had shifted? The bitterness rose sharp in your throat, and you clenched your jaw hard enough that it ached, turning away before anyone could ever see the fracture spreading through you.
Because if Adam was truly gone, then something inside you had died with him.
You made your way to the bathroom without really deciding to, your body moving on its own while your mind remained trapped somewhere else, still kneeling in a crater of broken earth instead of standing beneath pristine ceilings of white and gold.
As you walked, you began removing your clothes slowly, almost mechanically, fingers clumsy as they worked at clasps and torn fabric. Each piece slipped from your shoulders and fell to the floor with a dull, careless sound. The uniform that had once gleamed with authority now hung ruined in your hands, stiff with dried blood, ripped along the seams, dirt ground deep into the fibers. By the time the last layer pooled at your feet, there was nothing left to shield you from what the battle had done.
Your skin was smeared with grime and streaked with drying crimson, dark bruises spreading like ink beneath the surface, tender and blooming along your ribs and thighs. There was blood that belonged to demons, and blood that belonged to angels, and some that belonged to you. It clung stubbornly, as though unwilling to let go.
You stepped beneath the shower and turned the handle until the water ran hot, steam beginning to rise and blur the edges of the room. When the heat finally cascaded over you, it felt almost unreal, a fragile comfort that barely reached past the surface of your skin. The water ran over your shoulders, traced the curve of your spine, slipped along the edges of your wings as they hung heavy behind you. Thin streams of pink spiraled toward the drain, disappearing quietly, as though the violence of the day could be washed away so easily.
But the weight inside your chest did not lighten.
You stood there, unmoving, eyes unfocused, watching nothing at all as the water fell around you. Your mind remained fixed on the same moment, replaying it mercilessly, frame by frame.
βHeβs gone,β you whispered finally, the words barely forming, fragile and breath-thin.
Your voice sounded distant to your own ears, cracked and small, as though it did not belong to you anymore. Saying it aloud did not make it real. It only made it sharper.
If you closed your eyes, you could almost hear him scoff at you. He would call you dramatic. Tell you to stop moping. Tell you to get your shit together and act like the soldier he trained you to be. He would bark at you to stand up straight, to stop drowning in your feelings, to take control the way an exorcist should.
The image rose so vividly that a faint, broken smile touched your lips despite yourself.
It hurt more than anything.
Adam had never been adored in Heaven. Even as the first man, the first soul shaped by divine hands, he had never been treated with reverence. He was too loud, too arrogant, too unapologetically crude. His humor was sharp and vulgar, his confidence suffocating to those who preferred humility and grace. He did not soften himself for approval, and he never cared to.
And for that, he was never truly embraced.
But you had loved him exactly as he was.
Blunt. Fierce. Honest to the point of cruelty. Funny in a way that caught you off guard when you least expected it. You had been an exceptional exorcist long before he took notice, but once he did, he never let you fade into the background again. He trained you himself, corrected you, challenged you, demanded more from you than from anyone else. And when you proved you could endure it, he named you his second-in-commandβthe one who would lead if he ever fell, the one he trusted to carry his authority in his absence.
He trusted you.
And you had trusted him just as completely, without question, without doubt.
Maybe your loyalty had crossed a line somewhere along the way. Maybe those endless patrols, those late-night training sessions beneath a silent sky, had been less about duty and more about the quiet need to remain near him. Maybe every excuse to stay longer, to argue strategy just a little more, had been your way of holding onto something you were too afraid to name.
Maybe Adam had stopped being just the first man.
Maybe, to you, he had been the only one.
And now he was gone.
The sob broke free before you could contain it, tearing through your chest with a force that bent you forward. Your knees gave out, and you slid slowly down the tiled wall of the shower until you were curled on the floor, your wings folding instinctively around your body, wrapping tight as though they could shield you from a grief that had already sunk too deep.
The water continued to pour over you, steady and relentless, soaking your hair, your shoulders, your trembling hands, mingling with tears you no longer tried to hide.
You stayed there, folded in on yourself beneath the fading warmth, crying until your throat burned and your body felt hollowed out all over again, until the water gradually lost its heat and turned cold against your skin.
Even then, you did not move.
Hours passed without you truly noticing them.
At some point the water had stopped running, leaving the air cold and heavy with steam that slowly faded from the mirrors and tiles. You remained seated on the shower floor long after the chill had settled into your bones, wings wrapped around you as though they alone could hold you together. Eventually, the trembling eased. Your tears slowed. Your breathing steadied into something almost controlled.
You pushed yourself upright with slow determination, every movement deliberate, as if you were assembling armor piece by piece. You dried your skin, careful around the bruises, careful around the cuts, and dressed in clean white garments that felt too pristine against a body that still remembered the dirt of Hell. You tied your hair back. You straightened your shoulders. You folded your wings neatly against your spine.
If Heaven wanted answers, you would give them.
The Council chamber rose at the center of the celestial district, towering and radiant, its tall archways glowing with divine light that had once filled you with pride. Tonight, it only felt distant. As you approached, you expected silenceβsomber faces, hushed voices, the weight of loss pressing down upon the most powerful beings in existence.
Instead, you were met with chaos.
Voices overlapped in sharp bursts of disbelief and agitation, wings rustling violently as angels argued in tight clusters. The grand chamber, usually so composed and immaculate, felt fractured by tension. Seraphim stood in raised circles of light, speaking over one another. Lower-ranked angels whispered in shock, their composure unraveling.
You paused at the entrance, confusion knitting your brows.
Was this because of Adam?
You stepped further inside, scanning the room for Sera, for any sign that this frenzy was grief erupting without restraint. But the tone was wrong. It was not mourning.
It was uproar.
βImpossible,β one Seraphim hissed, wings flaring wide. βA sinner cannot ascend. That is not how the order functions.β
βAnd yet he stands in our realm,β another replied sharply. βExplain that.β
Your heartbeat began to quicken.
Through the rising noise, you caught a familiar, softer voiceβshaken but resolute.
βHe didnβt force his way here,β Emily was saying, her hands clenched tightly at her sides as she stood before the higher circle. βHe justβ¦ appeared. In the gardens. One moment he wasnβt there, and the nextβhe was.β
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
βThatβs absurd,β snapped a Seraphim robed in silver light. βNo sinner has ever crossed the gates without judgment.β
Emily shook her head, hair shifting with the movement. βI saw him. He was confused. Scared. He kept asking if this was a trick.β
βA trick?β another voice echoed.
βHe said he had tried to protect others,β Emily continued, her voice trembling but unwavering. βHe sacrificed himself. He didnβt expect to wake up here.β
Your mind struggled to process her words.
ββ¦Who?β someone demanded from the back of the chamber.
Emily swallowed. βSir Pentious.β
The name struck you like a physical blow.
βSir Pentious?β an angel repeated incredulously. βThe sinner from the recent extermination?β
βYes,β Emily insisted. βHeβs here. In Heaven. He was redeemed.β
The word seemed to fracture the very air.
βRedeemed?β came a cold, disbelieving whisper from above. βYou claim a soul from Hell has been purified?β
βHe didnβt look corrupted,β Emily said softly. βHe lookedβ¦ changed.β
The chamber erupted again.
βThis destabilizes everything.β
βThis undermines divine order.β
βIf sinners can ascendββ
βThen what does that mean for the system?β
You stood there without moving, the noise of the chamber swelling around you like a storm you could not step out of, your fingers slowly curling into your palms as the reality of what you were hearing settled in with sickening clarity.
Not one voice had spoken Adamβs name.
Not one.
They argued about doctrine, about systems, about destabilization and celestial order, their tones sharp with outrage and disbelief, but no one had turned toward you. No one had asked what had happened on the battlefield. No one had offered a single word of condolence. It was as if the First Man had not fallen only hours ago. As if his death had already been filed away, reduced to a casualty report somewhere beneath greater concerns.
Your jaw tightened painfully.
He had led their armies for centuries. He had been the blade Heaven wielded without hesitation, the one who descended into Hell again and again so they would never have to. And now he was gone, and they were too busy debating theology to mourn him.
A hot, bitter anger began to rise beneath your ribs.
And then there was the second wound.
A sinner⦠ascending.
The word echoed in your mind with a cruel irony.
Redeemed.
Everything Adam had fought for, every extermination he had commanded, every demon he had cut down without mercy, had been built on one unwavering truth: Hell was permanent. Damnation was final. There was no climbing back up. No second chances. No reversal of judgment.
He had believed that with absolute conviction.
He had died believing that.
And now they were standing here, calmly entertaining the idea that a sinner had simply appeared in Heaven, purified and accepted as if centuries of bloodshed had meant nothing.
You felt your throat tighten.
βHe died,β you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the chamber more sharply than you intended.
The noise faltered, if only slightly.
Several heads turned toward you at last, as though they had only just noticed your presence.
βAdam is dead,β you repeated, your tone steadier now but no less heavy, the words pressing against your chest as they left your mouth. βHe fell in battle against Lucifer. He was struck down during the extermination.β
A murmur rippled outward, softer this time, less outraged and more uncertain.
Seraβs gaze finally found you from her elevated position, her expression composed but unreadable. βWe are aware,β she said carefully.
Aware.
The simplicity of it felt like a blade sliding between your ribs.
βHe died enforcing the very order you are now questioning,β you continued, unable to stop the words from rising. βHe gave everything to maintain the line between Heaven and Hell. And now you are debating whether that line even exists.β
The chamber grew tense again, but in a different way.
βThis changes nothing about his sacrifice,β one Seraphim responded stiffly.
βIt changes everything,β you shot back before you could restrain yourself. βIf sinners can rise, then what were we fighting for? What did he die protecting?β
Silence fell heavier this time.
Emily looked stricken, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. βIβm not saying his sacrifice didnβt matter,β she said quietly. βIβm sayingβ¦ maybe thereβs more to this than we understood.β
More.
The word felt dangerous.
Adam would have laughed bitterly at that. He would have called it naΓ―ve. He would have dismissed it as weakness, as sentimental nonsense threatening the clarity of divine justice.
You could almost hear his voice again, sharp and mocking.
The word echoed in your skull like an insult.
You felt something snap.
βMore?β you repeated, and this time your voice was not steady.Β It was tremblingβnot with fear, but with fury that had been building quietly in your chest since the moment you stepped into this room and realized no one had even said his name.
βYouβre standing here,β you continued, your volume rising without restraint, βdebating whether a sinner deserves to be here, whether the system needs to be reconsidered, whether redemption is suddenly possibleβwhile Adamβs body is still warm in the dirt of Hell.β
The chamber fell silent in a way it had not before.
Your wings flared outward without you meaning to, the movement sharp and violent.
βHe descended into that pit again and again,β you went on, your voice breaking but never lowering. βHe led every extermination. He faced Lucifer himself. He stood at the front every single time so none of you would ever have to. And not onceββ your breath hitched, but you pushed through it, ββnot once did any of you question whether he deserved gratitude.β
Your gaze swept across the Seraphim, across the angels who suddenly found the marble floor fascinating.
βYou tolerated him,β you said bitterly. βYou rolled your eyes at him. You whispered about his arrogance, his vulgarity, his temper. But when Hell needed to be reminded of its place, you sent him. When demons grew bold, you sent him. When Lucifer needed to be confronted, you sent him.β
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
βAnd now heβs dead, and all you care about is that one of them might be climbing up here.β
A low murmur tried to rise, but you cut it off.
βNo,β you snapped. βNo. Sinners do not rise. They do not get rewarded. They do not get absolution because they had one moment of bravery. That is not how this works. That is not what we have fought for since the beginning.β
Your eyes found Emily again, and though your anger was not truly for her, it burned all the same.
βHe died believing Hell was final,β you said, your voice raw. βHe died believing there was a line that could not be crossed. And now youβre telling me that line is flexible? That the creatures he spent centuries cutting down might simply appear here, purified?β
Your hands trembled at your sides.
βDo you understand what that does to his sacrifice?β you demanded. βDo you understand what that makes him? A fool? A relic of a broken system?β
Seraβs expression hardened slightly. βThat is enough.β
βNo,β you shot back immediately, the word echoing off the vaulted ceiling. βIt is not enough. None of this is enough.β
Your voice cracked then, not with weakness, but with the weight of everything you had held back since the battlefield.
βYou never cared about him,β you said, quieter now but no less fierce. βNot really. Not the way you should have. He was inconvenient. Loud. Difficult. But he was loyal. He was relentless. He was ours. And he bled for this Heaven more times than any of you can count.β
The silence in the chamber grew heavy, suffocating.
βAnd now heβs gone,β you whispered, tears blurring your vision despite your effort to hold them back. βAnd not one of you has even mourned him.β
No one answered.
No one moved.
The stillness felt like confirmation.
You let out a bitter, broken laugh that did not sound like your own.
βIf sinners can rise,β you said finally, your voice hollow but resolute, βthen everything he fought for meant nothing.β
Without waiting for a response, you turned sharply on your heel. The hem of your robe swept across the polished floor as you strode toward the massive doors of the Council chamber, your wings still tense, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Behind you, someone called your name.
You did not stop.
You reached the doors and shoved them open with more force than necessary, the sound of them slamming against the walls reverberating through the chamber like a thunderclap. When they closed again behind you, the echo lingered in the vast hall, rolling outward and then fading into a thick, oppressive silence.
Inside, no one spoke.
And you walked away, leaving the weight of your words hanging in the air where Adamβs name should have been.
Κα΄ΚΚα΄α΄ α΄Κsα΄ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
Summary: Adam died during the battle against Hell. You never thought that could happen β not to him. Since his disappearance, youβve been devastated. You were his second, the one he trusted most, the one who stood beside him through everything. Deep down, you knew your loyalty went beyond duty, but you never had the courage to tell him how you really felt.
While you mourn him, Heaven starts to fall apart. The arrival of Sir Pentious has thrown everything into chaos β angels are angry, confused, and divided. A sinner has risen toward redemption, but no one realizes that at the same time, one of Heavenβs own has fallen.
Far below, Adam wakes up in Hell β changed, lost, and forced to hide among the very creatures he once condemned. He refuses to believe what heβs become, clinging to the idea that this is just another test.
Driven by grief, you and Lute want revenge on Hell, determined to restore Heavenβs order. But everything changes when you discover the truth β Adam isnβt dead. Heβs aliveβ¦ and heβs a sinner now.
Will that make you see Hell differently? Will it change what you believe about redemption?
And when you finally stand before him again, will you have the courage to tell him what you never could before?
Word Count: undetermined
Warnings: violence, blood, injury, emotional distress, grief, trauma, religious and moral conflict, strong language and swearing (canon level), mentions of death, war, and loss, slow-burn romance, tension, and angst, as well as occasional suggestive themes.
A/N: This story was inspired byΒ GravityΒ from Hazbin Hotel season 2 β that song hit way too hard and sent my brain straight into overdrive π Itβs what sparked the whole idea behindΒ For the Love of the Fallen, and Iβve been obsessing over it ever since.
If anyone wants to beΒ taggedΒ when the chapters start coming out, please send me anΒ askΒ (not a comment β they get lost way too easily down there π ).
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Hi! I forgot I previously sent you a request until you answered it. But I'm glad you're back! Hopefully you got some good rest and are doing better now! βΊοΈ
I've been very sick lately so could you maybe write something fluffy and comfy with Lucifer taking care of you when you don't feel good?
No rush, of course. Always take care of yourself first. Have a good day! πβ¨
Hi! First of all, I'm so sorry this took me...Β checks calendar... several months to answer. π
I'm really glad you decided to send it anyway, and thank you so much for your kind words. They genuinely mean a lot. π€ Things have been a bit chaotic on my end, but I'm slowly finding my way back to writing.
I'm also so sorry to hear you've been sick. I hope you're feeling much better by the time you read this. π
I absolutely adore this request. Soft, caring Lucifer is one of my favorite things to write, so I'll definitely add it to my list. Thank you for being so patient with me, and thank you for reminding me to take care of myselfβit means more than you know.
I hope you're taking good care of yourself too. β¨
While I'm trying to focus on older projects and finally make progress on everything I've left behind... and while I literally just said that coming up with new ideas has been difficult...
Pinterest had other plans.
I was casually scrolling when an idea for a brand-new series suddenly hit me. It won't be something I start anytime soonβI already have plenty on my plate, and I want to be responsible and finish what I've already begun first.
But... it's there now. Living rent-free in my head.
I'm going to post a little teaser for it, mostly so I don't forget the idea. Think of it as me leaving breadcrumbs for my future self.
It's centered around Fizzarolli's pastβmore specifically, the fireβand I already know it's going to hurt.
I alsoΒ reallyΒ want to make progress onΒ For the Love of the Fallen.
I haven't written a single word of it since posting Chapter 2, which honestly makes me a little sad because this story means so much to me.
It's one of those projects that's always in the back of my mind. I think about the characters, the scenes I have planned, the emotional moments I can't wait to write... I just haven't managed to sit down and put those ideas into words.
So yes, it's definitely one of my priorities while I'm getting back into writing. I love this story far too much to leave it collecting dust.
I'm also slowly working my way through the requests you've left me.
First of all, I'm so sorry for the wait. I know some of them have been sitting in my inbox for far longer than I ever intended, and I really appreciate your patience.
I'm not ignoring themβI promise. I'm just taking them one at a time and trying not to overwhelm myself. I'd rather take a little longer and write something I'm genuinely happy with than rush through them.
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IΒ thinkΒ I've replied to every comment (if I somehow missed yours, please don't hesitate to poke me about it!). I've also queued a few drabbles and a couple of one-shots, so there should be some content coming over the next few days.
As for writing... my brain is still waking up.
The ideas are starting to come back, but brainstorming doesn't feel as effortless as it used to. I'm having to sit with a concept for a while before it turns into something worth writing, which is a little frustrating, but I'm trying not to force it.
I'm taking things one step at a time. Thank you for being patient with me while I find my rhythm again. π€
I'm slowly making my way back to this blog after yet another disappearance. At this point, it's becoming a recurring event, and I'm really grateful to everyone who's still here despite my inconsistent posting schedule.
For those who were wondering, my grandad is finally starting to do a little better. We had to stop his immunotherapy, and while that has helped him feel better overall, the cancer has unfortunately grown a bit.
He's also been dealing with fluid around one of his lungs, so the doctors placed a drain to help remove it regularly. The past few weeks have been emotionally exhausting, and that's why I disappeared again.
Things still aren't perfect, but they're more stable now, and I'm slowly finding my way back to writing.
Thank you to everyone who has continued reading, leaving comments, or simply sticking around. It genuinely means more than you know. π€
I've reached a point where I can't look at Vox without thinking about his gills.
They're tucked away along his ribs, subtle enough that you could almost forget they're there, which somehow makes them even more fascinating. They're a part of him that's rarely exposed, almost vulnerable, and I refuse to believe they're just decorative.
They have to be sensitive.
They move. They react. It just makes sense that he'd instinctively flinch if someone traced a hand over them, or that he'd be painfully aware of even the lightest touch.
And yes... I also think they'd be very useful during intimate moments.
I'm choosing to believe that's one of the quickest ways to completely unravel him, and nobody is going to convince me otherwise.
β¦ blurb β When Vox turns Alastorβs capture into Hellβs newest spectacle, you make a choice neither of you can take back. The deal is simple: his freedom for yours.
Some may think that things are easier in Hell. No more rules, no more ethics, no one standing above you to dictate what is right and what is wrong, no divine judgment hanging over every choice like a blade waiting to fall.
The truth is, Hell doesn't free you. It simply replaces one set of rules with another, and they are far less forgiving.
Every day is survival. Every street corner is a calculation before you've even taken the first step. Power shifts constantly, alliances fracture without warning, and weakness is never pitiedβit is hunted. The law here is older than morality and far more honest: the strongest endure, the clever thrive, and everyone else learns quickly or disappears.
You learned.
You learned to read a room before stepping into it, letting your eyes drift over every face before your feet crossed the threshold. A shift in posture, a hand lingering too close to a weapon, a conversation that stopped a fraction too abruptlyβthose little details often mattered more than the words themselves. You learned to keep your chin high even when fear settled like lead in your stomach, because in Hell, hesitation costs far more than pride.
And yet, even in the darkest corners of this place, something stubborn refuses to disappear. Not goodnessβnot exactlyβbut warmth. It hides in moments no one thinks to value, in laughter echoing through a crumbling hallway long after the joke should have ended, in someone choosing the seat beside you instead of the empty one across the room, in quiet acts of kindness that nobody is willing to call kindness.
You found yours the day you walked into the Hazbin Hotel.
Charlie greeted you with hope that felt almost reckless in a realm that feeds on cynicism. The hotel itself looked like it had survived one disaster too many, its cracked wallpaper peeling from the walls, furniture that never quite matched, and repairs that seemed to have been made with determination rather than skill. It was chaotic, loud, and held together by little more than optimism, but beneath all its imperfections, it felt alive. Somehow, against all logic, it also felt safe.
It didn't happen overnight, but the room Charlie offered slowly became your own. The unfamiliar faces became familiar ones, greetings replaced cautious nods, and before you realized it, the hotel had stopped feeling like a temporary refuge. It had become something dangerously close to home.
Somewhere between Charlie's endless speeches about redemption, Husk's complaints behind the bar, and Angel's relentless teasing, you found him.
Alastor had always been there, as though he belonged to the hotel as much as the cracked walls and flickering lights. He never demanded attention, yet people's eyes drifted toward him all the same. Conversations seemed to bend around his presence, voices lowering without anyone realizing it, bodies shifting ever so slightly to make room whenever he entered. He didn't ask the room to accommodate him.
It simply did.
You noticed long before you ever spoke to him.
Your gaze found him almost automatically whenever you entered a room. He always stood just a little apart from everyone else, hands folded neatly behind his back, shoulders relaxed, his smile untouched by whatever chaos unfolded around him. It wasn't unsettling in the way Hell usually was. It was quieter than that, measured and deliberate, as though every gesture had been considered before he ever made it.
You learned quickly that being around Alastor meant paying attention.
Your first conversations were simple enough. Polite, almost formal. He spoke smoothly, every sentence delivered with effortless confidence, but what surprised you most was the way he listened. He never seemed distracted, never interrupted, never looked over your shoulder for someone more interesting. Instead, he listened as though every passing comment, every offhand remark, every insignificant detail was worth remembering.
You should have kept your distance.
Instead, you found yourself lingering.
It wasn't a decision you consciously made. It happened little by little, quietly enough that neither of you acknowledged it. Conversations stretched a few minutes longer than they needed to. He started appearing beside you more often, leaning against a doorway just as you arrived or stepping into a room moments after you did, always with some remark prepared as though your paths had crossed entirely by chance.
He never lingered long enough for anyone to question it. Never reached for you without reason. Never crossed a line that either of you could point to.
And still, he was always there.
The evenings became your favorite. Once the hotel settled into silence and the usual noise faded into distant voices and creaking floorboards, the conversations changed. His voice softenedβnot enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you didβand the hours slipped by almost unnoticed while you talked. Sometimes he answered with one of his usual clever remarks. Sometimes he let the silence settle comfortably between you, watching with that same unreadable smile. And sometimes, he simply looked at you with his head tilted ever so slightly, as though you had become a question he hadn't quite figured out how to answer.
Those were the moments that stayed with you the longest.
There were little slips, too. Barely noticeable, but impossible to miss once you started looking for them. A pause that lasted a heartbeat too long after you caught him off guard. The almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows when you stepped a little closer than usual. The way his eyes lingered on you for just a second before he hid whatever thought had crossed his mind behind another smile.
"Youβre far too perceptive for your own good, my dear."
"And you're not as unreadable as you think."
His smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind it. His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze resting on you in thoughtful silence before the familiar amusement returned to his expression.
"Oh, I do enjoy a challenge."
That was always where it ended.
It couldn't become anything else.
Alastor wasn't the kind of man who reached for people. Affection never came easily to him, if it came at all, and whatever thoughts crossed his mind remained carefully hidden behind polished manners, practiced smiles and a distance he never allowed himself to abandon completely.
Even so, he stayed.
He kept finding his way back to you, conversation after conversation, evening after evening, until his presence became so familiar that you stopped questioning it. You simply expected him to appear eventually, leaning against a doorway or emerging from another corridor with that same composed smile, as though your paths had crossed by pure coincidence yet again.
That was what made everything so complicated.
You felt it growing in all the spaces between your conversations. In the comfortable silences neither of you rushed to fill. In the way your shoulders brushed when you stood side by side, neither of you bothering to step away. In the quiet certainty that whenever something happenedβgood or badβyour eyes would instinctively search for him first.
Somewhere along the way, without realizing when it had happened, you fell in love with him.
Not all at once. There wasn't a single moment you could point to and say,Β there. It settled slowly, woven through habits and routines, through countless conversations and lingering glances, until loving him felt as natural as expecting the sun to rise.
And just as inevitable.
Because every time you looked for him...
...he was already there.
He knew.
Of course he did. Alastor noticed everything. You caught it in the careful way he watched you whenever your feelings threatened to show a little too clearly, or in the almost imperceptible adjustments he made whenever the distance between you threatened to become something more than either of you could explain.
He never acknowledged it. Never spoke of it. Instead, he held that invisible line exactly where it had always been, careful not to cross it himself, but never walking far enough away for you to stop hoping that one day he might.
So that became your place.
Not lovers. Not merely friends.
Something suspended somewhere in between, balanced so carefully that neither of you dared disturb it, yet strong enough that the thought of losing it felt unbearable.
That was why, when Charlie burst through the front doors of the hotel, shouting Alastor's name before she had even caught her breath, something inside you cracked.
She stumbled into the lobby with wild eyes and flushed cheeks, one hand braced against the doorway while the other waved frantically through the air, desperately trying to make the words come out in the right order.
Vaggie reacted first, reaching Charlie before she could collapse from exhaustion, both hands settling firmly on her shoulders as she tried to steady her breathing. You stayed rooted where you were, your pulse already pounding in your ears as you stepped closer, your voice tighter than you intended.
"What do you mean? What happened? Where is he?"
Charlie barely seemed to hear you. She slipped past Vaggie almost immediately and hurried into the lounge, fumbling with the television remote so badly it nearly fell from her hands before she managed to switch the screen on.
The image flickered once.
Twice.
Then Katy Killjoy's unmistakable voice rang through the room, bright with barely concealed delight.
"Breaking news, folksβlooks like our dear Vox has finally taken down the infamous Radio Demon!"
The image changed, and the breath caught in your throat before you even had time to process what you were seeing.
Alastor.
He was strapped to a chair, thick restraints cinched tightly around his arms and chest, his usual composure forced into unnatural stillness. A strip of fabric had been tied across his mouth to silence him, and someoneβVox, of courseβhad painted a crude, upside-down smile over it, mocking the one he never seemed to lose.
Your mind refused it.
This had to be staged. A trick. Some elaborate performance designed to humiliate him.
Because Alastor didn't get captured.
Not the Radio Demon. Not one of Hell's most powerful Overlords.
And certainly not by Vox.
Your knees gave before you could stop them. You stumbled backward until the couch caught you, sinking onto the cushions as your legs refused to hold your weight. Somewhere beside you, Charlie was still talking in rushed, uneven breaths, trying to explain what had happened at the interview with Katy Killjoy, how everything had spiraled out of control, how the room had suddenly erupted into chaos before everyone's attention shifted to Vox and Alastor. Her words tumbled over one another so quickly they barely sounded like sentences anymore.
You hardly heard any of it.
Your eyes never left the screen.
The cameras lingered on him from every angle, forcing him beneath glaring lights that reflected off polished restraints and bright neon signs. His ears rested lower than usual, his shoulders held unnaturally rigid beneath the ropes, his eyes sharper than you had ever seen them. There was no fear in them. No panic.
Just something profoundly wrong.
"What did you do..." you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as the question escaped your lips.
No one answered.
The footage looped again.
And again.
Vox had turned it into a spectacle, replaying the same shots over and over as though he wanted every sinner in Hell to memorize them. Eventually the broadcast shifted to another recording. A parade crawled through Pentagram City beneath blinding neon lights, crowds cheering as Alastor remained tied to the chair, wheeled through the streets like some grotesque trophy pulled from a hunt.
Your stomach twisted.
Vaggie stepped in front of the television, trying to block the screen from your view.
"That's enough."
You barely acknowledged her. Rising on unsteady legs, you simply moved around her without a word, your eyes finding the screen again almost immediately. It felt impossible to look away, as though turning your backβeven for a secondβwould somehow make everything more real.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Alastor wasn't supposed to lose.
He was the one who stood between the hotel and everything that wanted to tear it apart. The one who always seemed to know more than everyone else. The one who appeared before situations could spiral completely out of control, solving problems with that same infuriating smile as though he'd seen the ending hours before anyone else.
He was always there.
So what were you supposed to do if he wasn't?
The longer you watched, the more something inside you shifted. The fear never disappeared, but it slowly hardened, each replay scraping away another layer until there was nothing left but something colder. You were angry with yourself for not being there. Angry with Charlie for walking away from that interview without using the power she carried so lightly. Angry with everyone standing around you, watching with sympathy instead of urgency.
Most of all, you were angry with Vox.
The broadcast continued without mercy, laughter spilling from the television between smug commentary and carefully chosen camera angles that lingered on every second of Alastor's humiliation. By the time the footage began looping yet again, the fear had settled into something far quieter and far more dangerous.
Resolve.
You couldn't stay here.
You couldn't stand there and watch this happen to him while the rest of Hell treated it like entertainment.
The decision came before the plan. You rose without saying a word, barely aware of Charlie still talking behind you as you crossed the lounge. No one tried to stop you. Maybe they saw it on your face, the quiet determination settling where panic had been only moments before. Maybe they knew there was nothing they could say that would make you stay.
By the time your hand closed around the front door, there was only one thought left.
You were getting Alastor back.
The streets of Pentagram City blurred together as you pushed through the crowds, weaving between demons who barely spared you a glance. Neon signs bathed the sidewalks in violent shades of pink and blue, their reflections shimmering across rain-slick pavement, while somewhere overhead enormous screens continued replaying Vox's triumph for anyone willing to watch.
You kept your eyes forward.
The Vee Towers dominated the skyline long before you reached them, towering over the city like a monument to vanity, every pane of glass reflecting neon light back into the streets below. You never slowed your pace. The entrance doors slid open the moment you approached, welcoming you with mechanical precision, and you stepped inside without hesitation.
The lobby was immaculate, polished to the point of feeling artificial. Screens covered the walls from floor to ceiling, their broadcasts shifting seamlessly from advertisements to news reports before flickering back again. Cameras rotated almost imperceptibly as you crossed the room, their lenses following your every movement with unsettling accuracy.
No one intercepted you.
No receptionist questioned you.
No security guard stepped into your path.
They were expecting you.
It couldn't have been anyone else. Vox had built an empire on information, and there wasn't a corner of this tower that escaped his notice for long. You could almost feel his attention settling over you like invisible static, watching through every camera, every monitor, every glowing screen embedded into the walls.
Fine.
If he wanted an audience, you had no intention of disappointing him.
Without breaking stride, you pressed the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately, and you stepped inside as they slid shut behind you with barely a sound. Mirrored walls reflected your expression back at you from every angle, but you only glanced at them once. Gone was the disbelief that had left you frozen in front of the television. All that remained was a face set with quiet resolve and a single thought repeating itself over and over as the elevator climbed higher.
You were getting Alastor back.
Floor after floor disappeared beneath your feet, the steady hum of machinery replacing the distant noise of the lobby. The higher the elevator climbed, the quieter the tower became until only the faint buzz of electricity lingered in the silence. You never looked away from the doors, and by the time the elevator slowed to a stop, every trace of hesitation had already been left somewhere far below.
The doors slid open onto a hallway so pristine it hardly felt real. Screens glowed behind seamless panels built into the walls, streams of muted broadcasts and scrolling data casting shifting colors across the polished floor. At the very end of the corridor, a pair of doors stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the narrow opening.
You crossed the distance without slowing. Your hand settled on the handle, pushing the doors open in one smooth motion, and your eyes lifted immediately to the figure waiting on the other side.
Vox had been expecting you. He smiled the moment you stepped through the doorway.
His office was every bit as polished as the hallway outside. Towering screens stretched across the walls, their cold blue light washing over sleek furniture and spotless glass while advertisements dissolved into news reports before giving way to endless streams of scrolling code. The room hummed quietly with electricity, every surface designed to remind visitors exactly whose kingdom they had entered.
You barely noticed any of it.
Your gaze found Alastor almost immediately.
He sat near the center of the room, restrained to a heavy chair with thick bindings wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders, his wrists secured behind the backrest. The gag had been removed. His jacket was creased, a few crimson strands had fallen loose across his forehead, yet he still sat perfectly upright, refusing to give Vox even the smallest sign of defeat.
The moment his eyes met yours, something shifted.
It was so slight most people would have missed it entirely. His ears twitched almost imperceptibly, the corners of his eyes widening by the faintest fraction before that familiar smile settled back into place as though it had never left. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same.
You knew better.
After everything the two of you had shared, you recognized the concern hidden beneath the performance.
"What are you doing here, my dear?" he asked, his voice as smooth as ever despite the circumstances. "This hardly seems like the sort of place one visits voluntarily."
The teasing tone remained intact, but it couldn't quite hide the warning beneath it.
"You shouldn't have come."
A burst of distorted laughter echoed through the office before you had the chance to answer. Vox pushed himself away from his desk with infuriating ease, straightening the front of his suit as he wandered toward you, his glowing screen displaying a grin so wide it bordered on mocking.
"Oh, this..." he chuckled, spreading his arms as though welcoming an honored guest, "...this is even better than I expected. I figured Charlie might show up with one of her inspirational speeches, or maybe Vaggie would come barging in swinging that spear around again. But you?" His screen tilted slightly, studying you with open amusement. "NowΒ that'sΒ interesting."
You never took your eyes off Alastor.
"Let him go."
Vox actually stopped walking. For a brief moment, he simply stared at you before another laugh crackled through his speakers, louder this time, filling the room until it bounced off every glowing screen surrounding you.
"You marched into my tower, walked straight into my office..." He took another slow step closer, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "...and that's your grand opening?"
"I'm not here to negotiate."
"No?" His grin only widened. "Then I think you're going to be disappointed."
He turned away from you without another word, strolling toward Alastor with the casual confidence of someone who had already won. One hand settled against the back of the chair before he gave it a sharp tug, dragging it several inches across the polished floor until Alastor was positioned directly in front of you.
"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction. "Now you can get the full picture."
His hand came to rest on Alastor's shoulder, fingers brushing away an invisible speck of dust before patting him twice with exaggerated care, as though he were polishing a prized possession instead of touching one of Hell's most feared Overlords.
"You know," Vox continued, circling the chair at an unhurried pace, "people spent decades telling me the Radio Demon couldn't be beaten. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Practically a force of nature." He leaned down until his screen hovered only inches from Alastor's face, the glow reflecting in crimson eyes that never looked away from yours. "Funny how reality turns out."
The smile never left Alastor's face, but you saw his jaw tighten beneath the painted grin, saw his fingers curl against the restraints until the leather creaked softly around his wrists.
Vox noticed where your attention had gone and smiled even wider.
"Oh..." he said, turning back toward you with unmistakable satisfaction. "You don't like seeing him like this, do you?"
He let the question hang in the air for only a moment before chuckling to himself, his gaze flicking briefly toward Alastor.
"I suppose that's the problem with caring about someone. It gives people like me something to play with."
You felt your hands curl into fists at your sides, your nails pressing painfully into your palms as Vox continued circling the chair with infuriating satisfaction. Every word out of his mouth, every smug glance thrown in Alastor's direction, every casual touch against his shoulder made something tighten inside your chest until breathing itself became difficult.
Alastor endured it without protest.
That was almost worse.
He never lowered his head. Never looked away. Even with his hands bound behind his back and that grotesque smile painted across his face, he carried himself with the same quiet dignity he always had, as though refusing to let Vox take anything more than his freedom.
Your gaze never left him.
"Free him."
The words came out steadier than you felt.
Vox sighed dramatically, rubbing the side of his screen as though you had become terribly repetitive.
"My, my... you're persistent."
"I said free him."
He chuckled again, shaking his head before slipping both hands into his pockets.
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
"You can."
"I could," he corrected with an easy shrug, "but then I'd be breaking the agreement, and contrary to popular belief, I do try to honor my deals."
Your frown deepened.
"What deal?"
Vox's grin widened so much it almost filled the screen of his face. He glanced toward Alastor before looking back at you, clearly savoring every second he managed to stretch the silence.
"Oh... he didn't tell you."
The words settled heavily in the room.
"You really came all the way here without knowing?" Vox let out another laugh, quieter this time, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "That's adorable."
Your eyes moved instinctively to Alastor.
He didn't look away.Β
He simply met your gaze with that same composed expression, though something behind his eyes had changed. The confidence was still there, the calm still carefully maintained, but beneath it lay the unmistakable look of someone who already knew exactly how this conversation would unfold.
"We made a deal," Vox continued before Alastor could speak. "No tricks. No chains dragged through the streets. No dramatic kidnapping." He spread his hands with theatrical innocence. "He accepted my terms and came here of his own free will."
For a moment, you were convinced you had misheard him.
Your gaze snapped back to Alastor, searching desperately for the smallest sign that Vox was lying, that this was another one of his games. Instead, Alastor slowly lowered his eyes before lifting them back to yours, his smile never wavering despite the weight behind the gesture.
"You..." Your voice faltered. "You agreed to this?"
Silence.
"It was the most... practical outcome available at the time," he answered at last, his tone as composed as ever. "Not every negotiation ends pleasantly, my dear."
You stared at him, unable to reconcile the words with the man sitting in front of you.
Alastor wasn't the kind of man who surrendered his freedom. He was meticulous, always calculating three moves ahead, always the one controlling the conversation instead of following it. You had watched him outmaneuver Overlords with nothing more than a smile and a carefully chosen sentence. The idea that he would willingly place himself in Vox's hands was so completely at odds with everything you knew about him that your mind refused to make sense of it.
Question after question crowded your thoughts. What could Vox possibly have offered him? What had forced his hand badly enough that this had become the better option? What kind of bargain could make Alastor walk willingly into the office of the one man he despised more than anyone else?
None of it mattered.
Not while he was still sitting there.
Your eyes drifted back to the restraints cutting into the sleeves of his coat before you lifted your head to face Vox once more. The confusion was still there, tangled together with the hurt and the anger, but beneath it something steadier had taken hold. You still didn't understand why Alastor had made that choice, and perhaps you wouldn't until much later. Right now, there was only one thing you knew with absolute certainty.
"I don't care what deal you made," you said, your voice quieter than before but no less firm. "You're going to let him go."
Vox stared at you for a moment before another burst of laughter crackled through the room. He leaned back against his desk, one hand pressed theatrically against his chest as though you had just told the greatest joke he had ever heard.
"Oh, you're serious."
His screen glitched with amusement, the wide grin stretching from one edge to the other as he looked between you and Alastor.
"You really think you can just walk in here, demand I hand over the biggest prize I've had in years, and expect me to smile, shake your hand and send him home?"
He laughed again, slower this time, clearly enjoying himself.
"I've spent decades waiting for this." His gaze drifted lazily toward Alastor before returning to you. "Do you have any idea how satisfying it is? Seeing the great Radio Demon tied to a chair in my office? Watching every sinner in Hell realize he isn't untouchable after all?"
His smile widened.
"The humiliation is the whole point."
The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the screens surrounding you.
Vox studied you more carefully. The amusement never disappeared, but something more curious slipped in beneath it as his gaze lingered on your face a little longer than before. His eyes drifted toward Alastor, then back to you again, as though pieces of a puzzle were quietly beginning to fall into place.
"You know..." he murmured, tilting his head slightly, "most people would've seen that broadcast and decided to stay as far away from this tower as possible." He smiled to himself. "You did the exact opposite."
He circled the chair slowly, never taking his eyes off either of you.
"You came here alone."
Another step.
"You demanded I release him before you even asked what happened."
Another.
"And you've barely looked at me since you walked through that door."
His grin sharpened.
"Oh..."
A quiet laugh escaped him as realization settled across his features.
"I see."
His attention shifted to Alastor, whose expression hadn't changed in the slightest.
"So that's why."
You felt your stomach tighten.
Vox looked positively delighted.
"I was wondering why the mighty Radio Demon suddenly looked so interested when you walked in." He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "I thought it was concern at first." His smile widened into something openly mocking. "Turns out it's something so much funnier."
Neither of you answered.
The silence only encouraged him.
"You two..." He laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I never would've guessed."
"Enough."
Your voice cut through the room before he could continue.
Vox looked back at you, one eyebrow lifting expectantly.
"I want to make a deal."
Silence lingered for barely a second before Vox threw his head back, laughter echoing off every screen in the office.
"A deal?" He wiped an imaginary tear from beneath one glowing eye. "With what exactly?"
He spread his arms toward Alastor as though presenting the answer himself.
"I already have him."
His hand rested casually against the back of the chair again, fingers tapping lightly against the wood.
"I've got the most powerful Overlord in Hell sitting right here, completely at my mercy. Why would I trade that away?" His grin widened another fraction. "What could you possibly offer that's worth more than humiliating him? Because, trust me..." He glanced down at Alastor with unmistakable satisfaction. "...there's very little I want more than this."
You didn't answer immediately.
Instead, you took a slow breath, meeting Vox's gaze without letting it waver.
"I have knowledge."
That earned a faint scoff.
"So does Google."
"I know how to get you closer to Heaven."
Vox's laughter faded on its own, as though someone had pulled the plug. The grin remained on his screen, but the amusement behind it vanished so quickly it left the room unnervingly quiet.
He didn't move.
"What..."
His voice was quieter now.
"...did you just say?"
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle shift in Alastor's posture. It was almost imperceptible, nothing more than his shoulders drawing a little tighter against the restraints and his fingers curling harder around the bindings behind the chair.
He knew.
Not what you had already said.
What you were about to say.
For the first time since you had walked into the office, something dangerously close to unease settled behind his eyes. It was subtle, buried beneath years of practiced composure, but it was there all the same, and it sent a chill racing down your spine. Alastor wasn't worried about Vox. He wasn't worried about himself.
He was worried about you.
"My dear," he interrupted smoothly, the warmth in his voice sounding almost forced now, "I'm afraid you've rather overestimated your understanding of these matters."
You didn't look at him.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he continued before you could answer, his smile widening just enough to resemble its usual confidence. "Vox does so enjoy grand promises, particularly impossible ones. I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself attempting to bargain with information that doesn't exist."
He wasn't dismissing your claim; he was begging you to stop before you said something that could never be taken back, trying to steer you away without revealing why your words had unsettled him so deeply.
A grin spread slowly across Vox screen as he watched Alastor continue speaking, his amusement growing with every attempt the Radio Demon made to interrupt.
"Well," he laughed, "now you've really got my attention."
He wandered over without the slightest hint of urgency, stopping behind the chair before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. Alastor's gaze remained fixed on yours, the warning in his eyes growing more insistent as Vox unfolded a strip of dark fabric between his fingers.
"My dear," Alastor tried again, abandoning subtlety for the first time since you'd arrived, "I would strongly adviseβ"
"Oh, spare me."
Vox shoved the cloth roughly into his mouth before the sentence could be finished, pulling it tight behind his head with practiced ease. The knot disappeared beneath crimson hair, forcing his jaw shut once more, while the painted smile stretched grotesquely across the gag as though mocking him all over again.
"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. "That's much better."
Alastor jerked sharply against the chair, the legs scraping across the polished floor as he instinctively fought against the restraints. Leather creaked around his wrists as he pulled hard enough to tighten every binding across his chest, his breathing growing noticeably heavier through his nose while his eyes locked desperately onto yours.
You had never seen him like this.
Not frightened.
Alastor didn't frighten easily.
But helpless.
The realization hit him all at once, settling across his features with a weight that even decades of perfect self-control couldn't entirely conceal. He knew you weren't bluffing. He knew you weren't trying to distract Vox or buy yourself time. Whatever secret you had uncovered, whatever impossible bargain had formed in your mind on the walk to the tower, you intended to trade it for him without the slightest concern for what it might cost you.
His head moved in the smallest shake, barely noticeable beneath the restraint holding him upright, while his eyes pleaded with an urgency that words never could. Every instinct told him to stop you, to pull you out of this room before you sacrificed something you didn't fully understand, yet all he could do was strain uselessly against the chair and watch events slip further beyond his control.
It was a feeling Alastor had almost forgotten existed. For years, he had always been the one with another plan, another escape, another carefully calculated move hidden behind that ever-present smile. Now he could do nothing except sit in silence, bound hand and foot, as the woman he loved stood only a few feet away preparing to throw herself into a deal that would almost certainly destroy her, simply because she had decided his life was worth more than her own.
Vox's attention shifted back to you, the grin on his screen returning now that the interruption had been dealt with. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, studying you with open curiosity, while the low hum of the monitors surrounding you seemed to grow louder in the silence that settled over the room.
"Now," he said at last, "you've managed to say something interesting enough to interrupt my afternoon. I'd hate for you to disappoint me."
Your mouth had suddenly gone dry.
The confidence you'd forced yourself to wear all the way to the tower wavered for the briefest instant, and you became painfully aware that you had reached the point where there was no room left for hesitation. You didn't have a plan beyond this conversation. You didn't even know whether the knowledge you possessed would truly be enough to tempt him.
You were gambling everything on the chance that Vox wanted power more than revenge.
A muffled sound drew your attention back to Alastor.
He had stopped struggling against the chair only long enough to catch your eye again, and what you found there made your chest tighten painfully. His brows had drawn together almost imperceptibly, the tension visible in every line of his body as he pulled once more against the restraints, desperate enough that the leather dug deeper into the sleeves of his coat. His head moved in another small, insistent shake, crimson eyes never leaving yours as though he could still convince you to walk away.
It struck you then with a clarity so overwhelming it almost stole the breath from your lungs.
He wasn't trying to protect a useful ally.
He wasn't trying to preserve a convenient friendship.
He was trying to protect you.
The realization settled quietly inside your chest, pushing aside the fear that had followed you ever since Charlie burst into the hotel. For so long, you had loved him without expecting anything in return, convincing yourself that the feelings hidden beneath his careful smiles existed only in your imagination. Yet no one looked at another person the way Alastor was looking at you now unless the thought of losing them was unbearable.
Your expression softened despite yourself.
"I'm sorry," you thought, hoping he would somehow understand the words you couldn't say aloud. "But I can't leave you here."
When you looked back at Vox, the hesitation had disappeared.
"My offer is simple."
Vox's smile widened.
"I'm listening."
"You release Alastor."
He waited.
"Immediately," you continued. "He's unharmed, he walks out of this tower, and whatever agreement you made with him ends the moment we shake hands."
"And in return?"
You took a slow breath.
"You keep me."
The words echoed through the office, hanging in the air between you.
"I stay here willingly as your prisoner," you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady despite the way Alastor lurched violently against the chair behind you. The muffled protest that escaped him was loud enough to make even Vox glance in his direction before his attention returned to you. "I'll tell you everything I know about getting into Heaven, everything I've learned, everything you'll need if your goal is to reach it. You get your chance at something bigger than Hell itself."
For the first time since you'd entered the office, Vox didn't answer immediately.
His fingers tapped thoughtfully against his arm as he turned away, beginning a slow circuit around the room. Every few steps his gaze drifted toward Alastor, lingering on the bound Overlord with unmistakable satisfaction before returning to you.
"You drive a hard bargain," he admitted with a thoughtful hum. "Keeping him around has been... extraordinarily entertaining." A grin spread across his screen as he glanced back at Alastor. "I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years."
His pacing slowed.
"But Heaven..."
The single word lingered between you as he looked upward, already imagining the possibilities.
"Heaven changes everything."
He stopped directly in front of you.
"I become the first sinner to breach Heaven's gates, I gain access to power no Overlord has ever touched, and every pathetic soul in both realms learns exactly who Vox is." He laughed softly to himself, the excitement growing more obvious with every passing second. "That's a legacy."
His glowing eyes settled on yours.
"And all it costs me..." His smile widened into something almost predatory. "...is letting him walk away."
Another muffled cry came from behind you.
Alastor had thrown his full weight against the restraints again, the chair scraping loudly across the polished floor as he fought with a desperation that no longer resembled anger. The bindings held fast, forcing him back into place, but his eyes never left you. They pleaded with you to stop, to take it back, to leave before Vox accepted.
You couldn't.
Not anymore.
Vox extended his hand between the two of you, his grin brighter than ever.
"I do love a good deal."
You stared at the hand for only a heartbeat before lifting your own.
The moment your fingers closed around his, Alastor let out another muffled cry and lurched so violently against the chair that it tipped onto two legs before crashing back onto the floor with a deafening crack.Β
The instant your hand closed around Vox's, a violent pulse of crimson energy burst from the point of contact, racing up both your arms before curling through the room like living smoke. The air crackled with infernal magic, thick enough to make every screen flicker at once, while glowing symbols burned briefly beneath your feet before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
The deal was done.
You felt it settle somewhere deep inside you, cold and absolute, the unmistakable weight of a contract that could no longer be undone.
Across the room, the restraints binding Alastor suddenly snapped apart.
Leather straps fell uselessly onto the floor, the chair rocking backward as he lurched to his feet almost before the last buckle had finished unlatching. He barely spared the broken bindings a glance before turning toward you, every instinct urging him to cross the room and pull you away from Vox while there was still time.
There wasn't.
The contract had already taken hold.
Vox flexed his fingers with obvious satisfaction before letting out a pleased hum. "Well..." He admired the faint traces of magic still dancing across your joined hands before releasing your grip. "That was easier than expected."
His glowing eyes drifted toward Alastor, lingering just long enough for another smug grin to spread across his screen.
"I suppose I owe you my end of the bargain."
He took a step aside, gesturing theatrically toward the open doorway.
"You're free to leave."
Alastor didn't move.
"You heard me," Vox continued with an amused chuckle. "I'm a businessman. A deal's a deal."
His grin sharpened.
"And besides..." His gaze shifted lazily between the two of you before a knowing laugh escaped his speakers. "It would be downright cruel to separate the lovebirds without letting them say goodbye." He rolled his shoulders before heading toward the far side of the office. "Go on. You've got a minute. I'm feeling generous."
The office door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss.
Silence settled almost immediately. Alastor crossed the room in three quick strides.
"What," he said, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, "were you thinking?"
His hands stopped just short of your shoulders, fingers curling into fists before they could touch you.
"That wasn't bravery, my dear. That was recklessness."Β His smile was clearly forced, leaving only a tight jaw and eyes burning with barely restrained emotion. "You have just handed yourself over to Vox on the strength of information you do not possess. He will discover that, and when he does..." His voice caught for the briefest moment before he forced it steady again. "He will kill you."
You looked up at him quietly.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
His composure was slipping faster than you had ever seen it. Every carefully measured word came a little quicker than the last, every breath just a little sharper, as though years of perfect self-control had finally begun to crack.
"You have no idea what you've done. You cannot outplay him like this. You cannot bargain with promises you cannot fulfill." He shook his head, frustration and fear bleeding together until it became impossible to separate one from the other. "You should never have come here."
You reached for him anyway.
Your fingers rested lightly against his sleeve, and the simple touch silenced him more effectively than any interruption could have.
"I couldn't leave you."
His eyes searched yours.
"I couldn't stand there and watch him parade you around like..." Your voice faltered as the images from the television flashed through your mind again. "Like you were nothing."
He didn't answer.
"I couldn't watch him laugh at you," you whispered. "I couldn't watch him humiliate you while I walked away knowing I had done nothing." A small, bittersweet smile found its way onto your lips despite everything. "Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid."
You drew a slow breath.
"But it hurt more than the thought of standing here in your place ever could."
The words settled softly between you.
"I'd make this choice again, Alastor."
You searched his eyes for a moment before adding, barely above a whisper,
"Every single time."
For perhaps the first time in decades, Alastor found himself completely speechless.
Every explanation he had prepared, every argument, every carefully constructed sentence dissolved before they ever reached his lips.
He had known. Some part of him had always known.
The office door slid open so abruptly that the sound made you both turn.
"Touching," Vox drawled, already sounding impatient. "Really, ten out of ten. I'd cry if I still respected either of you."
He pointed toward the hallway.
"Out."
Alastor's eyes never left yours.
"I'm not leaving."
"Oh, yes you are."
Before either of you could react, the magic woven into the contract flared again.
Invisible force seized Alastor around the torso, dragging him backward despite the way his heels dug into the polished floor. He fought immediately, claws scraping across the tiles as shadows twisted violently around him, but the contract overruled brute strength. Inch by inch, it forced him toward the open doorway.
His gaze remained locked on yours until the last possible second.
"I will come back for you."
The promise was quiet but absolute. Then the force hurled him into the hallway, the office doors slamming shut between you with a deafening crack.
Outside, Alastor stood motionless for only a heartbeat.
The corridor around him groaned.
Shadows exploded across the walls like ink spilled through water, swallowing lights, crawling over screens until glass splintered beneath the sheer pressure of his magic. Every radio in the building shrieked with deafening static before bursting into showers of sparks, while the polished floor trembled beneath his feet.
Rage unlike anything he had felt in years settled coldly beneath his skin.
Vox had humiliated him.
That could be repaid.
But you...
You had sacrificed yourself for him.
As his smile slowly steadiedβnot warm, not amused, but terrifyingly thinβone thought drowned out every other. He was going to tear Hell apart if he had to.
And he was bringing you home.
Κα΄ΚΚα΄α΄ α΄Κsα΄ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
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