✧✦ 7:13PM

this post by @a-small-lemon was funny so I drew it

Val is one of those people who ask if you still loved them if they were a worm etc. Those people are so annoying and prove dumb guestions do, in fact, exist.

Synopsis: Y/N is one of the most popular pop stars across the Pride Ring, except after a security guard refuses to let her into the venue—Vox shows up to help her out

TW: suggestive nsfw content

A/N: Once again, I got carried away with this. Was gonna add smut, but ehhhhh

Masterlist

Y/N had preformed in thousands of venues across Hell since her arrival. The last place she expected to end up was in Hell, but after too many drugs, alcohol and sex, it started to become less of a surprise.

Every venue she preformed at was different than the last. Some were really nice and clean, others consisted of a small stage located in some shady bar where she was lucky to make it out alive. But tonight, she would be playing within the Vee’s territory for the first time ever…and security had been the scariest part.

“No ID, no entry.” The security guard said, arms crossed and blocking the backstage door.

“Dude,” Y/N blinked. “I am the concert!”

“And for all I know, you could be some crazed fan trying to get their hands on Y/N.” The guard replied, “good try. Now scram.”

A groan escaped from Y/N’s mouth, although it was more like she was baffled as she pointed at the poster outside the venue. “That is literally my face! You can’t make this shit up.”

The guard looked at the poster and then back at Y/N. “Listen, I can’t let you in. And I’ll call for back up if you don’t leave.”

A strangled, frustrated noise left her mouth again. She tapped her phone screen checking the time—sound check would be starting any minute now, and she needed to get in there.

“Dude. My guy, I just walked out for a smoke break!” Y/N exclaimed, “what can I do to show you that I’m not bull shitting you?”

“You can leave. That’s what.”

A surge of blue electricity appeared in between them, making Y/N take a step back in fear. Then, the Technology Overlord appeared, looking back at her with a smirk. “Is something the matter, my dear?”

Y/N blinked up at Vox, brows furrowing in confusion. “I don’t—why are you here?”

“I own the building, sweetheart.” Vox replied before looking at the security guard. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re refusing to let our star in. If you value your life, you’ll let her in.”

The security guard nervously laughed and stepped aside. “My a-apologies, Mr Vox.”

“That’s what I thought.” Vox turned back to Y/N, “come along, my dear.”

Y/N followed behind Vox because…what else was she supposed to do? He literally materialized out of thin air and saved her from killing that dumbass security guard without a thought. Though, in hindsight, he doubted that the Overlord would have cared.

The halls of the venue were cold and filled with blue LED lights that seemed to flicker as if bowing to him like a sentient being.

Vox didn’t speak right away, just walked ahead of her like her own personal escort. His hands were behind his back, his suit practically glowing neon under the dim lighting.

“So, uh, do you always stalk your employees like that?” Y/N awkwardly asked.

“I was just checking the perimeter.”

“Why?”

“I own the building.”

“Really? I figured an Overlord wouldn’t care if some pop star had their reputation ruined.” Y/N admitted.

“I have a brand to uphold.”

“And it has nothing to do with the fact I’m preforming here for the night?”

The lights flickered as if confirming her suspicions, making her smile. “No way..!”

Vox continued to walk ahead of her.

“You’re a fan!” She exclaimed, running after him.

“I am not—.”

“Yet you materialized out of thin air!” She countered, “any other Overlord would have left me.”

“Like I said, I have a brand.”

“You threatened his life.”

“I’ve been having issues with him. Besides, Valentino and Velvette would lose their shit if their favorite celebrity were late,” Vox nonchalantly said.

“So, what’s your favorite song of mine?” Y/N curiously asked.

“I don’t have one—.”

“Is it my debut?” She pressed. “A lot of people like that one because of my vocal range.” She then perked up, “or is the one where I’m moaning about—?”

A spark of electricity fizzled at his claws making Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, it is!” She then laughed, noting the blue flush on his screen. “I’ll have to play that one tonight, just for you.”

“Do it, and I’ll ruin your reputation,” Vox threatened.

But Y/N didn’t believe him, silently noting that she’d do a surprise song just for him.

•••

Velvette and Valentino stood in the VIP section by the stage, screaming and losing their minds as Y/N preformed on stage. But Vox only stared, his screen blank as he watched Y/N sing and dance for every sinner in the venue.

“Did you piss her off or something?” Velvette asked over the music, “because she keeps looking over here!”

Vox glanced at Velvette before replying, “I just helped her out earlier. Some asshole refused to let her in. That’s all.”

“Damn, I wish she’d stare at me like how she’s staring at you.” Valentino said, “because she’s literally eye fucking you.”

Vox’s screen glitched, a blue hue coming to his screen as he looked at Valentino. “She is not—!” He sighed, “she is not ‘eye fucking’ me, Val. She’s just being humble or whatever.”

Velvette loudly laughed as Valentino raised a brow. Needless to say, the two of them hardly believed anything Vox said, especially when he looked like how he did.

The lights in the venue cut out as the screams grew louder as one of her songs finished.

“Outfit change?” Velvette perked up, reading over the comments on her livestream. “I think so. I’ve been staying away from spoilers.”

“How much more can she lose?” Valentino asked, “she’s already wearing—holy shit, you think she’ll come out naked? Fuck, that’d be hot.”

“Gross.” Vox replied, looking at the stage with a silent anticipation.

A minute later, a single spotlight came on, illuminating Y/N who stood in the middle of the stage, wearing a new outfit, something blue and much more revealing than the last one.

She smiled, microphone to her lips as she spoke to the crowd like it second nature. “Alright, Hell, as you all know, this venue is owned by the Vee’s! As a thank you to them for letting me be here tonight,” her smile turned into a smirk as she looked over at Vox. “I thought I could bring back one of my songs for the night~.”

Velvette squealed in anticipation, waiting to hear the surprise song. Valentino blew Y/N a kiss, one of appreciation and Vox froze…well, until the music faded in of his favorite song that made his screen glitch.

Immediately, everyone began to sing along as Y/N seductively danced and moaned on stage, all while keeping her eyes locked with Vox’s.

A moan escaped her lips as she sang making Vox twitch.

“Are you seeing this shit, Vox?!” Velvette exclaimed, “holy shit! Are you glitching?!”

Valentino laughed, “she’s trying to fucking kill him! Are you sure you're just a casual fan like you claim?"

As Y/N dropped to her knees, Vox's eyes followed her, screen glitching again with a shade of blue.

"She's killing him, Val." Velvette smirked, "you might have competition now."

Valentino would've gotten possessive in any other situation, but this was one of the Pride Rings most popular pop star. "I don't care. She's practically unobtainable."

Another moan into the microphone made Vox come back to reality from his delusions about some twisted fantasy. "She's just being dramatic!"

As the concert came to an end, Y/N hauled herself up in her dressing room, wiping off her makeup as she muttered to herself about some much needed sleep. But a blue current of electricity appeared behind her, causing Y/N to scream and tumble out of her chair.

"What the hell, Vox?!"

"What the fuck was that out there?!" He barked out, voice and screen glitching.

Y/N got up off the floor and looked at him, "what do you—?"

"You know exactly what I mean." Vox argued, taking several steps toward the pop star. He towered over her, eyes peering down at her. "You played that fucking song, while looking at me the entire time and got on your god damn knees—!"

Y/N laughed, a brow raised. "Yeah? It's called preforming." She walked back over to the vanity, eyeing him through the mirror. "Don't tell me—," she gasped and spun around to face him, "did you get hard out there?!"

"W-What?!" He stuttered out, eyes wide, screen flushed with a blue color.

She gasped. "You did!" Y/N laughed again, "if you wanted me that badly, all you had to do was ask~."

Vox screen and expression stilled. "What..?"

"You heard me. I'm a pop star, babe." She smiled, "I don't get free time often. And hey, I've never had sex with an Overlord before."

Vox's screen glitched again, the blue shade fading from his screen within seconds and replaced with a smirk. "Are you offering?"

"More like asking," Y/N shrugged.

"Fuck it." Vox said, stepping closer and kissing her.

Y/N's fingers found the lapels of his suit, holding them tightly as she returned the kiss. "You really are a fan."

"I am not." Vox said, pulling away.

Y/N's laughter bounced off the walls, and Vox hated to admit how much he adored the sound of it.

Vox smirked, looking down at her, claws on her chin as he made her look up at him. "If I asked—..?"

"Would I get on my knees for you?" Y/N interrupted with a smile, "what do you think?"

His screen glitched, the blue hue returning to his screen again. "I think you want to just as bad as I want you to."

Pairing: Alastor x f!reader

Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent in hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven.

You had loved him without knowing.

That had been the cruelty of it.

In life, he had been a gentleman. Charming, polished, well-spoken. The sort of man neighbors admired and trusted. The sort that old ladies complimented and young couples tried to imitate. He held doors, kissed your knuckles, brought home fresh bread on Sundays, and danced with you in the kitchen when the record player crackled to life.

He never raised his voice at you.

Never raised a hand.

And he never told you what he did when he left the house at night.

You only found out after he died.

They found him in the woods, mistaken for a deer by some drunk hunter, they said. Wrong place, wrong time. A clean shot. He died alone, not in your arms, not in his bed, but in the dirt, with leaves sticking to his blood.

The papers came after.

His name was everywhere.

Not just as a victim.

But as a monster.

Headlines snarled about him. Serial killer. Missing persons. Decades of unsolved cases suddenly stitched together like a grotesque quilt, and he was the thread running through all of them.

And you were his wife.

“Did you know?” they asked you.

Again and again.

That question haunted you more than his smile ever had.

Did you know?

Did you know?

Did you know?

You didn’t.

But you had stayed.

Even after courtrooms. Even after stares in the streets. Even after his belongings were torn apart for evidence.

You kept the ring.

And when you died, long after the world had decided what he was — you didn’t wake to pearly gates.

You woke to fire.

To red skies.

To screaming.

You woke to Hell.

Alastor had never imagined you would follow him there.

He hadn’t expected Heaven, of course, not for himself. But for you? You had been an angel walking among mortals. You had smiled at strangers, treated him with kindness even when the world had turned on you because of his sins.

You should have been rewarded for that.

But Hell had a twisted sense of humor.

He spent years convinced you were safe somewhere above: untouchable, unreachable, forever beyond his bloody hands.

He missed you anyway.

Sometimes, when the Pentagram City chaos dulled just enough, he imagined you walking through clouds instead of ash. Imagined you laughing again. Imagined you learning peace without him dragging it down.

He told himself that was better.

Even when it burned.

Even when it felt like rot.

Then one day, Hell buzzed.

Not just with violence, that was constant. No, this buzz was different. Excited. Greedy. Sharp.

A sinner had landed.

Not just any sinner.

An angel-looking one.

Whispers traveled faster than gunfire.

“She’s got wings,” they said.

“Not exterminator wings,” someone muttered. “But close.”

“She looks like Heaven but smells like Hell.”

The Vees heard first, of course.

They always did.

Vox saw a brand. A spectacle. Something new to broadcast and twist into entertainment.

Valentino saw profit - flesh and fantasy dressed in false holiness.

Velvette saw a trend - something unreal, something dangerous, something that would make Hell click “share.”

They crowded around you like vultures in designer clothes.

And you stood there, confused, shaken, white-feathered wings trembling behind you, still dressed like a soul that hadn’t realized it was damned.

“You wanna be safe?” Vox asked, his screen flashing blue and red. “You stick with us.”

“You’re a walking fetish, sweetheart,” Valentino purred, smoke curling from his fingers. “We’ll make you legendary.”

“We can make you untouchable online,” Velvette added, smiling sharp. “But you gotta play smart.”

They framed it like an offer.

But you could feel the leash already tightening.

And that was when the air changed.

The static came before he did.

A low hum. A familiar crackle.

Like an old radio station sliding back onto a long-lost signal.

The crowd shifted.

They always did when he arrived.

Red eyes. Antlers. Smile too wide to belong to a sane being.

Alastor stepped through the parted crowd like he owned the ground beneath it.

And when he saw you?

For one terrible second, the world stopped.

Not in a poetic way.

In a violent way.

The air warped.

The shadows froze.

His smile flickered, not gone, never gone, but strained, like cracked porcelain trying to hold.

“…Darling?” he said softly.

You stared.

Because you knew that voice.

You’d heard it across dinner tables. Through laughter. Through lullabies hummed when the world felt too loud. Through radio, most importantly, because now his voice carried static on its own.

“You,” you breathed.

His gaze traced you: your face, your hands, your wings.

Wings.

The irony was cruel, even by Hell’s standards.

“I always knew you had a touch of the divine,” he said lightly. “I didn’t expect Hell to agree.”

Vox recovered first. “Whoa, whoa, whoa...you know her?”

Alastor smiled wider.

“That,” he said, “is my wife.”

Silence cracked.

Valentino blinked.

Velvette stilled.

Vox’s screen glitched.

You didn’t have time to react before a cane tipped up, his shadow curling unnaturally, and the space around you bent.

One second, their voices were in your ears.

The next, everything vanished.

You were inside the Hazbin Hotel.

An old couch. The warm colors. The fake hope clinging to its walls.

He had set you down carefully, like you were made of something fragile rather than dead.

“They will not touch you,” he said immediately. “Not while you’re here.”

You stepped back. Your wings rustled.

“Don’t,” you said. Your voice shook now. “Don’t pretend like nothing happened. I know what you were. I know now.”

His smile softened, just slightly.

“I had hoped,” he admitted, “you’d never have to find out.”

“You let me mourn you,” you snapped. “You let me defend you when they called you a monster.”

“And I will let myself burn for that,” he replied calmly. “But not let them have you.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it because you want to own me.”

His eyes darkened.

“You were never owned.”

He stepped closer.

“But you were loved. Are loved. And Hell doesn’t get to take that from me as punishment.”

“You killed people,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed, without flinching.

“And you never told me.”

He tilted his head.

“No,” he said. “Because I wanted at least one thing in my life to be innocent.”

Your throat tightened.

Your wings stirred behind you, unsure.

“And now look at you,” he added gently. “Hell’s little joke. Giving you feathers when all you ever did was bleed for me.”

Silence wrapped around you.

He didn’t reach for you.

Just stood there, as he always had, waiting.

“I don’t trust you,” you said finally.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he answered. “But you will stay. The Vees won’t let a creature like you go without trying again.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile regained its edge.

“Then I shall continue fussing over you until you’re tired of fighting it,” he said cheerfully. “Just like I used to with your cold feet in winter.”

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

…He remembered everything.

“Come now,” he added more softly, offering his hand. “Let your monstrous husband keep you safe a little longer.”

And even with all your fear.

Even with the truth clawing at your heart.

You still recognized the way his thumb hovered at your knuckles, just like it always had.

The lobby had gone silent when he led you down the staircase.

You didn’t remember ever walking beside him feeling so much space between your bodies.

Even in life, when you argued, when doors slammed and pride stood tall between you, there had always been something warm tethering you together. A gravity. Something unspoken that kept pulling you back.

Now there was distance laced with danger, curiosity, fear.

Every eye in the Hazbin Hotel followed the two of you.

Charlie froze mid-sentence, smile softening with surprise.

Vaggie’s hand drifted instinctively closer to her spear.

Angel Dust looked you up and down, whistling low.

Husk blinked slowly from the bar like he was trying to decide if you were real or another hallucination from cheap booze.

Niffty had already practically teleported next to you, sparkling-eyed.

Alastor gestured to you with a flourish of his cane.

“Everyone,” he announced, voice carrying through the room like a radio broadcast from an older, more dangerous era, “this is my dear wife.”

Dead silence.

Then...

“Well, isn’t this just precious,” Angel drawled. “Didn’t know you were the marrying type, spooky.”

“Only once,” Alastor replied pleasantly.

“You’re his what?” Husk muttered.

“Was his wife,” you corrected automatically, voice dry.

“Is,” Alastor returned smoothly. “Death is merely a minor inconvenience in that regard.”

Charlie blinked, then brightened instantly. “Hi! Hi, oh my gosh, hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Charlie. I own the hotel and...and we’re trying to help people get into Heaven. Redemption and all that!”

You hesitated.

Something inside you tightened.

Because that…That had struck something painfully human in your chest.

“Heaven?” you repeated.

“Yes,” she said warmly. “Some of us believe sinners can be redeemed. It’s not impossible.”

Your fingers curled slightly.

You thought of your life.

Of the people you forgave instead of fighting.

Of the way you stood beside him even after the world collapsed around you.

“I don’t think I belong in hell,” you said quietly.

The room went still again.

And this time, Alastor didn’t interrupt.

Charlie’s eyes softened.

“Well,” she said gently, “that’s exactly why you should stay.”

You swallowed.

And then Alastor spoke again, far more casually than the moment deserved.

“She will be,” he said, “staying in my room.”

The silence was no longer shock.

It was alarm.

Angel choked on his gum.

Husk raised a brow.

Vaggie’s eye twitched.

“In your...” Charlie started.

“My room,” he repeated. “It is already sufficiently large. And significantly better protected.”

You stiffened beside him.

“And what if I don’t want that?” you asked under your breath.

“You do,” he murmured back. “Even if only temporarily.”

His smile stayed fixed, polished, controlled, but there was something just beneath it that hadn’t existed before. Something desperate.

Charlie hesitated only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Um. That’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable.”

You weren’t. But you also weren’t about to continue arguing in public. So you just nodded once. And he guided you away.

His room smelled strangely familiar.

Like old paper. Like dust caught in sunlight. Like static after rain.

The same tidy precision he always carried with him extended here, books stacked, cane placed perfectly against the wall, gramophone resting like a relic of another world.

Except now there were claw marks in the furniture.

And shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.

You stood near the door, wings shifting uncertainly behind you.

They felt…heavy.

And wrong.

You tried to fold them, but the unfamiliar weight threw off your balance. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the back of a chair.

Alastor was instantly there.

“Careful now,” he said, hands hovering just close enough to catch you without touching.

“I don’t know how to use these,” you muttered.

“Well,” he replied, “I have had to adjust to antlers, hooves, and an infuriatingly expressive tail. You’ll manage feathers.”

Still, his voice softened.

“You never cared much for balance in dancing either,” he added, teasing gently. “Yet you always insisted on leading.”

You huffed a weak laugh despite yourself.

“You complained about that forever.”

“And I survived,” he said. “A small miracle.”

You tried folding them again.

Slower this time.

They trembled.

Your hands moved instinctively to smooth them, fingertips brushing along the feathers as if checking if they were real.

They were.

“You think I don’t belong here,” you said quietly.

He stilled behind you.

“I think,” he answered, “Hell is inefficient at deciding who deserves what.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying their system is broken.”

He chuckled softly, the sound layered with static.

“I always told you bureaucracy was the greatest evil of all,” he replied.

Then, after a moment:

“You do want their little redemption plan, don’t you?”

You nodded hesitantly.

“I don’t want to spend eternity surrounded by murderers and…other demons,” you admitted.

A grin curved his mouth.

“Well,” he drawled, “that ship has regrettably sailed, darling.”

You glared slightly over your shoulder.

“I meant worse ones.”

He laughed.

A real one this time.

You turned more fully toward him. He looked different, monstrous, taller somehow, sharper around the edges.

More honest.

“You’re trying very hard,” you said.

He tilted his head.

“To do what?”

“To show me you’re the same man.”

His eyes softened just a fraction.

“I am,” he said.

Then his gaze darkened.

“I merely look closer to the truth now.”

You swallowed.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Oh, I rather enjoy it,” he replied. “It’s quite liberating, actually. No more polite pretending. No more hiding the mess beneath the suit.”

Then, more quietly:

“You loved me before you ever knew.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And now you know everything,” he continued, stepping closer, careful not to crowd you. “And I will not force you to love me now.”

A long beat of silence.

Then, softer, almost hesitant:

“But I will still take care of you. Whether you deserve Hell or Heaven.”

Your wings stilled.

You searched his face, the familiar smile, the unfamiliar monster, the same eyes that once watched you across candlelit dinners.

“…You’ve always been like this,” you said. “Doting, I mean.”

“I prefer the term devoted,” he replied.

Representative. Elegant.

Terrifying.

And heartbreakingly, horribly yours.

He reached up slowly, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, and gently tucked a stray feather back into place.

His touch was careful.

Like he was still afraid you might disappear.

“And until Heaven decides it wants you,” he added quietly, “you’ll have me.”

BUCKLE UP EVERYBODY! :DDD *cracks fingers*

The road for Alastor to even stand near shark!reader without wanting to choke them to death is LoooOOOOOong! Firstly because, ofc they remind him of Vox, and secondly cause they think Vox sent them to the hotel to fuck with him.

But you don’t even know who Vox is, hell you don’t even know who Alastor is! You are this energetic sandpaper-textured puppy that jumps around the hotel trying redemption out cause “Why not!” :))

From the moment you stepped into the hotel, Alastor knew.

Every instinct he possessed flared sharp and immediate, the way it always did when something deeply inconvenient entered his territory.

Your silhouette alone was enough to set his teeth on edge: broad shoulders rolling with careless confidence, a fin cleaving the air behind you like a blade, and that grin- too wide, too effortless- that scraped against old nerves and dragged Vox’s smug, static-laced face straight to the forefront of his mind.

His eyes narrowed at once, beckoning Charlie aside, pupils tightening as he leaned down toward her with a smile that was all polished sugar and buried violence.

“That one,” he murmured, voice low and syrup-thick, the anger beneath it unmistakable. His cane tapped sharply against the floor as he pointed to the exact spot where you had been standing only a heartbeat ago. “Care to explain?”

Charlie followed the gesture, then paused. She blinked once. Then twice.

“Who?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Alastor turned back toward the lobby, A muscle in his jaw jumped...

You were gone.

Down the hallway, the answer to that mystery revealed itself in the form of chaos. You were sprinting full tilt after KeeKee, laughter ringing off the walls with the unrestrained joy of someone who had clearly never been prey in their entire existence.

“KITTY, WAIT! PLEASE!-” you shouted, skidding around a corner far too fast.

Your foot caught on your own tail, momentum betrayed you, and you went down in a spectacular sprawl, crashing face-first into the carpet with a thud that made the floorboards shudder.

KeeKee shrieked, phased through the wall in a puff of spectral smoke, then reappeared seconds later. Just in time for you to sit up, triumphant and grinning, scooping her into your arms like you’d planned it all along.

You flopped back onto the floor with a breathless laugh, hugging her to your chest as she purred contentedly. Your tail thumped against the ground in wide, enthusiastic arcs, each impact rattling the bottles behind the bar hard enough to make Husk glance over with mild concern.

Alastor stood perfectly still.

Charlie laughed, bright and easy. “See?” she said, gesturing helplessly in your direction. “Not a danger!”

He did not respond.

He simply stared, his smile frozen in place as something sharp and irritated crawled behind his eyes.

You noticed him then and lifted one arm in an enthusiastic wave, KeeKee tucked securely against your side, her purring growing louder as you scratched under her chin.

Alastor’s smile tightened, just a fraction- enough to betray him to anyone who knew how to look.

And for reasons he could not yet name, that grin of yours felt far more dangerous than any weapon.

After that, Alastor had a mission.

It settled into him with the certainty of a verdict, sharp and absolute: you would be executed.

This was his hotel- his carefully curated stage, his sanctuary of rules and order- and he would not allow shark filth to roam its halls unchecked, grinning and thumping your tail like you owned the place! Whatever game Vox thought he was playing, it would end here, and it would end with you gone.

Or so Alastor told himself.

What he failed to notice, at first, was how quickly intent began to rot into fixation.

Hours slipped away without his awareness as he lingered in shadowed corners, whispering calculations beneath his breath, red eyes following your movements with unnatural precision.

He began timing your routines down to the second, counting your steps as you paced the halls, memorizing the uneven rhythm of your tail as it struck walls and floors- thump, thump, thump- until the sound embedded itself into the hotel’s heartbeat.

He told himself it was preparation, necessity, professionalism, yet the truth curled uncomfortably close: he was learning you.

Each trap grew more elaborate than the last, layered with curses and mechanical elegance, every detail engineered to be flawless and, more importantly, deniable. Charlie could not suspect him-not when you finally met your end, not when the body disappeared, not when the hotel returned to peace.

And yet, impossibly, you dodged every single attempt.

A falling fixture missed you because you stopped to hum to yourself. A rigged doorway snapped shut inches behind your tail as you doubled back, distracted by a stray stain on the carpet. Poisoned food went untouched because you forgot it entirely, too busy enthusiastically explaining something to Angel that made no sense to anyone involved.

Each failure chipped at him, slow and maddening.

Who the fuck were you?

What should have been a clean execution devolved into something far messier, a prolonged game of cat and mouse in which you did not even realize you were being hunted.

Alastor stalked. You wandered.

He schemed in silence. You laughed loudly, utterly unconcerned, blissfully ignorant of the death stalking your shadow.

On the rare occasions he confronted you directly, attempting to loom or threaten or bare just enough teeth to remind you what he was, your response was always the same.

You would blink up at him, wide-eyed and unbothered, head tilting slightly as though you were trying to decipher a joke that had gone over your head.

Then you would laugh:

“Oh my god,” you’d say, waving him off. “You really are a goof!”

And you would walk away, tail swaying cheerfully as you went off in search of Charlie, leaving him standing there with his eye twitching violently, ears pulled tight against his head, fingers clenched around his staff so hard the wood groaned under the pressure.

Goof? GOOF?!?!?!

The cycle repeated. Again- and again. And again-and againandagai-

And somewhere between the planning and the stalking and the countless failures, Alastor failed to realize the most dangerous truth of all-that this was no longer about killing you.

It was about the chase.

And that realization, when it finally came, would threaten his dead heart far more than you ever could.

Shark!reader and Alastor in a nutshell:

“ You’re Forgetting Something . . . “

╰┈➤ Summary: You always gave Vox your utmost attention. He was your darling husband, after all. That, and he needs it to survive. It’s like you’re his personal cocaine. But, one day, you were particularly stressed and didn’t have time for coddling Vox.

╰┈➤ Tags: fluff, vox being a megalomaniac (per usual), vox being egotistical (per usual), g/n / fem reader

╰┈➤ (a/n: thank you so much for this submission! this is such a cute idea<3 hope i did it justice!)

Although you were married to one of the richest sinners in Hell, you still had a job.

Not because you needed one, of course, but simply because you wanted one. You needed something to pass the time, and you couldn’t just rot all day at home. Plus, you did feel a little bad about Vox funding practically everything. It took a shit ton of convincing, but you two settled on you working from home. Good enough. Vox was always possessive, wanting you to stay as close as possible and being tucked away from the world. A part of you was aggravated that you didn’t have freedom anymore, but a part of you also didn’t quite mind. It was Hell, so outside of Vee Tower was just drugs and despair with the occasional hooker. Even when you were alive you didn’t go out much when there was more to the world.

You work at a small marketing firm, and you mostly just meet with clients through calls, fill out paperwork, and answer emails. It didn’t pay much, but you weren’t necessarily working for the cash. Vox paid for everything you could ever want and more.

One thing about your husband, though.

He needed your constant attention.

It wasn’t one of those situations where your partner was just clingier than the average person, no, he would have full breakdowns if you didn’t reassure him.

You were working in bed with your laptop as your doting husband walked into your shared bedroom and started taking off his suit jacket. As he did, he started venting to you about some work thing.

“God, that meeting was fucking horrible. Do you know how moronic these people are? One of the guys said he wanted a whole segment on baking. Who the fuck watches baking shows anymore?”

As you type away on your laptop, you give him a brief ‘uh huh’ without glancing in his direction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Vox approaching your bedside.

“But, y’know, I do excellent work. So I got him off my ass.”

You kept writing your email to your client without really paying much attention to what he was saying. He’ll just see that you’re busy and talk to you another time. Emails are egregiously obnoxious to write. It’s difficult finding the correct professional terminology for telling your client to fuck off. Actually—can you just tell them to fuck off?

“… Did I tell you about that new jewelry store popping up? Really expensive… Reeaaal nice… I just bought a shit ton of stock from them. It’ll turn a pretty penny.”

How should you phrase it? “Please refer this to lower management”? No… that doesn’t have enough aggression… “This conversation is no longer productive, and I will not be responding to further emails on this subject”? Is that good? You felt like that got the message across. It’s got a good bite to it.

Vox suddenly slammed your computer shut. You threw your arms up in response and whipped your head up to look at him.

“What the Hell! I was writing something! You better hope it saved.”

He unexpectedly kneeled down, wrapped his hands around your waist, and put his head on your stomach.

“I’ll make that job fire you. Listen to me when I talk.”

Vox said his words sharply, but in a low, gentle tone. His screen flushed cyan, and you could hear the sound of his internal fans cooling him off.

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can.”

You gingerly placed your hand on top of his head, and softly ran it across his perimeter.

“Fine. What were you saying, hun?”

“It’s not like you give a fuck, anyway.”

Oh brother. Here he goes again…

“I give so many fucks. What is it?”

Vox looks downwards, and you tilt his head back up to make him look at you.

“There’s a nice, new jewelry shop I want to take you to. Best in Hell.”

“What if I don’t find anything I like?”

“I’ll buy you something, and you’ll like it, and you’ll wear it.”

He was always so very picky about your appearance. Your husband wanted you to look your best, wearing the newest brands and the latest trends. You weren’t sure if he just enjoyed seeing you dolled up or if he just wanted things to reflect good onto him. But, nevertheless, you complied. Who would say no to an offer like that?

“Okay, hun. Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Vox quickly got up, cleared his throat, and you could see the digital flush vanish from his face.

“I-I just wanted to… check on you before my next meeting. To make sure you weren’t dead or whatever.”

“I’m already dea—“

Synopsis: Y/N is living in V Tower, and Vox has been keeping a close eye on her for…no reason in particular

TW: blood

A/N: Here’s pt2!! People kept uh…demanding? Asking? Anyway, here’s part 2!!

Masterlist

part 1

@bjd260 @9kaytor7 @cherryblossofestival @lalalandincraz

Y/N Whittman had adjusted to her new life with an unnerving ease. She had learned the layout of V Tower within days, memorizing which elevators led where and which hallways to avoid. She had greeted each staff member under the Vee’s with polite words and kinder smiles, and Vox watched all of it through the camera system.

He watched her through the security feeds, constantly having one hologram open with a live video that followed her around. He listened to her when she spoke to employees and would apologize for bumping into them even though they always ran into her. He’d watch her from the moment she rose to the moment she fell asleep in her own penthouse that he provided.

He kept her happy by keeping her kitchen stocked with food and even supplying her with a personal chef which she quickly turned down. Vox made sure that her closet was large and filled with pastel colors, with everything designed by Velvette but chose by him.

He told himself that what he was doing was nothing more than to have control over someone from his past. But deep down, he knew why he had done this.

Vincent missed his wife.

For a man who had been dead for decades now, the longer Y/N floated around V Tower like a guest, the more he wanted to scratch the itch and confess.

Vox sat in his security room, a large monitor in front of him displaying Y/N’s movements in her kitchen. She wore a frilly white apron around her torso as she hummed a sweet melody. He wasn’t sure what she was cooking, but he didn’t entirely care. Or so he told himself.

He missed her cooking. He missed the days he’d return from work and the two of them would stand in the kitchen making dinner together. It was domestic. Something Vox wasn’t.

“Shoot!” Y/N squealed, jumping back as a measuring glass shattered against the floor. “Ohhh, that’s not good.” She said to herself, “I knew I should have moved it away.”

Vox watched, casually leaning forward in his chair to get a better look of her panicked expression.

Y/N let out a sigh before she reached for a paper towel and crouched down onto the floor. She picked each shard of glass up and delicately placed them on the towel, but when a piece of glass slipped, a deep cut found itself on her fingertip.

Y/N winced, jerking back as she assessed her wound.

Suddenly, the static in the room increased and Vox appeared in a current of blue electricity.

Y/N jumped, startled by the bright blue light in the room as she looked up to find Vox standing over top herself. “Vox? What are you—?”

“You’re hurt.” He said, “and you’re shaking.”

“It’s just a little cut.” Y/N replied, “my nerves are all over the place from it. I’ll be fine—.”

Vox reached a hand out for her. She took it and he pulled her up before cutting on the sink and placing her in front of it.

Y/N gasped as the water ran into her cut. She wanted to pull away, but Vox had already grabbed some soap and began applying it to her finger.

“It’s just a little cut,” Y/N repeated. “You don’t need to sterilize it.”

“It’s a deep cut.” He said, “it would be a shame if you had to lose a limb.”

Y/N stared at him before laughing, her cheeks turning a shade of red and her smile brightening. “It’s like a paper cut!” She said, “I won’t die from a paper cut or a small cut like this!”

Vox didn’t say anything, but his chest felt tight as a memory clawed its away into his mind.

A memory of them from a time when they were both happily alive, in the kitchen cooking together. Y/N had been cutting some meat when the knife cut her hand open. Of course, Vincent had freaked out as he tried to keep his crying wife calm.

“I cut myself on a knife when I was alive,” Y/N suddenly said, bringing Vox back to reality. He hadn’t realized it, but he had been running a clawed finger over the scar. “Me and my husband were cooking dinner one night.” She smiled fondly as if remembering the same memory. And maybe she was…but she didn’t remember him or the details.

Vox didn’t reply, he only cut the sink off and pulled out a first aid kit from under the bathroom cabinet. He wrapped a blue bandaid around her finger.

“I was making meatloaf,” she began, “a homemade recipe. Would you like to stay?”

Vox hesitated, desperately wanting to agree—. “No.” He said, “I have work to do.”

•••

“Y/N is so adorable, Vox!” Velvette exclaimed, “she apologized for something she didn’t even do!”

Velvette had found her way into Vox’s office once again, animatedly chatting about Y/N’s behavior while being Velvette’s model.

“It makes me want to write up a contract.” She admitted, “it’s been so long since I’ve had someone this obedient.”

“You’re not forming a contract with her, Velvette,” Vox stated.

“Why not?” Velvette sassed, “it’s been a whole fucking month! She’s well acquainted with this shitty place by now. You’ve given her free fucking housing, you’ve given her nice clothes and you guard her like her personal security.” She crossed her arms, “honestly Vox, it’s sickening. I think I prefer your bullshit love story with Val.”

“Y/N could be a reliable asset in the end,” Vox explained. “She just needs to trust me.”

“So showering her with gifts and affection is going to make her trust you?” Velvette scoffed, “because from where I’m standing, you like her as more than just an ‘asset.’” She then gasped, “are you doing all of this to fuck her?! Ugh! Ew! Gross, Vox! TMI!”

A blue flush appeared on his screen, and for a moment, he entertained the idea. It wasn’t like they hadn’t had sex before, but in Hell? …why was the idea kinda—?

“Don’t be vulgar.” He snapped. “This has nothing to do with sex.”

Velvette blinked and loudly laughed. “Oh my god! You’re offended!”

“Y/N is a clean slate here.” Vox stated, “that kind of thing is rare in Hell.”

“She told me you saved the day when she got a cut on her finger. Care to explain that, grandpa?”

“Injury leads to vulnerability, and vulnerability leads to exploitation.” Vox simply said.

“I didn’t see you coming to the aid of one of my model when she got stabbed,” Velvette admitted.

“She was replaceable—.”

“And Y/N isn’t?”

Vox froze for a moment, but it was long enough for Velvette to smirking—knowingly. But Vox spoke up anyway. “She trusts me…and that makes her cooperative.”

“Or dependent.”

“Which is useful.”

“You sure you wanna lie to me, babe?”

A sharp silence fell over the room.

“You sound like a jealous boyfriend.” Velvette added, “what? Am I wrong? Is this gonna turn into another Alastor fetish?”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Those are entirely separate matters.”

Velvette’s smirk only widened. “Is it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re one breakdown away from putting a ring on her. finger.”

“That’s absurd.”

Velvette tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she already knew the solution to. “You don’t let Val near her. You won’t let me contract her. You’re monitoring her like she’s classified information.” She shrugged. “Sounds pretty intimate for a ‘business decision.’”

Vox turned slightly, angling his body away from her, pulling up a hologram of analytics that he didn’t actually read. “I’m preventing unnecessary risk. Hell preys on the weak.”

“And you’ve appointed yourself her personal watchdog.”

“I’m the most qualified.”

Velvette laughed again, sharp and delighted. “You always say that when you want something all to yourself.”

“This isn’t about possession.”

“Then why does it bother you so much?” She pressed. “Why does the idea of her signing my contract piss you off so much?”

Because she’d be gone again.

He already abandoned her once. He couldn’t bear to do it again.

“She’s under my protection.” Vox simply said, “end of discussion.”

•••

The migraine hit without a warning, starting as an intense pressure behind her eyes that made her vision blur.

Y/N had been making her way down the hallway toward her penthouse after a long day of modeling for Velvette. Never in her life (or after life) would she had considered being a model, and yet here she was.

What would her husband think if he saw her?

Her knees gave out as she stumbled forward, her hand flying out to catch herself, but Vox had caught her before her fall and before she knew it, she blacked out.

When she came to, she found herself resting on blue bedsheets, accompanied by a sweet, melodic voice that haunted her mind like a broken record.

“Y/N, my sweetheart, you’re far too kind for this world.”

She sat up, chest aching and head spinning like that time she got drunk back when she was alive.

Y/N glanced around the room, panic setting in until Vox entered the bedroom, hands behind his back like an untouchable man.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

She opened her mouth before closing it, the voice from her unconsciousness returning. This all sounded…familiar.

“I heard my husband’s voice,” she softly whispered.

Vox’s posture stiffened, but he tried not to show it. “Did you now?”

“Mhm.” She nodded, “he…he almost sounds like you. Silly, isn’t it?”

He wanted to say 'no,' and tell her that he was her husband from decades and a lifetime ago. But he didn’t.

“Very.” Vox agreed, “I’m sure your head is still fuzzy after passing out. You must be very discombobulated.”

“I-I…I suppose so.” Y/N agreed, “he would be in Heaven, wouldn’t he?”

Vox didn’t know what to do, because this wasn’t Heaven. It was purgatory.

“Wherever he is, I’m sure he misses you.” Vox suggested as he made his way over to the bed, “but you shouldn’t dwell on such matters. It will only make your head worse.”

Y/N swallowed, her fingers curling into the sheets beneath her. “I don’t remember his face,” she admitted quietly. “Isn’t that awful? I remember how he made me feel safe. Although a little smothered at times,” she added with a weak smile, “but loved. I just…can’t see him.”

“That’s not awful,” he said after a moment. His voice was steady, careful. “Memories can degrade. Especially here.”

She looked up at him, her brows knitting together. “You say that like you know.”

“I know how Hell works,” Vox replied smoothly. “It takes what matters most and blurs the edges. Keeps the ache, discards the details.”

“That seems cruel.”

“It’s efficient.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh at that, then winced as her head throbbed again. Vox was there instantly, one hand hovering just above her shoulder—not touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth.

“Easy,” he said. “You pushed yourself today.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint Velvette.”

“You didn’t,” Vox replied, a little too quickly. Then, he corrected himself, “and even if you had, it wouldn’t matter.”

Her gaze softened at that. “You always say things like that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She hesitated, then asked, “did I say anything while asleep?"

“You called out for someone.”

Her breath hitched. “Him?”

“Yes."

She nodded, accepting it without question, and that trust—so easy, so willing—made something ugly coil in his chest.

“I think he used to call me sweetheart,” she murmured. “That word feels warm.”

Vox’s fingers curled slowly into his palms behind his back. “He had good taste,” he said.

“He did, didn’t he?” She frowned, “he worked so hard all his life just to be labeled as a cult leader.”

“It was more of a movement,” Vox corrected.

She looked at him, “what?”

“Ah,” he said smoothly, far too smoothly. “That was a poor choice of words.”

Y/N’s brows knitted together, confusion replacing the softness in her expression. “You said it like you knew him.”

“I deal in information,” Vox replied, already pivoting, already correcting. “Rumors. Records. Hell loves to mythologize people from Earth. Especially men with influence. ‘Cult leader’ is a convenient label. It’s easier.”

She studied him for a long moment, head tilted slightly. There it was again—that look she used to give him when something didn’t quite add up.

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “I don’t remember a cult or anything. I just remember him being sweet and caring…a loving husband. But…I feel like I’m missing something. Like there’s a door in my head that I want to open, but I can’t.”

You aren’t.

“And you shouldn’t try to.” Vox assured. “Digging into your past here is dangerous. Hell has a way of weaponizing nostalgia.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I just want to understand.”

Understanding would ruin everything.

“You’re doing well here, Y/N. You’re stable. Comfortable. Protected.” He gestured subtly to the room and the tower beyond it. “That didn’t happen by accident. You’ve been through enough. Let the past stay where it belongs.”

pairing — vox x employee! reader 

summary — you are one of velvette’s trusted designers. when vox comes knocking and needs a new wardrobe line for him and the broadcast team, who else other than you could handle it? 

warnings  — semi-slow burn, typical Hazbin nonsense (death/murder/drugs/etc.),  use of pet names/terms of endearment, no explicit name or gender mentioned for reader, female body though, canonically queer reader, eventual smut (MDNI!) not in this chapter but eventually

word count  — 4.2k

author’s note — read part one here if you'd like! also, i'm adding a taglist — please let me know if you want to join the list!

tag-list —  @diabeticgoth

cross-posted onto ao3

vox masterlist

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The past few days working for Vox had been shockingly uneventful. With how much stress he seemed to put on Velvette about getting a designer now, you thought he wanted to launch the new public line faster than the pace you were slugging along at. 

You did, however, hate the constant looming that Vox would do as you worked. Every step, every move, everything you did was carefully surveyed by your new boss. Even if he wasn’t presently in the room with you, you could feel a red-eye target glowering into your skull from the cameras. 

By the end of your fourth day working under Vox’s boot, you had collected the style profiles for his main broadcasters and drafted up a few crude concepts. 666 News tended to get a bad wrap for being an insufferable team to work with — as claimed from numerous on-set crew and editors. Working with them thus far had been a breeze with no hiccups along the way, but this latest experience did make you realize that all of that expressed grief was solely because of Katie Killjoy. 

Normally you wouldn’t refer to any woman by this term, but God she was a bitch. 

pairing — vox x employee! reader 

summary — you are one of velvette’s trusted designers. when vox comes knocking and needs a new wardrobe line for him and the broadcast team, who else other than you could handle it? 

warnings  — semi-slow burn, typical Hazbin nonsense (death/murder/drugs/etc.),  use of pet names/terms of endearment, no explicit name or gender mentioned for reader, female body though, canonically queer reader, eventual smut (MDNI!) not in this chapter but eventually

word count  — 2.8k

author’s note —this is the fic that’s based off the headcanons here! this will be a few part series that can be read as a stand-alone to the others!

for context, this chapter is basically the intro into employee! reader starting to work with vox

cross-posted onto ao3

vox masterlist

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Working for the Vees is a criminal offense that you would never wish upon any sinner in Hell. It’s a nearly impossible task to please them accordingly, but in the many dangerously lucrative years you’d been working in Vee Tower you’ve managed to at least satisfy Velvette. 

Working under her boot was a position that you willingly gave your soul toward. And so long as she had a tight grip on your chain, you’d bend and bow to every whim of hers. She loved your compliance, obedience, and willingness to please.

And it certainly helped that you weren’t bad at your job either. While many people worked in Vee Tower, not all of them necessarily passed through the screening process with bright colors. They needed as many bodies working for minimum wage as they could, but that also lends to many sinners being … let go. So to speak. 

It took a chunk of your hell-life, but you steadily climbed your way up the corporate ladder. Starting as a feeble intern rushing to get coffees for Velvette and her entourage of fashionable demons then being permitted to select fabric and ribbons for the brand line. You built a portfolio accrued from the left over scraps and your bright ideas, filling the thick binder will designs that you were proud of. 

The next time another designer got skinned and thrown out the tower, you were waiting adamantly for approval from Velvette. She didn’t love your designs at first — she doesn’t love anyone else’s designs other than her own anyway — but she signed you on as one of her very own designers. 

The climb to being a designer was already a treacherous journey, but the one that led you to where you were now as one of Velvette’s own protégés was even worse. Your peers kicked you down; they bit, scratched, and killed for the taste of some recognition and limelight.

As did you. 

The business was ruthless, but you were steadfast and desperate for appraisal. And that desperation willed you into shaking off the stragglers at the bottom of the ladder. In more explicit terms, you shed as much blood as needed to get to where you are. 

Now, you were one of Velvette’s top designers in the tower. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Hazbin Hotel x Reader

●○ You've been missing for some time now. Over two weeks. You're not one to just vanish into thin air, so your suitors are starting to get a little worried.

A oneshot based on this tumblr post by @a-small-lemon! I saw it and immediately started writing this lol The Reader character isn't really in this, but they are the main focus!

[Masterlist] [AO3]

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Alastor slips through the shadows of V Tower at a pace he'll deny is ever frantic. Every crack and hidden corner is checked and double checked, not a single desk left unturned in his hunt. He methodically makes his through the tower, peering into every single room available before coming to a halt at Vox's office.

You still weren't anywhere to be found. Not at the hotel, not near any of your usual haunts, not in any of his or Rosie's territory, and not a strand of hair could be found in any of the popular locations in Hell. V Tower was the last relevant place you could possibly be in, so if you weren't in this infuriating walking picture box's office, he might just dismantle Vox and destroy everything on the lower floors. Maybe seeing the tower crumble will finally bring you out of whatever hole you managed to crawl into.

— Vincent Whittman x fem!reader — Summary: Your husband, Vincent, takes care of you while you're sick. ( I posted a Vox version a few weeks ago ! )

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

The morning started off like any other.

Vincent awoke to the sound of his alarm clock going off beside him, quickly shutting it off. He let out a frustrated, sleepy groan, before he turned to his left to see you sleeping beside him.

A soft smile appeared on Vincent's face at the sight of you. You always looked so cute when you were at rest, your messy hair draped across your face. Vincent's thoughts drifted off to all the times he had your hair messy, but also damp, as he had his way with yo— anyways!

Reluctantly, Vincent got out of bed, and began getting ready for the day ahead. He journeyed to the living room, grabbing his favorite suit that his sweet wife had ironed for him the night before.

And only after making sure that said suit was accompanied by his favorite shark pin, did Vincent finally head for the door. Fiddling with the keys, his mind was running through a checklist.

"I brushed my teeth, I have my pin, I have my briefcase, my hair is combed back, good—" as Vincent passed by the kitchen, however, he saw something out of the ordinary.

Perched atop the counter, was a bottle of medicine.

It was nestled between the bowl of oranges that Vincent liked to keep on top of said counter, and between a vase of flowers that you liked to keep on the counter as well. The flowers were always fresh, as Vincent was diligent in returning a new bouquet home to you every week.

To be frank, had anyone else lived in that house, they wouldn't have noticed the bottle of medicine sitting there. But Vincent was a very attentive, detailed-oriented man. He had to be, due to his — well — tendencies... that you were unaware of.

After taking a pause, Vincent retracted his steps and headed back to your shared bedroom. He approached you, still sound asleep underneath the blankets.

"Darling," Vincent whispered, as he shook you awake. You acknowledged your husband with a groan, before he continued. "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not." You croaked out, eyes still shut.

Vincent raised a brow, not believing your response. He had to ensure that his precious girl was well before he left. If you weren't, he would call out immediately to stay home and tend to you. Knowing this, you did not want to make Vincent aware of your condition. You did not want him to worry about you.

Unfortunately, your husband knew you too well.

"Swallow for me." He commanded, his mind drifting off to all the other times he told you to— anyways! Gosh, he's always so dirty minded with you. He commanded, as the first symptom to always plague you when you were sick was a sore throat. Your least favorite thing in the whole world.

Vincent watched as you followed through, your face scrunching with pain as you gave yourself away.

"You're such a liar." Vincent announced, as he sighed. "You're unwell."

"I'm fine!" You countered, as you opened your eyes and sat up. "There's no need to worry. Just a— just a little sore throat."

"Yes, but your symptoms always progress. Soon, you'll be coughing, and then sneezing, as you always do." Vincent was right. You becoming sick was like clockwork. It would always begin with a sore throat. Then, you'd progress to coughing and sneezing. Finally, you'd have a runny nose that would last for days.

"And that's not up to you to worry about!" You responded, as you fought to hide the pain of your throat from showing on your face. "Go to work, honey. You'll be late."

You were right. If Vincent did not leave soon, he would be late to work. With hesitation, he caved in.

"Alright. I love you." Was all Vincent said, before he pressed a kiss to your head and left out the door.

Vincent started his car, getting maybe a block away from your shared house, before the thoughts of you started to overwhelm him.

"Is she really okay? What if she's actually horribly sick and she isn't telling me? What if she tries to find the medicine but forgot that she placed it between the oranges and the vase? What if she needs me and doesn't tell me? What if— I can't do this."

The composed, careless, and normally work-engulfed Vincent drove into a random parking lot, before reversing his car and driving back to the house.

He pulled into the driveway, careful enough not to slam the car door and alarm you. He shared this thought with the door to the house, as he was mindful with his keys and with pushing it open.

Once he closed the door, he walked over to the house phone, where he called the studio. Vincent alerted them that he would not be there today, as he was sick.

Had Vincent told them that you were sick, he knew that he would be met with careless side comments, comprised of "she can take care of herself!"

And although nobody could stop him from tending to you, Vincent simply wasn't in the mood to be lectured by horrible men who likely beat their wives. No less cared about them, not in the way Vincent cared about you.

Returning the phone back to its stand, Vincent prepared an ice-cold glass of water for you, before walking up the stairs. Once he reached the bedroom, he knocked on the door.

"Darling, I have water for you." Vincent announced, as he opened the door. He smiled when he saw you, his pretty girl, sat on the bed. You were reading a book, and although you smiled in return at the sight of Vincent, your sick condition was evident.

"Honey! You— wait, what about work?" You questioned in concern, as Vincent approached you with the glass of water.

"I called in and told them that I was the sick one." He answered, as you took the water from his hands.

"Why?" You questioned again, as concern wasn't just present, but overtook your tone.

"Because, unfortunately, I'm a man who gives a shit about my wife. Horrible, isn't it?" Vincent responded with an eye roll, as you took his hand into yours.

"You're going to get all of my germs. Then you'll actually be sick." You laughed dryly, as your throat was still horribly sore. Using your free hand, you reached over to Vincent's little shark plush, a secret enjoyment of his that you two kept secret. You handed it over to your husband, as he smiled faintly.

"Oh well," Vincent responded with a shrug. "As long as we get to share the tub of ice cream."

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

“Gee,” Vox murmurs, the word slipping out before he can filter it, “your eyes are like rubies.”

The volume is low- too low. The kind of low reserved for confessions, secrets meant to evaporate the second they’re spoken. His pupils widen on instinct as your lashes flutter, shadows brushing your cheeks before those crimson eyes open again.

And damn it.

His screen betrays him immediately, washing into an unmistakable pale blue. Vox clicks his tongue, muttering something sharp and annoyed under his breath, already scrambling to regain control of the narrative.

“I mean-” He clears his throat, forcing a crooked grin into his voice. “That’s pretty corny, right? Wow. Real vintage romance movie nonsense. Don’t know where that came from.”

He braces himself. He’s ready for the laugh, the jab, the smug little look that the deer would give him. He can practically hear it- the mockery, the teasing, the inevitable reminder that the great Vox slipped and said something sincere.

But... it never comes.

Instead, you laugh. Softly. Warmly. The kind of laugh that isn’t aimed at him but shared with him. Your shoulders shake as you lift a hand to cover your smile, and Vox just… freezes.

His screen buffers. Once, and then twice.

Then it brightens, colors evening out as he watches you with something dangerously close to awe.

“Maybe a little,” you say, still smiling, voice fond rather than cruel. “But I think any demon would like to hear that from the big bad media overlord, no less.”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, red gems catching the light as you look at him.

Vox swallows, circuitry humming faintly.

He should say corny things more often, he thinks- then immediately pretends he didn’t.