#shittily-proofread

The day had started with one of Angel Dust’s usual antics—a grand proclamation over breakfast, fork twirling in hand, eyes glinting with flamboyant mischief.

"Alright, listen up, bitches! I got somethin’ special planned for tonight, and no, Vaggie, it ain't one of my 'educational' excursions, so don’t get your panties in a twist!" He waved a pink-gloved hand as if to ward off her immediate disapproval, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. "I’m talkin’ class, I'm talkin’ style, I'm talkin’ one of the best damn voices to ever grace the depths of Hell."

Vaggie narrowed her right eye, sitting up as she glanced at Charlie beside her. "This isn’t another one of your weird ‘bonding activities,’ is it? Like—like that time you tried to get us to go to a ‘How-to-Moan’ class?"

Angel scoffed. "Okay, that was one time, and I still think it woulda been fun!” He huffed, shaking his head to dismiss his previous rejected suggestion. “But no, babe, this is different! I got this girlfriend performing tonight, the kinda doll that could sing the socks off of any demon. Total smoke show, like an absolute bombshell—think old Hollywood but with a fuckin' bite!"

Vaggie sighed, leaning forward on the table, her forehead dropping into her hand. "This is gonna be a disaster, isn't it?"

Charlie bit down on her lower lip, hesitating before curiosity won out. She rubbed a hand over Vaggie's back, consoling her girlfriend as she asked, "What kind of venue?"

"A jazz club!" Angel declared, tossing his upper arms up with a twirl. "Live music, good booze, and a vibe that ain't total chaos—betcha didn’t expect that from me, huh?"

That immediately caught Alastor’s (previously devoid) attention, ears flickering up as his half-lidded eyes opened up. His usual grin stretched just a fraction wider with newfound interest. "A jazz club, you say?" His voice was light, laced with curiosity, a lilting note of intrigue threading through each syllable. "Now that sounds like a lovely way to spend an evening."

Charlie’s attention snapped to Alastor, ecstatic to see him actually interested in a group bonding activity for once. She immediately whipped her head back to Vaggie, who merely groaned in response to her partner’s current puppy-dog expression. Vaggie only sighed once more, pursing her lips. “Fine, we can go.”

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

The moment the doors swung open to The Devil’s Note, a sultry jazz bar nestled in the heart of Pentagram City, the group was automatically enveloped in a haze of warm, dim light and the slow, hypnotic strum of a double bass. The scent of whiskey and aged cigars wove through the air, mingling with the perfume of debauchery and whispered secrets.

Velvet drapes cascaded from the ceiling like blood-red waterfalls, framing mahogany walls adorned with vintage jazz posters and golden sconces that flickered with an otherworldly glow. A grand chandelier loomed above, its many crystal facets casting fractured light across the glossy black floors.

Husk barely had a moment to process the room before a passing server—impeccably dressed in a maroon vest and black bow tie—wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of whiskey. He took it without hesitation, grunting in approval before muttering, "Yeah. This place ain't half bad."

Vaggie, arms crossed and brow furrowed, took a slow, assessing look around before finally conceding, "This is… surprisingly nice."

Angel Dust twirled, four arms outstretched as he breathed it all in. "I know, right? Y’all thought I was gonna drag ya to some sleazy strip joint, huh? Give me some credit!" He leaned against Husk, smirking as Husk coughed mid-sip from the sudden movement. "Even whiskers over here is enjoying himself."

Charlie, expression starry with admiration, nodded vigorously. "I wasn’t expecting something this elegant! It’s like stepping into another era."

And yet, amidst all the chatter and appreciation, Alastor stood eerily still. His smile remained, but his gaze told a different story—nostalgia. He surveyed the space with an unsettling kind of familiarity, his fingers ghosting over the back of a chair as though touching a memory brought to life. The phonograph in the corner crackled softly beneath the low hum of conversation. The brass instruments glinted under dim golden light, polished and pristine. Authentic.

He inhaled steadily, deep and deliberate. "Now, this," he murmured, voice almost reverent, "is a proper establishment."

And with that, the group was ushered to a candle-lit table near the stage, where they settled into a plush, curved leather booth, sipping on devilishly strong drinks while Angel Dust gleefully droned on about how they were in for a real treat. Niffty bounced excitedly beside him, her tiny hands gripping the table as she took in every detail, while Husk, already halfway through his second drink, merely grunted in pacified patience. Vaggie remained reserved but intrigued next to an energetic Charlie who was practically vibrating with elation at the sight of the entire group together in an area that wasn’t the hotel. 

Even Alastor quieted his usual accompanying static, a sign of respect for the Hellborn jazz band on stage. His glowing eyes flickered about the place, his smile satisfied as he tapped along to the beat with a clawed thumb. He had been prepared for tacky, garish decor, for a club that spat on the essence of true jazz. But this—this felt like a whisper from the past, an echo of something he once knew. The deep thrum in his chest from the bass, the filtered wah-wah notes of the trumpet, the sharp keys from the piano—it was real.

His head began bobbing in time with the beat, and before long, he was humming—low, rich, an effortless accompaniment to the imps filling the room with old-world soul. His foot, ever so slightly, tapped along with the rhythm in addition to his thumb. It was a rare sight—Alastor, not just half-assed listening, but feeling the music, letting it settle into him like it was a life source.

Charlie, observing him from behind, leaned toward Vaggie with a hushed whisper. "He looks… natural like this. Like he belongs here."

Angel grinned as he overheard the princess’ words, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, toots." His mismatched eyes twinkled, delight bubbling just beneath his tone. "Just wait ‘til the real show starts."

As if on cue, the lights began to dim. A few guests around the club perked up, their murmurs laced with anticipation. The energy in the room shifted as a golden spotlight shined on the center of the stage, buzzing quietly with unspoken thrill.

A hush fell over the crowd as the jazz band eased into a rich, sultry melody, the notes weaving through the air like smoke curling from the end of a cigarette. The suspense in the room was palpable, some guests shifting forward in their seats, their low whispers betraying excitement. Then, as if answering their call, a graceful silhouette stepped into the soft light, emerging from the shadows.

You.

Draped in liquid satin, the deep emerald fabric of your gown clung to your curves like it had been painted on, the thigh-high slit revealing glimpses of silk stockings as you moved. Diamond earrings kissed your neck, sparkling under the spotlight, while a matching necklace sat snug at your throat, a glittering noose of old money elegance. Every inch of you screamed dangerously expensive, an untouchable femme fatale gracing Hell with her presence.

The moment your ruby lips curled into a relaxed, sly smile, the room seemed to exhale all at once—entranced, bewitched. Every step you took was intentional, high heels clicking softly against the stage as you moved with the languid finesse of a panther on the prowl. The mic stand welcomed the brush of your fingers, cool metal against your skin, and for a brief moment, you let the silence stretch—letting them wait, letting them want as you surveyed the crowd with bated breath.

Then—

You sang.

A voice like silk and sin, rich with the kind of confidence that came from knowing the effect you had. The song had started off with a bang, your voice powerful as you rang out the first electrifying note—long, steady, and clear proof of your skill. Your opening riff dripped with seduction, wrapping around the room like a velvet ribbon. Conversations hushed. All eyes were on you. 

Even Alastor’s.

He sat unnaturally still, red eyes burning like embers, fingers tightening around the glass of whiskey in his hand. His ever-present smile had not faltered, and yet, there was something in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his ears twitched as if trying to resist the very essence of your voice. His chest felt tight with a new emotion he could not quite place, his mind suddenly empty of all other thoughts as he watched you sway on stage.

The musicians followed in suit once you sang the opening, the floor vibrating as the swell of jazz rolled through the room like thunder dipped in honey. Every instrument answered your voice like a well-trained lover—sharp when you snapped, soft when you slinked. You didn’t just sing; you prowled, you played, you performed. Your hips moved with the rhythm, and every gesture was a magnetic force of perfected deliberation. Notes curved out of you like smoke rings, leaving the room hanging on every breath.

As the final note lingered in the air, a wave of applause rippled through the audience. To Angel's excitement, his group all seemed to be giving signs of approval. Charlie and Niffty were clapping fervently, and even the usual impassive faces of Vaggie and Husk were now adorned with impressed expressions. And Alastor… He clapped too—but it was precise, calculated. Each movement measured, restrained, as his eyes smoldered with sudden intensity.

Angel leaned back, throwing an arm over the back of the booth, grinning smugly at the group. “Ain’t she great?” he drawled, clearly reveling in their reactions.

As the applause settled, you bowed elegantly, sending a charming smile to the crowd. “Enjoy your night at The Devil’s Note, darlings. There’s more where that came from—so stay tuned.”

The small crowd applauded a second time, your band picking up the beat once more as the lights cleared just slightly for an intermission. In the downtime, you spotted Angel in the crowd, a flicker of recognition lighting up your expression as you stepped down from the stage. You snaked towards their booth with effortless grace, the attention of a few Sinners lingering on you as you passed their tables to get to your good friend.

“Angel!” you called out, sliding up beside him as he beamed at you. “You always know how to gather an…”—You glanced at the motley crew, blinking in surprise as you took in his choice of accompanies tonight—”interesting crowd.”

He wrapped his upper arms around you, hugging you tightly as he gestured to the group with a free hand. “Doll, meet my weird-ass roommates. We got Charlie, she’s the princess—yeah, that princess. Vaggie, her overprotective watchdog. Husk—he’s grumpy but I promise he’s warming up to me.”

Husk snorted. “Not in a million years.”

Angel waved him off, continuing down the line. “That’s Niffty, she’s a firecracker, and last but definitely the freakiest—Alastor, ya know, the Radio Demon.”

After greeting each member individually, your gaze finally landed on the Sinner across from you, who sat ever so still in the curved booth, his grin wide as you both studied each other. You hummed softly when you met his red eyes, glowing with something akin to curiosity. You had heard of the Radio Demon in passing conversations throughout your time in Hell, but you had never expected him to be such a… dapper fellow.

He was dressed in a crimson pinstripe suit, essentially blending in seamlessly with the aesthetic of the club. The sharp cut of his jacket accentuated his tall frame, and the dark shadows surrounding him only seemed to grow in the candlelight, casting an eerie silhouette behind him. You almost had to hold back a laugh at the odd addition of two tiny prongs of antlers jutting between his large red ears—an unexpectedly cute detail that clashed comically with the otherwise pristine 1930s vibe he was going for. Something in his expression, the way his grip tensed around the glass at the way you watched him, made your brow lift in amusement. He studied you in return not with disdain, nor indifference, but with something far more interesting—contemplation. It made the hair on the back of your neck stick up; how thrillingly dangerous.

You leaned in slowly, purposeful, your elbow hitting the table as you rested your chin against your palm. You let the tension stretch, your head tilting as your charming smile morphed into a wide smirk. His watching eyes only seemed to track your every move, his body tensing slightly as if he were waiting for an attack. Then, with a teasing, sensual tone, you tilted your head and purred—

“You seem uncomfortable. Do I make you nervous?”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, stunned into silence by your words. His ears shot straight up, blinking several times at you as if he couldn’t believe what you just said. The rest of the group seemed equally shocked by your bold move—both Charlie’s and Vaggie’s jaws dropped at your provocative comment as Husk merely took a long, slow sip of his drink to hide his amused smirk at Alastor's dumbfounded expression.

A second of quiet tension passed before Angel burst into laughter, cackling loudly. “Toots, you’ve seriously got a death wish! Fuckin’ flirting with the Radio Demon—I swear I’ve never met a gal as crazy as you!”

You turned back to the spider beside you, grinning deviously as his arm around your shoulder shook with every guffaw. “Please, I’m only teasing.” You couldn’t help but chuckle alongside Angel, shaking your head as you turned back to look at the rest of the table. “But seriously, I’m glad to have you folks here. Any friend of Angel’s is a friend of mine, so enjoy your time here.”

You backed out of the booth smoothly, gesturing for a passing waiter to bring a fresh round of colorful refreshments to the table. Angel lit up like he’d just witnessed the second coming, beaming at you with pure reverence for the free alcohol. You rolled your eyes with a smirk, giving his shoulder a playful push that made him giggle like a schoolgirl.

As the rest of the group oohed and aahed over the new drinks being set before them, you turned to take your leave—gown swaying around you—but not without one final glance over your shoulder. 

While the others were distracted by the sudden liquor, Alastor’s staring remained fixed on you, unmoving and unblinking. You met his gaze, letting your lashes lower just so. Then, with all the poise of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, you winked slowly… and blew him a kiss.

His smile snarled, revealing black gums—just for a moment—before your eyes caught the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple in an involuntary gulp. You glanced down at his free hand on the table, his red claws leaving a few scuff marks on the polished mahogany wood. You only huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you turned forward once more.

“For the Radio Demon, you don’t seem to be quite the talker!”

You were met with a sudden burst of radio static, the lamps above you flickering in tandem. You heard a few gasps from the group before Angel’s recognizable laughter rang out once more, wheezing even harder than before. Smirking, you continued on without looking back, sending a fluttering wave to the group behind you.

You ascended the stage once more, your heels clicking against the familiar wooden stage. The imp at the piano glanced back at the commotion, eyes darting between you and the table with a questioning brow, but you snapped your fingers lightly, calling him back to focus. He simply nodded and turned back to the keys.

As you reached for the mic again, you glanced once more toward the table—and found Alastor watching you. His menacing smile remained, tight and strained like a mask held too long. When you both made eye contact, his right eye twitched. You bit your lip, a coy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, whether that be from your clear effect on the Sinner or the dangerous thrill starting to blossom in your stomach.

Only one thought rang through your mind as you stepped into the spotlight, the music swelling behind you, the room holding its breath once more to hear your voice:

This will be fun.

The sheets were still warm when you groaned awake, hair sticking up in odd angles, mouth dry, and muscles aching from yesterday's mission. Your limbs protested the idea of getting out of bed, but the smell of something suspiciously charred wafted into your nose, yanking you from your sluggish comfort.

"You're going to burn the whole place down," you grumbled, staggering into the small shared kitchen of your modest apartment in the grungier end of Pentagram City. Jazz music filled the air, the sound of sirens muffled in the distance, making you glance out the window towards the blood-red sky.

Alastor, all manic grins and vintage flair, stood humming to the music, flipping something in a skillet that had long since given up hope of survival. Your stomach lurched at the sight, sliding slowly into a chair at the table.

"Ah, good morning, sunshine!" he crooned, not turning around as he plopped his food onto a plate. "Did the aroma of my culinary masterpiece lure you from your slumber, or was it the soul-crushing guilt of sleeping in past noon again?"

You shoot him a look as you rubbed the sleep away from your eyes, your soul wavelength humming irritably against his own like mismatched radio frequencies. "You wake up at the crack of chaos. Not all of us are powered by sadism and radio static."

"Tut tut," he clicked his tongue, finally turning to face you with a grin sharp enough to gut a ghost. "How else am I to keep you on your toes?"

You ignored him, and instead slapped the day's mission scroll down on the table. The infernal wax seal cracks with a hiss. “Corrupted soul in the human realm,” you yawn, looking over the paper. “Feeding off fear. The Morningstar Weapon Meister Academy suspects it’s been terrorizing a bunch of kids in some abandoned funhouse on the edge of town.”

Alastor hums, walking over with his plate and a cup of coffee to sit across from you. He slides the cup to you, and you grab it in silent appreciation.

“How delightful. Children’s screams are so much more flavorful than adults’. Like candy apples. Rotting candy apples.”

You wince at his words as you drink your coffee, placing it down to give him an incredulous look. He only bats his lashes at you, smiling with faux innocence. You huffed, skimming the mission once more below you. "Should be simple."

"'Simple'," he echoed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he swallowed down whatever creature he was eating. "You always say that, dearest."

"Because I like lying to myself," you said flatly, finishing the cup of coffee Alastor had prepared for you.

Alastor only sighed in disdain, finishing his meal in silence. After letting the caffeine kick into your system, you get up, moving towards your living room to get ready for the day. Your shared living room doubled as a gear-up area, doing your stretches on a yoga mat to prepare for the mission.

Alastor joins you shortly after with his hands clasped behind his back, watching like a cat watches a mouse it hasn’t quite decided whether to kill or play with. You glance up at him from your spot on the floor, letting your demon form melt away—horns receding, claws dulling, eyes losing their hellish glow. What was left was your human disguise: ordinary. Soft. Dull.

Alastor clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he watched your transformation. "I hate that form."

You rolled your eyes, getting up once you felt fully human. "Yeah, well, the PTA in the human realm doesn’t exactly appreciate demon horns and the like."

He gave a sharp laugh. "Ah, but you have such character when you’re dripping in hellfire."

"And yet," you muttered, summoning a portal with a flick of your wrist. A swirling rift in space shimmered before you, pulsing with soft energy. "We go where the souls are."

You glanced towards the widening portal, a faint breeze from the human realm blowing into your warm Hellish apartment. Alastor buzzed with content as he got a whiff of the air, “This place smells like spoiled dreams and cotton candy corpses. Reminds me of a carnival I devoured once.”

Groaning in response, you place a foot in the portal, “Remind me to never ask for that story.”

“It ends with a fire. As all good things do!"

The portal spat you out into the outskirts of a human town, fog curling low against a withered funhouse that hadn’t seen joy in decades. It loomed like a rotten tooth in the mouth of the earth, squealing metal and flickering lights setting the stage.

You exhaled, a groan slipping past your lips at the sudden coldness in the air. "Of course it’s creepy. Why wouldn’t it be."

"Frightened already? Shall I hold your hand? Or better yet, shall I do all the work?" Alastor teased, his voice already warping into static as his body flickered, dissolving mid-sentence. Red static erupted around him like a crackling flame, curling up in jagged arcs, and with a flash of eerie green light, his figure vanished entirely. In his place stood his weapon form: a massive crimson scythe. Of course, with the accompaniment of a little blinking microphone and radio speakers etched into its tang—even green little sigils were engraved into the twisted wooden snath.

You scoffed and stepped forward, gripping the haft. The handle was warm, humming with energy that wasn’t just magic—it was personality. You could almost feel him smirking, making you grip the weapon harder. "Try not to insult me while I’m holding you."

"That was me being kind. I can turn the volume down lower, but then you’d miss the music."

You exhaled deeply in annoyance, shifting your stance. The fog pressed against your back like cold hands as you stalked toward the crooked porch of the decrepit funhouse. The paint peeled like rotting skin, and the windows gaped like mouths left mid-scream. Your lips thinned at the sight, grimacing internally while you willed yourself to move.

"Let's just get this over with, Smiles."

As your boot hit the first step, the walls of the funhouse breathed. Wood groaned, twisted, and dragged against itself in unnatural motions. From above, something shrieked before you could even take another step.

A streak of movement—a shadow dislodged from the roof—lunged down with a screech that splintered the air. You dropped low on instinct, the corrupted soul’s claws missing you by inches, your body rolling and scrambling back upright.

"Okay, rude!"

The corrupted soul towered over you, all mismatched limbs and warped carnival paint, twitching with spasms as if it was barely holding itself together. Its eyes glowed too bright for a human face, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of the night. Its giggle mimicked that of a child, but dragged through gravel, looping over itself like a broken record.

You lunged in, Alastor’s scythe slashing through the fog. He hummed in your grip, voice lilting with faux sweetness, "Oh come now, a touch more grace, if you please! I’d rather not spend the afterlife tethered to your shoddy combat skills."

"Then shut up and let me fight!" you snapped, pivoting for another strike as the creature’s laughter howled louder.

You parried a claw swipe and twisted, using the momentum to cleave downward. Alastor's blade cut clean through one of the soul's limbs, the corrupted flesh sizzling and hissing as it hit the warped floorboards with a wet smack. The creature shrieked, stumbling back.

"Oho! Beautifully executed, my dear!" Alastor sang, static flaring with delight in your grip. "You’re finally learning!"

"Gee, thanks," you grunted, flicking away the ichor that now coated the edge of his blade. "Didn’t realize I needed your approval to maim a monster."

"Oh, I do so love when you get feisty." He cooed, the scythe practically vibrating with amusement.

You slashed again, spinning low to avoid a second claw as the creature flailed. "And I love when you shut up. Funny how we never get what we want."

"But darling, if I were silent, who would narrate your mediocrity?"

You rolled your eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching despite yourself. "Keep talking and I’ll use you as a paperweight."

"Now, now, don't threaten me with a good time."

You were about to reply to the usual dance of bickering you and Alastor did when a sudden pain shot through your body, as if you were hit by lightning bolt. A searing line of agony lit up across your side as one of the soul’s talons found purchase. You gasped, stumbling back, something wet seeping into your coat as you glanced down to look at the bloodstain growing on your human form's clothes. Shit.

The air shifted, the scythe in your hands forcing you from harm's way as Alastor went unusually quiet.

When he spoke next, it was low. Cold. You could practically see his sinister smile, snarling at the corrupted soul who had done the damage.

"You will regret that."

The scythe pulsed in your hand with energy darker than usual. Alastor’s wrath, no longer gleeful but razor-focused, guided your every swing. You could feel his anger, his frequency tainting your wavelength like a growing poison. Together, you tore through the corrupted soul with practiced fury. It screamed, howled, and tried to flee—but you two together were faster. Stronger. Meaner.

The creature disintegrated, vanishing into a swirling orb of dark essence. You dropped to one knee, catching your breath. Alastor reappears beside you, adjusting his bowtie, the faintest trace of smoke still curling from his fingertips. He didn’t say a word as he scooped up the soul and devoured it, static rippling through his form as he licked his lips hungrily.

When the last echo of the corrupted soul faded, he turned to you.

“I told you not to let your guard down,” he says smoothly, but his gaze flicker to your shoulder. “Always so reckless.”

You glare at him from below. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“And I said I’m fine—”

He’s kneeling in front of you before you can finish, his glowing eyes studying the wound. For a split second, you see something behind his grin. Not pity. Not fear. But something rarer. Something tender. In one sudden swoop, you're being easily lifted by the demon in front of you.

You snort, instinctively wrapping your arms around his long neck as you let him carry you towards the portal that appears. “What, no jokes? No teasing?”

“Later,” he murmurs, voice low. “For now, I’m busy keeping my meister in one piece.”

Back in Hell, the portal closes behind you with a hiss. The mission scroll from earlier today transforms into a pile of coins, glistening on the small dining table. Mission complete.

Your shoulder aches. Your pride, more so. You transform back into your true demon form, your bones finally relaxing as if you had just peeled off too-tight clothing from your body. You’re halfway to your shared bedroom when Alastor grabs your wrist gently.

You blink, turning to look at him with a questioning gaze.

“I’ll bandage it properly,” he says, already guiding you toward the couch. “Unless you want it to fester.”

Sighing, you try to force down the knowing smile that tickles your lips. You do as he says, sitting down on the couch to watch him gather the first-aid materials in your shoe closet. His ears brush the top of the door frame, his lean body almost too tall for your tiny apartment. But you know deep down, he wouldn't have it any other way—and neither would you.

He returns with cleaning supplies and gauze, his expression softer than normal as his ears press against his head. "You seriously need to take more care of yourself, dearest."

"But then what would you do if I didn't get hurt most of the time?" You had meant that as a teasing remark, but you bite your cheek at the way Alastor looks at you with worried eyes. The two of you stare at each other for a brief moment, letting time pass before you breathe heavily. "Fine, I understand. But you better not gloat over saving me today."

“Oh no, of course not,” he says, his red eyes returning to their usual mirth. “I would never kick you while you’re down.”

A pause.

“...That’s tomorrow’s plan.”

You groan, trying to push him away as he cleans your wound. His laughter echoes throughout the small apartment, his hands gentle but firm on your body.

And in that messy one bedroom, one bath apartment that somehow barely fit both you and Alastor, beneath flickering overhead lamps and the scent of old jazz records, you let him patch you up.

Just a meister and their scythe. A perfect duo made in Hell. Souls stitched together by chaos. Bound not by fate—but by wavelength.

And somehow, that’s comfort enough.