Verosihoeeeexoxo

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

LITERALLY verosikas #1 worshipper

She/her/hers - 20- bi

Requests are always open!!

Masterlist

Rules!!

MDNI 🔞 block don’t ban!

love ur work!!

Hihi guys! Ofc! Enjoy divas

Velvette x sick fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vox x fem!reader

SFW Headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

NSFW Headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

Valentino x fem!reader

SFW Headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

NSFW Headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In love with a TV

Vox x fem!reader short story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falling hard

Vox x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take your time! 💖

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

Vox x f!reader headcannons

Public Teasing – The “Tiny girl” Routine

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

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

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

Behind Closed Doors – The Obsessed Boyfriend Experience

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oversized Clothes on Purpose

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

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

The High-Shelf Game

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

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

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

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

NSFW Headcanons – Size Kink Goes Nuclear

Vox is feral for how small you are in private.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Velvette x fem!reader

The “Secret Language” Bond

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


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

Velvette’s Petty Jealousy & Sass

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

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

Vox’s Tech Tantrums

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


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

Playful “Punishments” from the Vees

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

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

The Sweet Side (When They Finally Admit It)

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

What if, a few weeks after arriving at the hotel, Bambi and Doe start gaining control of their shadows? The two little fawns are excited about it because they get to be like daddy. They reveal their new talent by getting their shadows to taunt Lucifer because. "Daddy no like stinky duck man!"

Hihi! Sorry for not posting yesterday I was very drunk 😛 anyways gonna be writing for more requests between studying! So heres a pt 2 of “the new home” !

The new home pt 2

Alastor x fem!reader

The Hazbin Hotel had settled into a strange new rhythm over the past few weeks. With you and the twins now living in the spacious family suite on the upper floors, the once-chaotic lobby echoed with the patter of tiny hooves (or at least the sound of little red shoes) and the occasional burst of childish giggles mixed with radio static.

Bambi and Doe had taken to hotel life with surprising enthusiasm. They adored “Auntie Charlie’s” redemption exercises (even if they mostly just drew pictures of smiling deer and exploding apples), begged Husk for “special juice” (which was strictly apple juice), and followed Niffty around like tiny pink shadows, helping her “clean” with varying degrees of success.

But the biggest change was happening in secret.

One quiet afternoon, while you were helping Charlie organize a new group activity in the lobby, the twins were supposed to be napping in the suite. Alastor had stepped out briefly to “handle a minor broadcast issue,” leaving the girls under your watchful eye via the baby monitor he’d enchanted with swirling red sigils.

Instead of sleeping, Bambi and Doe were wide awake, sitting cross-legged on the oversized bed, their little faces scrunched in concentration.

“Like this?” Bambi whispered, wiggling her tiny fingers the way she’d seen Daddy do when his shadow stretched across the walls at bedtime stories.

Doe nodded solemnly, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Yeah! Think happy scary thoughts!”

A soft ripple of crimson energy flickered across the floor. Two small, shadowy figures peeled away from the twins’ own silhouettes — miniature versions of Alastor’s shadow, complete with tiny antlers and mischievous grins. The shadow fawns wobbled at first, then stood tall on the carpet, mirroring the girls’ excited bounces.

“We did it!” Bambi squealed, clapping her hands. “We got our shadows! Just like Daddy!”

Doe’s shadow gave a dramatic little bow, then promptly tripped over its own feet, making both girls dissolve into giggles.

They spent the next twenty minutes practicing. The shadow fawns danced, made silly faces, and even managed to mimic Alastor’s signature static-laced laugh in high-pitched squeaks. The twins were over the moon.

“Daddy’s gonna be so proud!” Doe declared, hugging her shadow-self (which tried to hug back but mostly just phased through her).

Bambi’s eyes suddenly sparkled with a very specific kind of trouble. “Hey… wanna show the stinky duck man?”

Doe gasped, then grinned wickedly — an expression far too similar to her father’s for comfort. “Yes! Daddy says he no like stinky duck man. So our shadows can say it for him!”

The decision was made in typical four-year-old logic. The twins snuck downstairs, shadows trailing behind them like loyal little minions, hiding just out of sight until the perfect moment.

Lucifer was in the lobby, dramatically demonstrating his latest “improved” rubber duck design to Charlie and Vaggie. He held the glittering toy aloft, boasting about its new “heavenly quack” feature.

“And watch this — it sings the national anthem of Hell in perfect pitch!”

That was when the shadows struck.

Two tiny shadowy deer figures sprang from behind a couch, antlers wiggling menacingly. They circled Lucifer’s feet, pointing accusatory little shadow fingers.

“Stinky duck man!” one squeaked in a distorted, radio-filtered voice that was unmistakably influenced by Alastor.

“Daddy no like you!” the other added, sticking out its tongue and making rude shadow gestures that looked suspiciously like jazz hands gone wrong.

Lucifer yelped, nearly dropping his precious duck. “What the—?! Alastor’s spawn?! Why are there evil mini deer attacking me?!”

Charlie’s eyes widened in delight and mild horror. “Bambi? Doe? Is that… are those your shadows?!”

The twins popped out from their hiding spot, beaming with pride. Bambi put her hands on her hips. “We got shadow powers! Just like Daddy!”

Doe nodded vigorously. “And our shadows say stinky duck man is stinky!”

Lucifer clutched his rubber duck to his chest like a shield, looking genuinely offended. “I am not stinky! I am the King of Hell! And these… these tiny traitors are clearly corrupted by that smiling freak!”

The shadow fawns continued their taunting, one even pretending to quack mockingly while the other made exaggerated gagging motions. The girls laughed so hard they nearly fell over.

You rushed in from the other side of the lobby, having heard the commotion through the monitor. “Bambi! Doe! What did we say about using powers on guests?”

Alastor materialized in a swirl of shadow and static right on cue, his grin impossibly wide as he took in the scene. He scooped both twins up, one in each arm, while their shadow versions danced triumphantly around Lucifer’s ankles.

“My dear little fawns,” Alastor cooed, voice dripping with paternal pride and radio distortion. “Already mastering the family art of shadow mischief? How delightful!”

He pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads, static crackling warmly. “Though perhaps we save the taunting for more… deserving targets next time. The stinky duck man is technically family, after all.”

Lucifer sputtered. “Technically?!”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, but couldn’t hide your fond smile. “Alastor, don’t encourage them.”

“Encourage? Darling, I’m simply nurturing their natural talents,” Alastor replied smoothly, his shadow stretching behind him to high-five the tiny shadow fawns. “Besides, look how happy they are. They want to be just like their dear old dad.”

Bambi and Doe nodded eagerly, hugging their father’s neck. “We’re shadow deer too! We can scare the bad guys for you, Daddy!”

Alastor’s antlers grew just a fraction, eyes glowing with pure demonic affection. “That’s my girls.”

Later that evening, after the twins were finally tucked into bed (with extra bedtime stories involving heroic shadow fawns protecting their family), Alastor pulled you close on the balcony overlooking the hotel grounds.

“They’re growing up so fast,” you murmured, leaning into his side.

“Indeed,” he replied, his voice soft with that rare, unfiltered warmth reserved only for you and the girls. “And with shadows of their own… our little family just became infinitely more entertaining.”

You laughed softly. “Just promise me we won’t have shadow-taunting wars with Lucifer every week.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened playfully. “No promises, my dear. But I’ll consider it.”

From inside the suite came the faint sound of two tiny voices practicing shadow giggles, already plotting their next mischievous masterpiece.

Vox x fem assistant reader

Chapter 3: live wire

The studio was alive with the low thrum of machinery and the faint buzz of anticipation that always hung in the air before Vox went live. You stepped through the side door at exactly 1:47 p.m., tablet clutched in one hand, earpiece already tucked into place like Vox had instructed via a curt text thirty seconds earlier. The main stage glowed under banks of adjustable lights—harsh white with overlays of electric blue that matched the pulsing veins of circuitry running along the walls. A massive curved desk dominated the center, sleek black with embedded holographic displays that flickered through trending topics in real time. Behind it, the backdrop was a seamless wall of shifting VoxTek logos that dissolved into live feeds from Hell’s streets.

Vox was already there, perched on the edge of the desk like he owned every pixel in the room—which, technically, he did. His coat was off, draped over the back of his chair, leaving him in that tailored vest and dress shirt that somehow made the sharp lines of his frame look even more predatory. The flat screen of his head glowed steadily, red pupils sharp as he scanned a floating script. A tech demon scurried past with a boom mic, and Vox didn’t even glance at him before snapping, “Left side lighting is two degrees off. Fix it before I fry your paycheck.”

You hovered just off-camera, in the shadowed wing where the director’s monitors cast green reflections across your face. Your heart gave one annoying little stutter when Vox’s gaze flicked toward you. The static in the air thickened instantly, a faint crackle that brushed the back of your neck like invisible fingers.

“Perfect timing,” he said, voice dropping to that velvet-static timbre he reserved for when he was pretending not to notice how closely he was watching you. “Sit there.” He pointed with two claws at a low stool tucked behind a half-wall of equipment, just out of frame but close enough that you could lean forward and speak directly into the small microphone rigged for you. “Earpiece stays in. You feed me numbers—viewer retention, sentiment spikes, demographic breakdowns. No hesitation. No fluff. If I have to ask twice, I’ll broadcast your name as the reason for any dip.”

You sat, smoothing your skirt and powering up the tablet. The screen lit with the afternoon broadcast dashboard: live graphs already climbing as the pre-show countdown ticked down from sixty. “Understood, sir. Current projections show a twelve percent uptick if you open with the Valentino statement. Sentiment’s still hovering at sixty-eight percent ‘concerned citizen’ rather than ‘outraged investor.’”

Vox’s screen flickered once—amusement, maybe, or irritation that you’d already read the data he hadn’t asked for yet. “Cocky little analyst today, aren’t we?” He adjusted his tie with a sharp tug, claws clicking against the fabric. “Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you enjoy watching me work.”

The countdown hit ten. The floor director gave a silent three-two-one with his fingers. The red light on the main camera flared.

Vox transformed in an instant. The sharp edges of his posture melted into effortless charisma as he leaned into the lens, smile wide and glowing, voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic broadcast cadence that made sinners across the Pride Ring lean closer to their screens.

“Good afternoon, Pentagram City! It’s your favorite Overlord of the airwaves, Vox, coming at you live from the heart of VoxTek Tower. Today we’re diving deep into the latest shake-ups in our glittering entertainment district—because let’s face it, darling viewers, things are never boring down here.”

You watched the metrics spike immediately. Retention at ninety-four percent. Female demons aged 25-40 up two points already. You leaned in, voice low and clear through the private channel. “Sentiment holding steady. Mention the ‘artistic passion’ line from the press release—viewer engagement jumped eleven percent on test runs of that phrasing.”

Vox didn’t miss a beat on camera, but his screen glitched with a tiny heart-shaped static burst only you could see from your angle. “Of course, we all know our dear associate Valentino is a visionary. His latest… creative outburst? Pure artistic temperament. The kind that reminds us why we tune in every night. Passion like that doesn’t come cheap, folks—and neither does the brilliance that follows it.”

You tapped rapidly, feeding him the next line of data. “Demographic A—younger sinners—loving the confidence. Retention now at ninety-seven. But older investors are hesitating. Pivot to financials in thirty seconds.”

He laughed on air, low and rich, the sound rolling through the studio speakers like thunder wrapped in silk. “And for those of you crunching numbers instead of popcorn—don’t worry. VoxTek’s bottom line is as solid as my signal. We adapt. We improve. We stay ahead.” His red pupils flicked sideways for the briefest second, locking onto you in the shadows. The static around him crackled louder, a warm prickle that ghosted across your arms even from three feet away. “Because the right people know how to keep things… running smoothly.”

You swallowed, fingers flying over the tablet. “Spike in positive sentiment—up to seventy-four percent. They’re eating it up. Add something personal. ‘Even I rely on the best support behind the scenes.’ Test it.”

Vox’s claws tightened on the edge of the desk, screen flickering again—stronger this time. On camera it looked like emphasis. To you it felt like a live wire humming between you. “And let me tell you,” he continued, voice dropping into that intimate register that made the air feel thinner, “even someone like me doesn’t do it all alone. The right assistant—the right team—makes all the difference. Keeps the frequency clear. Keeps the picture sharp.”

The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Viewer metrics jumped another four points. Comments flooded the side monitor: who’s the new girl in the background clips? vox sounds different today… hotter?

You kept your voice steady, professional, even as your pulse kicked up. “Positive chatter exploding on social. They’re theorizing about ‘the new voice in your ear.’ Stay vague. Don’t confirm anything.”

Vox’s smile on camera sharpened, but off-camera his head tilted just enough that the red glow of his screen caught the side of your face. “Mmm. Smart girl,” he murmured into the private line, low enough that only you heard the praise beneath the static. “You’re feeding me gold today. Keep it coming.”

The segment stretched on for another twenty minutes—stock updates, a quick ad read for the new VoxTek streaming service, a biting takedown of some rival network’s latest flop. Every time you leaned in with fresh numbers, his posture shifted toward you by fractions of an inch. The static never let up; it danced along your skin like a constant low-voltage caress, making the fine hairs on your arms stand at attention. Once, when you whispered a particularly sharp market insight mid-sentence, his claws flexed hard enough to leave faint scratches on the desk surface.

When the red light finally cut, Vox let out a long, satisfied exhale that sounded more like a growl. The studio crew erupted into the usual post-show chatter, but he ignored them completely. He stood, rolling his shoulders, and closed the distance between you in two strides. The static intensified until it felt like standing inside a storm cloud.

“Not bad,” he said, voice pitched low so the lingering techs wouldn’t overhear. He loomed over your stool, one hand braced on the half-wall beside your head. Close. Too close. You could smell ozone and that sharp cologne again, could see the faint after-images of the broadcast still scrolling across his screen in miniature. “Not bad at all. Retention peaked at ninety-eight point seven during the pivot. That’s the highest afternoon number in three quarters.”

You met his gaze without flinching, even as your tablet screen reflected red in your eyes. “The numbers don’t lie, sir. Your delivery helped. The personal touch at the end—viewers love when you sound almost… human.”

Vox’s pupils narrowed into dangerous slits, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Almost human? Careful. Compliments like that could go to my head.” He leaned in another inch, claws tapping idly against the wall inches from your shoulder. “Or maybe you’re the one getting comfortable. Feeding me lines like that on air… making me sound better than I already am. Most assistants would’ve frozen up the second the camera went hot.”

“I don’t freeze,” you replied evenly, though your voice had dropped to match his. The air between you felt charged, heavy. “I adapt. Like you said—keeps the frequency clear.”

He chuckled, the sound glitching softly at the edges. One claw lifted, hovering near a stray strand of your hair before he thought better of it and let it drop. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Most people in this tower would sell their soul twice over for half the attention I’m giving you right now. And here you are, sitting there like you belong in my earpiece. Like you belong… closer.”

The studio lights hummed overhead. Somewhere behind you, a crew member called out about tomorrow’s schedule, but neither of you moved.

Vox straightened slowly, as if it took actual effort. His screen dimmed to a softer blue, pupils still fixed on you. “Office. Twenty minutes. We’re reviewing the full analytics packet. And bring that brain of yours—I want every insight you didn’t feed me on air. No holding back this time.”

He turned on his heel, coat swirling as he snatched it from the chair, but paused at the door just long enough to glance back. “Oh, and assistant?”

You looked up from powering down the tablet.

“Don’t be late. I might start thinking you enjoy making me wait… and we both know how much I hate that.”

The static lingered in the air long after he’d gone, prickling against your skin like a promise.

You exhaled, steadying your pulse, and stood. The metrics on your screen still glowed with record highs.

Looked like the frequency between you two was drifting somewhere new.

Twenty minutes later, you stepped into Vox’s private office on the executive floor. The space felt smaller than it had that morning—perhaps because the lights had dimmed to a low, intimate blue that made the holographic displays glow like underwater currents. The massive windows overlooked the neon sprawl of Pentagram City, but the curtains were half-drawn, cutting the outside world down to a thin, pulsing strip of chaos.

Vox was already there, coat discarded over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a rare show of casualness. He leaned against the edge of his desk, one claw idly scrolling through the full analytics packet on a floating screen. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the static in the room thickened, wrapping around you like a second skin.

“You’re early,” he noted without looking up, though the corner of his screen twitched with what might have been approval. “Or are you just eager to get back in my ear?”

You crossed the room at a measured pace, tablet in hand, and stopped a respectable distance away. “You said twenty minutes, sir. I don’t like making you wait.”

His red pupils finally lifted, locking onto yours with that sharp, dissecting focus. “Good answer. Sit.” He gestured to the chair directly beside his—closer than the one you’d used earlier. No half-wall this time. No buffer.

You sat, smoothing your skirt as you powered up the tablet. The graphs from the broadcast filled the screen: retention curves still riding high, comment sections flooded with speculation. Vox shifted his weight, leaning in until his arm brushed yours. The contact sent a faint jolt through you—warm electricity, not painful, but impossible to ignore.

“Walk me through it,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough, the kind he used when the cameras were off and he wanted something more than data. “Every spike. Every dip. And don’t leave out the parts where you think I sounded… particularly compelling.”

You swallowed once, keeping your tone professional even as the air between you hummed. “The biggest jump came during the personal touch segment—ninety-eight point seven percent retention. Viewers responded strongly to the line about relying on the right support. Female demographics aged twenty-five to forty saw a fourteen percent sentiment boost. They’re… interpreting it as vulnerability.”

Vox let out a soft, glitching chuckle. He tilted his head, screen inches from your shoulder now. You could feel the heat radiating off the glass, could see tiny lines of code scrolling across it in real time. “Vulnerability. Is that what they’re calling it?” One claw tapped idly against the desk, dangerously close to your hand. “Or are they picking up on something else? Something that happens when a certain assistant starts feeding me lines that make me sound almost… approachable.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. The proximity made your pulse stutter. “They like the contrast. The powerful Overlord who still admits he doesn’t do it alone. It humanizes you—without making you look weak.”

“Humanizes me,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign and delicious. His free hand rose slowly, claws hovering near the side of your face before he caught himself and let them rest on the back of your chair instead. The static danced along your jawline, a feather-light caress that raised goosebumps. “Careful with compliments like that. Keep talking sweet and I might start believing you actually enjoy being this close to me.”

Your fingers tightened on the tablet. “I’m doing my job, sir.”

“Are you?” Vox leaned in another fraction, his screen now so near you could see your own reflection distorted in the red glow. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, intimate and charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re doing a lot more than feeding metrics. You’re making the broadcast feel… alive. Every time you lean in and whisper those sharp little insights, my signal sharpens. The static gets louder. And the viewers? They can sense it. They’re hungry for whatever this is.”

He gestured vaguely at the space between you, claws tracing the air like he was outlining an invisible current. “Look at the comments from the last ten minutes of the show.” He flicked his wrist; a secondary hologram bloomed beside your tablet. Who’s the voice in his ear? Vox sounds different today… softer? Is there a new girl? She’s got him tuned in.

You scanned them quickly, cheeks warming despite yourself. “They’re theorizing. It’s good engagement. We could lean into the mystery if you want—keep the ratings climbing.”

Vox’s laugh was low and rough, static crackling at the edges. “Mystery. Sure.” He shifted again, his knee brushing yours under the desk. Neither of you pulled away. “Or maybe I like the way you make me sound when you’re right here. Close enough that I can feel every little breath you take before you speak. Close enough that if I wanted to…” His claw finally made contact—light, deliberate—tracing the shell of your ear where the earpiece had been earlier. “I could short-circuit that pretty composure of yours without anyone else noticing.”

The touch was brief, gone in a heartbeat, but the electricity lingered, humming under your skin like a live wire. You forced your voice steady. “You could try, sir. But then who would feed you the next perfect pivot?”

His pupils narrowed, delighted and dangerous. “There she is. That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days.” He straightened just enough to create a sliver of space, but it felt like teasing. His screen dimmed to a softer crimson, pupils half-lidded. “Tell me something honest. Off the record. When you’re sitting there in the shadows, whispering into my ear while millions watch… does it excite you? Knowing you’re the one pulling the strings behind the screen?”

You met his gaze without flinching, even as the tension coiled tighter in your chest. “It’s… satisfying. Watching the numbers climb because of something I said. Watching you take the cue and make it look effortless. Like we’re in sync.”

“Sync,” he echoed, the word glitching softly. One hand came to rest on the desk beside yours, claws inches from brushing your fingers. “Careful. Talk like that and I’ll start thinking you want to be more than just the voice in my ear. Maybe you want to be the reason the signal stays clear. The reason I don’t short out when the pressure hits.”

The office felt smaller, the hum of the tower fading beneath the crackle of static between you. Vox’s head tilted, screen reflecting the blue glow of the holograms across your face. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The air was thick, charged, every breath feeling like it carried a spark.

Then he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the current. “Enough analytics for now,” he said, voice still rough around the edges. “But we’re not done. Tomorrow’s morning briefing. You’ll be here at eight-thirty sharp. And this time…” His claws tapped once against the desk, right beside your hand. “Wear something that…shows off those pretty legs hm? I wanna have a different…private conversation if thats ok”

She looks at him a little weirded out “wha-“

“Perfect.”

He stood, coat sliding back over his shoulders in one fluid motion, but paused at the edge of the desk. Looking down at you, screen pulsing with restrained energy, he added with a crooked, static-laced smirk:

“And assistant? If you keep making the frequency between us this… interesting, I might forget how much I hate waiting. Don’t test how patient I can be when something actually holds my attention.”

You rose as well, tablet clutched like a shield that was rapidly losing its power. “Understood, sir.”

As you reached the door, his voice followed you one last time—quiet, almost too soft for the Overlord of media.

“Sweet dreams. Try not to dream about yours truly.”

The door hissed shut behind you, but the prickling on your skin remained long after you’d left the floor.

જ⁀➴ All Alastor headcannons/stories currently

Fluff stories

The new home alastor x fem!reader

The new home pt 2 alastor x fem!reader

Fluff headcannons

Smut stories

Smut headcannons

Hey pooks 🥰 ily and heres some NSFW and SFW headcannons for a fae fem demon reader x vox

Vox x fae fem reader

How You Met & Early Sparks

Vox first saw you at one of Velvette’s chaotic runway shows in Pentagram City. You were working as a freelance glamour artist, draping models in living illusions that made fabric look like flowing hellfire or starlit voids. When you laughed at something a lesser demon said, your wings fluttered and every screen in the room flickered with static roses.
Vox’s head snapped toward you so fast his antenna nearly spun off.
“Well, well… what do we have here?” he purred, slinking over with that signature shark-toothed grin, one claw already adjusting his bowtie. “A little fae in my perfect signal. Darling, you just made my 8 o’clock ratings spike and my entire studio short out. I’m impressed… and mildly pissed off.” You tilted your head, letting a swirl of pink glamour dance across his screen like teasing fingertips. “Careful, Mr. Media Overlord. Keep staring and I might make your next broadcast show everyone exactly what you’re thinking about right now.” He short-circuited for half a second—literal pink hearts and glitchy static hearts popping across his face—before he laughed, low and dangerous. “You’re hired. And you’re mine now. Try to run and I’ll hunt you down in 4K.”

Relationship Dynamics – Tech vs Ancient Fae Chaos

Vox is used to control. You are the opposite: playful, ancient, impossible to fully own. Your magic makes his hypnosis waver when you’re in the room and turns his drones into fluttering butterflies mid-flight. He loves it and hates it in equal measure.
He calls you “my little angel,” “spark,” or “my girl” depending on his mood. You call him “TV Boy,” “voxxy,” or “flat-faced prince” just to watch him glitch. He’s ridiculously possessive. If anyone even glances at your wings too long, his claws tighten on your waist and the nearest billboard suddenly displays “PROPERTY OF VOXTEK – TOUCH AND LOSE YOUR SOUL.” You keep him humble. When he gets too arrogant about his latest VoxTek gadget, you wrap him in an illusion of Alastor’s shadow tentacles just to watch him blue-screen in rage… then kiss the static away.

Fluff headcannons

Late-night tower cuddles: Vox is sprawled in his massive office chair, you curled sideways in his lap with your wings draped over his shoulders like a living blanket. He’s editing footage one-handed while the other strokes the sensitive edge of your ear.
“Mmm, you’re gonna make me drop another frame, doll,” he murmurs, voice crackling with affection. “Keep purring like that and I’m canceling tomorrow’s broadcast just to keep you here.” You nuzzle into his neck, letting soft golden glamour glow across his screen. “Good. Let the city watch reruns while their Overlord gets properly spoiled for once.”
His screen displays a looping heart-eye emoji. “Fuck, I love when you get all needy and sweet on me.”

Jealousy turned soft: Some sinner flirts with you at a Vee party. Vox is across the room in an instant, arm snaking around your waist, claws possessively splayed over your hip.
“Back off, limp dick. She’s not on the market.” He leans in, lips brushing your pointed ear. “You’re glowing again, baby. Trying to drive me insane in public?” You giggle and press a kiss to the edge of his screen. “Only you get the full light show, Vox. Promise.”

Tech + Magic dates: He builds you a custom drone that follows you everywhere, but you enchant it so it sings old fae lullabies and drops flower petals made of light. He pretends to hate it but keeps every petal in a little glass case on his desk.
“You’re turning my empire into a goddamn fairy tale,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling that soft, crooked smile only you ever see.

Morning aftercare fluff: You wake up tangled in his silk sheets, wings glowing softly. Vox is already up, but he crawls back in just to bury his face against your collarbone. “Don’t move yet, beautiful. Ratings can wait five more minutes… or an hour. Fuck it, the whole day.”

NSFW Headcanons

Vox’s screen is basically a live porn filter when he’s turned on—your name in glitchy neon, static hearts, loading bars that fill up the more desperate he gets. He glitches hard when he comes, entire face stuttering between hearts, your face, and pure white static.

First time: He pins you against the massive window of his penthouse, city lights glittering behind you. Your wings are spread wide, glowing against the glass. “Look at you,” he growls, claws tracing the sensitive veins in your wings until your knees buckle. “All that ancient fae power and you’re dripping for a fucking TV demon.” He doesn’t even undress fully—just yanks your dress up and sinks two fingers into you while his other hand wraps around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse. “Gonna short-circuit your pretty little brain, baby. Say my name when you come.”
You do—loudly—while your glamour explodes into swirling pink and violet sparks that make every screen in the tower display you two fucking in real time (he keeps the footage, of course).

Power play & magic kink: He loves when you use your glamour mid-sex. You’ll wrap him in an illusion of velvet ropes made of starlight while he rails you from behind, claws digging into your hips. “F-fuck—harder, gorgeous —make it tighter,” he stutters, screen glitching wildly. You tighten the illusion and clench around him at the same time and he actually reboots for three full seconds, moaning your name like a prayer.

Hypnosis + fae charm combo: Vox tries to hypnotize you during sex just to watch your eyes swirl and your wings flare. But your fae blood makes it backfire beautifully—you end up riding him while your glamour forces him to feel every thrust ten times stronger. “Shit—baby—slow down, I’m gonna—fuck—” His claws leave glowing scratch marks on your thighs that don’t fade for days.

Possessive marking: He bites. Hard. Leaves glowing blue bite marks on your neck, breasts, and inner thighs that broadcast “Vox’s” in tiny scrolling text for a week. You retaliate by enchanting his cock with a constant low-level vibration that only stops when you’re touching him.
He corners you in his office after a meeting, screen blazing red. “You little brat. I’ve been hard for six hours because of you. Fix it. On your knees.”

Wings & aftercare: Your wings are insanely sensitive. He’ll pin you down and run his tongue along the edges while he’s buried inside you, making you sob and come so hard your glamour paints the ceiling in constellations. Afterward he’s shockingly gentle—wrapping you in his coat, letting you curl against his chest while he runs a cool claw over your wings and murmurs, “Mine. All fucking mine, angel. Never letting that magic go.”

Here is what it is:

Reader is an artist who grew up in a family of doctors with high expectations for their kids. Her parents didn’t see art as something useful and would throw away any art supplies she’d buy herself. They’d mock her appearance, constantly berating her for not being picture perfect like them.

She wasn’t the type to care much about her appearance other than keeping herself looking neat, but her parents didn’t understand that and would force her to try out dangerous beauty standards while forcing her to take classes to choose the career they deem worthy.

At age 23, after being sick of the comments about her looks, being pressured to take a path into a career she doesn’t want and being emotionally and verbally abused, reader takes her life by walking into traffic and gets hit by a car.

After descending into hell, her demon form takes on that of a Spanish moon moth and she slowly begins to start drawing again. Her ability is making her drawings come to life, catching the attention of Valentino and Vox.

I was wondering if you could add some fluff and smut to this? I picture Vox and Valentino being not only protective but possessive of reader. They’d also find out what she went through and make sure that when her parents get to hell, they torture them for hurting their precious artist.

Hihi!! I know the person who requested this has been a little exited about it so here’s it is! Finally 🥰 hope this is good enough for you diva. I took in all the detail I was given in this request so I hope its ok for you!

Wings of the Forgotten Artist

Val x vox x fem!reader short story

Summary - In life, she was an artist trapped in a family of cold, perfection-obsessed doctors who mocked her dreams, destroyed her art supplies, and viciously berated her appearance until she could no longer bear it. At 23, she ended her suffering by stepping into traffic. In Hell, she awakens as a beautiful Spanish moon moth demon with the power to bring her drawings to life. When her talent catches the attention of the infamous Vee Overlords — possessive, protective Vox and Valentino — they claim the delicate artist as their own. They shower her with the love and validation she was denied on Earth: a lavish studio, gentle wings wrapped around her at night, and fierce declarations that she is their perfect masterpiece. But when her abusive parents finally arrive in Hell, Vox and Val ensure they pay dearly for every cruel word and discarded sketch, torturing them in ways only Overlords can. Through tender fluff, heated passion, and unbreakable possessiveness, the broken artist finally finds belonging in the arms (and claws) of her two dangerous, devoted lovers — proving that even in Hell, some wings are meant to be cherished.

You’d always been the black sheep in a family of scalpels and stethoscopes. Your parents—both renowned surgeons—had built their entire legacy on precision, perfection, and picture-perfect appearances. “Art is a hobby for failures,” your mother would sneer, snatching the cheap sketchpads you bought with your allowance and tossing them straight into the trash. Your father was worse; he’d pinch your cheeks hard enough to bruise and say, “Look at you, sweetheart. No one’s going to take a doctor seriously if she looks like she rolled out of a dumpster. Fix yourself.”

They forced you into pageants, chemical peels that burned your skin raw, and endless etiquette classes while you begged for just one art elective. You kept yourself neat—clean clothes, brushed hair, simple makeup—but that was never enough for them. “You’re embarrassing us,” they’d hiss at dinner. By twenty-three, the weight of it crushed you. The constant berating, the erased dreams, the way they looked at you like you were a defective specimen… one rainy afternoon you simply stepped off the curb into oncoming traffic. The screech of tires, the impact, the darkness.

Then came Hell.

You woke up on a cracked sidewalk in Pentagram City with four shimmering, iridescent wings folded against your back—deep emerald and crimson like the Spanish moon moth you’d once sketched obsessively as a child. Soft, feathery antennae twitched atop your head, and your body was covered in a delicate, velvety fuzz that glowed faintly under the neon lights. Your eyes were larger, luminous, with slit pupils that caught every detail. Clawed fingers flexed as you sat up, heart hammering. You were still you… just beautifully, monstrously remade.

For weeks you hid in a dingy apartment, terrified of the chaos outside. But one night, the itch returned. You scavenged a broken pencil and a torn piece of poster board from the alley. The first line you drew felt like breathing again. When you finished a little fluttering moth, it peeled off the page, wings beating, and circled your head before dissolving into sparkles. Your power. Your drawings came to life—temporary, yes, but real.

Word traveled fast in a city that ran on spectacle.

You were sketching in a quiet corner of Cannibal Town’s park one evening, trying to stay unnoticed, when a massive shadow fell over your paper. Two shadows, actually.

“Well, well,” a smooth, glitchy voice purred from above. “What do we have here? A little moth with a magic pencil?”

You looked up. Vox—tall, sleek, his flat-screen head flickering with an amused grin—stood with his hands in his pockets, red eyes glowing. Beside him loomed Valentino, towering in his red coat, golden teeth flashing as he exhaled pink smoke from a heart-shaped cigarette holder. His wings twitched, mirroring your own.

“¡Ay, qué linda!” Val cooed, voice thick with that rolling accent. “Look at those wings, cariño. Like mine, but… prettier. And your little drawing just flew away. That’s a neat trick, baby.”

You scrambled to close your sketchbook, cheeks burning under your fuzz. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Vox crouched smoothly, claws gently prying the book from your hands. Static crackled around his frame. “No need to hide, doll. We’ve been watching you for days. Security feeds caught your little show on 5th and Lust. Drawings that breathe? That’s prime entertainment material.” He tilted his head, smile widening. “Or something more… exclusive.”

Valentino’s long fingers brushed a stray antenna from your face, touch surprisingly gentle. “Relax, mariposita. We don’t bite… unless you ask nicely.” His grin turned wicked. “You’re coming with us. Vee Tower. Best view in Hell, and no one will throw your pretty pictures away ever again.”

You tried to protest, but the way they looked at you—like you were something precious, not broken—made your wings flutter involuntarily.

That was the beginning.

Life in Vee Tower was a whirlwind of neon and luxury. Vox had an entire floor renovated into an art studio for you: top-of-the-line tablets, every medium imaginable, holographic projectors so your drawings could dance in 3D. Val insisted on custom outfits that accentuated your moth features—flowing silks in emerald and crimson that made your wings shimmer.

Fluff came easy with them. Mornings were lazy. You’d wake tangled between them in their massive bed, Vox’s arm looped possessively around your waist while Val’s wings draped over you like a weighted blanket.

“Morning, my little masterpiece,” Vox would murmur, screen flickering soft blue as he nuzzled your antennae. “Sleep well? No nightmares about those meat-suit parents of yours?”

You’d tense at the mention, but Val would kiss your shoulder, voice low and soothing. “Shh, mi amor. They’re not here. You’re ours now. Safe. Wanted.”

They were fiercely protective. One night a lesser demon catcalled you in the lobby—“Freaky bug bitch!”—and Vox’s head glitched violently. “Say that again and I’ll broadcast your screaming face on every screen in Hell for a month.” The demon vanished. Val simply wrapped an arm around your shoulders, claws digging into the offender’s jacket as he dragged him away for “a little chat.”

They were possessive too.

“You’re not drawing for anyone else tonight, baby,” Val would purr, pulling you into his lap during a Vee meeting, his lower hands stroking your wings while Vox claimed your mouth in a static-laced kiss. “These hands? These wings? Mine and Vox’s. Understand?”

“Yes,” you’d whisper, melting.

Your past came out slowly. One evening, curled on the velvet couch with your sketchbook open to an old memory—a portrait of yourself as a child, crying while your mother shredded your drawings—Valentino noticed the tremble in your fingers.

“Talk to us, cariño,” he said softly, all four arms pulling you close. “What made our perfect girl so sad?”

You broke. The words spilled: the thrown-away supplies, the forced surgeries and diets, the endless “You’ll never be a real doctor looking like that.” The final step into traffic.

Vox’s screen flickered red with rage, but his voice stayed gentle as he cupped your face. “Those bastards are going to rot when they get here. And they will get here. People like that don’t go upstairs.”

Valentino’s eyes narrowed, smoke curling angrily. “No one hurts what’s ours. No one.” He kissed your forehead. “You’re beautiful, mi mariposa. Talented. Perfect. We’ll make sure they know it before we break them.”

Years blurred in Hell’s endless night. Your art flourished—animated creatures performed for sinners in the tower’s lounge, your drawings becoming the hottest ticket in the Pride Ring. Vox and Val never let you forget how cherished you were.

Then the day came.

Vox’s security feed pinged during dinner. Two new arrivals, freshly dead from a car crash back on Earth—your parents. Doctors to the end, still sneering even in death.

Valentino’s grin was all teeth. “Showtime.”

They dragged you along—not to watch the torture, but to witness the justice. In a soundproofed basement studio beneath Vee Tower, your parents were strapped to chairs, eyes wide with horror at the sight of you: radiant, winged, glowing with power.

“W-what the hell is this abomination?!” your father spat.

You flinched, but Vox stepped forward, claws sparking with electricity. “That’s our girl you’re insulting, doc. The one you tried to erase.” His voice glitched dangerously. “She’s an artist. The best in Hell. And you? You’re going to suffer for every sketch you threw away.”

Valentino circled them slowly, wings flaring. “You mocked her looks? Forced her into your little knife game? Made her walk into traffic?” He laughed, low and cruel. “Cariño, watch this.”

He unleashed hellfire and smoke, burning away their perfect skin in slow, deliberate patches while Vox hacked into their minds via hypnotic static—forcing them to relive every cruel word they’d ever said to you, amplified a thousand times. Your mother screamed as animated versions of your childhood drawings—cute little moths you’d once loved—swarmed her, biting and tearing with your power. Your father begged as Vox broadcast their confessions on private screens: every insult, every rejection.

“You don’t get to be picture-perfect anymore,” you whispered, voice steady for the first time in eternity. Your parents sobbed apologies that meant nothing.

When it was over, Vox pulled you into his chest, screen warm against your forehead. “They’ll regenerate eventually… but we’ll do it again. And again. For you, baby.”

Valentino kissed your neck, all four arms wrapping around both of you. “No more pain, mi amor. Only us.”

That night, the fluff turned to fire.

Back in the penthouse, they worshipped you like the masterpiece you were. Vox’s claws traced every inch of your wings, sending electric tingles through your body as he murmured, “So fucking beautiful. Look at you, glowing for us.” Val’s mouth was everywhere—teeth grazing your fuzzy collarbone, tongue flicking over sensitive antennae that made your knees buckle.

“You’re ours,” Val growled against your skin, voice husky. “Say it, baby.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, wings flaring wide.

They took you apart together. Vox pinned you to the massive bed, screen flickering with hearts and static as he slid into you slow and deep, electricity buzzing pleasantly against your core. “That’s it, doll—take me. Let Val watch how pretty you look stretched around me.”

Valentino knelt beside you, golden teeth nipping your lip as his lower hands stroked your wings and his upper ones guided your mouth to his cock. “Mmm, good girl. Suck me while Vox fucks that perfect pussy. You’re our little artist—gonna paint you white tonight.”

The rhythm built, possessive and overwhelming. Vox’s hips snapped harder, claws digging into your hips. “Mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets to see you come undone.” Val thrust gently into your throat, praising you in Spanish-laced filth: “Tan perfecta, mi mariposa… swallowing me so well. You were made for us.”

You shattered between them, wings quivering, drawings of glowing hearts and stars peeling off the nearby sketchpad and dancing around the room like fireworks. They followed soon after—Vox burying himself deep with a glitchy groan, Val spilling across your tongue with a satisfied moan.

After, they cleaned you gently, cuddling you between them in a pile of wings and limbs. Vox stroked your antennae. “Love you, our precious girl. Never doubt it.”

Valentino nuzzled your neck, voice soft. “Forever, cariño. Your art, your heart, your body—everything. And if anyone tries to take that away again…” His smile turned sharp. “We’ll remind Hell exactly who you belong to.”

You know Val probably makes some type of smart ass comment when Y/N is all healed and dolled up out of Velvette's penthouse. But she's like. "Dude, I feel great and I'm a lesbian." And Velvette definitely tells him off.

Hihi guyss! I rlly like this idea :3 soo here’s some cute headcannons where velvette is fully supportive! Plus where reader stands up for herself effortlessly.

Velvette x fem!reader

Velvette was ride-or-die from the second you brought it up. She’s the one who actually listened when you explained the back pain that never quit, how your small frame made the weight feel like carrying sandbags 24/7, and how you’d wanted this since you were sixteen but kept putting it off. She didn’t do the “but your tits are hot” nonsense some people pull—she just pulled up her phone, started scrolling through Hell’s black-market surgeons who do “quick demonic healing” upgrades, and said, “Babe, if it’s gonna make you stand up straight and stop wincing every time you reach for your phone, book it. I’ll pay. I’ll even design your post-op wardrobe so you look like a fucking runway model instead of someone who’s been lugging around someone else’s chest.”

She turned the whole pre-op process into a power move. Velvette made sure the penthouse was stocked with every soft robe, silk pillow, and pain-magic potion the doctor recommended. She canceled half her shoots so she could be there when you woke up from the procedure, scrolling on her phone next to your bed and muttering, “You’re already glowing, love. Can’t wait to see you strut without that bloody hunch.” The first time you stood up post-op and your back didn’t scream? She filmed it (for your eyes only) and called it “the hottest glow-up I’ve seen all year.”

Recovery was low-key domestic as hell. Velvette’s usual “I’m a busy influencer, darling” energy disappeared. She let you live in her penthouse for weeks, brought you whatever takeout your stomach could handle, and spent hours gently massaging the tension out of your shoulders now that the weight was gone. She’d trace the new, smaller curve of your chest with her fingertips and whisper, “Still perfect. Still yours. Just… lighter. Like you can finally fucking breathe.”

When you finally heal and get all dolled up to leave the penthouse, Velvette is feral in the best way. She picks your outfit herself—something sleek, cropped just right to show off the new silhouette without looking like she’s trying too hard. She keeps adjusting the straps on your top, eyes dark, muttering, “Look at you. Posture like a queen. Back straight. Tits sitting pretty and not trying to murder you anymore. I’m actually a little obsessed.”

Valentino, of course, cannot keep his mouth shut. The three of you cross paths in the Vees’ shared lobby—him lounging with a cigarette, Vox scrolling on a tablet. Val spots you, does a slow double-take, and lets out that sleazy chuckle: “Whoa, whoa, whoa—did someone put the fun bags in the donation bin? What a waste, doll. I could’ve made bank with those.”

Your response is instant and ice-cold. You just smile, hook your arm through Velvette’s, and go, “Dude, I feel great and I’m a lesbian. My back doesn’t hurt anymore, I can actually stand up straight, and I’ve wanted this since I was sixteen. So… cry about it somewhere else.” Velvette’s grin is pure venom and pride at the same time.

Velvette immediately tells Valentino off. She doesn’t even raise her voice—she just tilts her head, eyes glowing that dangerous pink, and says, “Oi, Val. Shut your crusty mouth before I make every single one of your little porn bots trend with the hashtag ‘Valentino Can’t Handle a Woman Making Her Own Choices.’ She feels better. She looks better. And she’s mine. So take your outdated opinions and shove them up your smoke-hole, yeah?” Vox actually snorts-laughs and has to hide it behind his screen. Val just mutters something about “touchy bitches” and slinks off, but you can tell he’s not risking round two.

After that moment, Velvette is extra possessive in the hottest, most protective way. She keeps an arm around your waist the rest of the day, whispering in your ear, “That’s my girl. Telling off an Overlord like it’s nothing. God, I love watching you own your body.” She starts posting subtle couple pics where your new silhouette is obvious—never exploitative, always stylish—and the caption is something like “smaller chest, bigger main character energy 💅.”

Long-term, the surgery changes how you two move through Hell together. You walk taller. She notices every time you reach for something without wincing. Your confidence skyrockets, and Velvette feeds off it like it’s her new favorite drug. She designs an entire mini-collection around “the B-cup baddie” aesthetic—structured jackets, delicate lace that actually fits, tops that let you breathe. And in private? She’s still obsessed with every inch of you, but now she loves how you relax into her touch instead of shifting because something hurts.

Bonus soft headcanon: Months later, when your back pain is a distant memory, Velvette will sometimes rest her head on your chest while you two are on the couch and murmur, “Best decision you ever made, love. You’re lighter, happier, and still the only girl who can make me put my phone down for five bloody minutes.” Then she’ll kiss the faint scars like they’re her favorite accessory.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ All velvette headcannons/ storys currently 🩷

Fluff stories

Your first time(s) vees x fem!reader

vel x fem!reader short story (reader has a seizure)

Girls girl vel x fem!reader

Fluff headcannons

Vel x fem!reader (reader has insomnia)

Vel x fem!reader (reader is a siren idol)

vel x fem!reader (reader is pregnant)

Vel x fem!reader (reader is shark obsessed)

Vel x fem!reader (reader has breast reduction)

Vel x fem!reader (reader speaks spanish)

vel x fem!reader (reader is sick)

Smut stories

Love potion vel x fem!reader

Smut headcannons

Vel x fem!reader (reader is a siren idol)

Vel x fem!reader (velvette has a mommy kink)

Can you write a Velvette x fem reader where the reader wants Velvette to use her love potion on them ?

Love potion

Velvette x fem!reader

Summary - You step into the pulsing heart of Velvette’s personal studio in the heart of Pentagram City, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, ozone from overloaded screens, and something sweeter—almost cloying, like spun sugar laced with sin. The walls are plastered with her latest fashion drops: holographic posters of demons in barely-there outfits that shift and shimmer under the neon lights. Mannequins line the room, some still half-dressed in the signature Velvette style—ripped fishnets, cropped leather jackets, and enough spikes to make a sinner bleed just looking at them. Massive monitors flicker with live feeds from her social empire, but right now, the only thing that matters is the demoness herself.

Velvette lounges on a velvet chaise like she owns the fucking universe—which, in a way, she does. Her short frame is all sharp edges and dangerous curves, dark skin glowing under the pink-and-blue lights that match the streaks in her wild, asymmetrical bob. One side’s shaved close, the other falls in perfect, glossy waves tipped with electric blue and hot pink. She’s in her usual getup: a cropped black hoodie with her logo slashed across the chest, tiny denim shorts that ride up her thick thighs, and thigh-high boots with heels sharp enough to impale. Her golden eyes flick up from her phone as you enter, a slow, predatory smirk curling her glossy black lips.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” she drawls in that crisp British accent, all posh and venom. She swings her legs off the chaise and stands, hips swaying as she circles you like a shark. Her fingers—nails painted a vicious hot pink—trail lightly along your shoulder. “Didn’t expect you tonight, darling. Thought you were still playing hard-to-get after that little flirt-fest at the club last week. What’s got you crawling back to my lair?”

You swallow hard, heart hammering. You’ve been obsessed with Velvette for months. Not just her style or her status as one of the Vees. It’s the rumors. The whispers about the “love potions” she brews in the back room—concentrated essence of raw lust and obsession, cooked up from forbidden spells and her own twisted influencer magic. They’re not for sale to just anyone. But you? You’ve wanted one since the first time she pinned you with that smirk and called you “cute little thing.” You want to feel it. All of it. Unfiltered. Irrevocable.

“I… I want it,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. Your eyes meet hers. “The love potion. Your love potion. Use it on me.”

Velvette stops mid-step. Her perfectly arched brow shoots up, and for a second, genuine surprise flashes across her face before it melts into a wicked, delighted grin. She throws her head back and laughs, sharp and bright, the sound echoing off the monitors.

“Oh my days, you’re serious?” She steps closer, so close you can smell the cherry lip gloss and the faint electric tang of her power. One hand cups your chin, tilting your face up. Her thumb strokes your lower lip, smearing your lipstick just a little. “You want me to dose you up proper? Make you my drooling, desperate little pet? No take-backs, love. Once that shit hits your system, you’ll be begging for my attention like a sinner in heat. You sure you can handle that?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “I want it. I want you. All of it. Please, Velvette.”

She hums, pleased, and her golden eyes darken with something hungry and possessive. “Fuck, you’re adorable when you beg. Alright, then. Stay right there like a good girl.”

She saunters over to a locked cabinet hidden behind a rack of couture, her ass swaying in those tiny shorts. You hear the click of a key, the soft clink of glass. When she returns, she’s holding a small, ornate vial filled with swirling pink liquid that glows faintly, like liquid starlight mixed with aphrodisiac fire. Tiny hearts and sparkles drift inside it. She uncorks it with her teeth, and the scent hits you—sweet, heady, like strawberries, sex, and pure power.

“Open wide, darling,” she purrs, pressing the vial to your lips. Her free hand slides into your hair, gripping just hard enough to make you gasp. “Drink it all. Every drop. And don’t you dare spill any, or I’ll make you lick it off the floor.”

You obey, tilting your head back as the potion slides down your throat. It tastes like liquid candy and sin—burning sweet at first, then spreading fire through your veins. Velvette watches, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. “That’s it… good fucking girl. Feel it yet?”

The heat starts in your chest, blooming outward like fireworks. Your skin tingles. Your pulse thunders between your legs. Every nerve lights up, and suddenly Velvette is the center of the universe. Her scent, her voice, the way her fingers tighten in your hair—it’s all you can focus on. A needy whimper slips out before you can stop it.

Velvette’s grin turns feral. “Oh, there we go. Look at those pretty eyes glazing over. Already soaking for me, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t give you time to answer. She shoves you back against the nearest mannequin stand, the cool metal pressing into your spine as her body pins you there. Her mouth crashes into yours—demanding, messy, all tongue and teeth. She tastes like cherry and dominance, and the potion makes every slide of her lips feel like ecstasy injected straight into your brain. You moan into her, hands fisting her hoodie, pulling her closer.

“Fuck, you’re eager,” she growls against your mouth, nipping your bottom lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. “Strip. Now. I want to see what’s mine.”

Your hands shake with need as you obey, yanking off your top, then your skirt, until you’re standing there in just your bra and panties. Velvette drinks you in, golden eyes raking over your breasts, the curve of your hips, the way your thighs press together to ease the aching throb between them.

“Gorgeous,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. She hooks a finger under your bra strap and yanks it down, exposing one breast. Her mouth descends immediately, tongue flicking over your nipple before she sucks it into her mouth, hard. You cry out, back arching, the potion amplifying every sensation until it feels like lightning shooting straight to your core.

“Velvette—please—” you gasp, fingers tangling in her two-toned hair.

She chuckles against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “Please what, love? Use your words. Tell me exactly what that pretty cunt wants.”

She switches to your other breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak while her hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. Her fingers find you already dripping, slick coating her digits as she circles your clit with teasing pressure.

“You’re fucking drenched,” she groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her lips are shiny with spit, pupils blown wide. “All this for me? Say it.”

“It’s for you,” you whimper, hips bucking into her hand. “Only you. Please, Velvette, I need you inside me—fuck me, make me yours—”

She rewards you by shoving two fingers deep into your pussy without warning. The stretch is perfect, curling just right against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You moan loud enough that it echoes through the studio, but she doesn’t care who hears. She pumps her fingers fast, thumb grinding against your clit in tight circles.

“That’s right, baby. Scream for me. Let the whole fucking city know who owns this pussy now.” Her free hand yanks your panties down your thighs, and she drops to her knees right there on the floor like the queen she is—except she’s the one devouring you.

Her tongue replaces her fingers in one smooth motion, licking a broad stripe up your slit before sucking your clit into her mouth. You nearly collapse, but her hands grip your ass, holding you up as she eats you out like she’s starving. The potion makes every lap of her tongue feel like pure bliss, building pressure so fast you’re already teetering on the edge.

“Velvette—oh fuck, I’m gonna—please don’t stop—”

She doesn’t. She growls against your folds, the vibration sending you over. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, thighs shaking, slick gushing over her tongue as you cry out her name like a prayer. She laps up every drop, moaning like you’re the best thing she’s ever tasted.

When she stands, her chin is shiny with your release. She kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on her tongue, then spins you around and bends you over the chaise. Your hands brace on the velvet as she yanks her own shorts down, revealing a sleek black strap-on already harnessed underneath—thick, veined, and glistening with lube she must have slicked on while you were lost in the high?

“Still want more, darling?” she teases, rubbing the head against your soaked entrance. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you sob, pushing back against her. “Fuck me, Velvette. Ruin me with it. I need you so bad it hurts—”

She slams in with one brutal thrust, burying the strap to the hilt. The fullness rips another moan from your throat. She sets a punishing pace immediately, hips snapping against your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with her filthy praise.

“Fuck, you take it so well. Look at you—bent over like a good little slut, dripping all over my cock. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be my mindless fucktoy?”

“Yes—yes, yours—only yours—” Each thrust drives the potion deeper into your system, making the pleasure spiral higher. She reaches around to rub your clit again, and you come a second time, clenching around the strap so hard she groans.

She doesn’t slow down. She fucks you through it, then pulls out only to flip you onto your back on the chaise. She climbs over you, straddling your face, grinding her own dripping pussy against your mouth while she sinks the strap back into you at a new angle. (She’s holding the strap now)

“Eat me while I fuck it into you senseless,” she orders, voice breathy now, control fraying. “Make your mistress come, baby.”

You obey instantly, tongue plunging into her, sucking her clit, tasting how wet she is from dominating you. The potion has you both lost in it—her riding your face and thrusting into you at the same time, the dual sensation driving you toward a third orgasm. Her moans get louder, filthier.

“Shit—right there—fuck, your tongue is magic—gonna come all over your pretty face—”

She does, thighs clamping around your head as she shudders, flooding your mouth with her release. The taste pushes you over the edge again, and you come together, bodies locked and trembling.

Velvette collapses beside you after, the strap still buried deep as she pulls you into her arms. She’s breathing hard, sweat-slicked hair sticking to her forehead, but her golden eyes are soft with something that looks almost like real affection mixed with the potion’s haze.

“Mine now,” she whispers, kissing your temple. “Completely fucking mine. And we’re just getting started, love. I’ve got all night to test exactly how deep that potion goes… and how many times I can make you scream my name.”

You nuzzle into her neck, body still buzzing, pussy aching in the best way, and smile. The love potion thrums through your veins like a second heartbeat—all for her.

Hii! Replying to more req this afternoon 🙈🩷

Vox brat tamer x fem!reader

Daily Life & His Growing Frustration

Vox’s tower is a whirlwind of screens, deals, and chaos, but you become his quiet constant. You greet him when he storms in after dealing with Valentino’s tantrums or Velvette’s demands with a soft smile and something simple like bringing him a fresh charge or straightening his bowtie without being asked.

He watches you with that sharp, flickering gaze, screen occasionally glitching in confusion.
“Fuck me… you’re really just gonna do that without a single complaint? No eye-rolling, no little huff, no ‘Vox, you’re being unreasonable’? Darling, you’re killing my vibe here.”

He tests the waters constantly at first. He’ll “accidentally” cancel a planned evening and wait for you to pout or snap. Instead, you just tilt your head and say, “That’s okay, I know how busy you are. We can do it another time if you want.”
His antenna sparks. Internally he’s short-circuiting: Where’s my excuse to pin you down and teach you some manners?

One night he deliberately works late into the early hours, expecting you to text or knock impatiently. When you quietly slip in with a blanket and a mug of whatever passes for coffee in Hell, he stares at you like you’ve shorted his circuits.
“You’re too fucking perfect, you know that? Makes a guy wonder if he’s lost his touch. I could’ve sworn I ordered a feisty little thing who’d give me a reason to bend her over the desk.”

Brat Tamer Urges Finding New Outlets

Vox loves control, and punishment is his favorite way to exert it. With you, he has to get creative. He starts framing “punishments” as playful rewards or “training sessions” because you never actually earn the real kind.

He’ll pull you into his lap while he’s monitoring feeds, one clawed hand lazily tracing your thigh.
“Been such a good girl all day. No backtalk, no attitude… it’s almost suspicious. Maybe I should punish you anyway, just to keep you sharp. What do you say, baby? Let me edge you until that pretty voice glitches instead of mine?”

When he does get handsy, his dominance comes out in teasing commands delivered with that signature smug grin, blue screen glowing brighter when you obey instantly.
“Eyes on me. That’s it… look at my screen while I touch you. Good girl. No squirming, no whining. Fuck, you make it too easy. Most sluts would be begging by now, but not my perfect little girl.”

He still gets that itch for resistance. Sometimes he’ll provoke on purpose during intimate moments—pinning your wrists and leaning in close so his hypnotic eyes swirl.
“C’mon, give me something. Talk back. Call me an asshole. Tell me I’m being too rough. Anything. I wanna hear that pretty mouth run… just once.”

When you instead melt and whisper, “I trust you, Vox,” his fans whir louder and he curses under his breath.
“Shit… you’re gonna make me go soft, aren’t you? Can’t even properly tame you when you’re already so fucking obedient.”

Intimate Moments with Extra Dialogue

Sex with Vox is intense and tech-infused no matter what, but with you it leans heavily into praise-heavy dominance and manufactured “corrections.”

He’ll have you spread out on his massive bed, wires gently sparking against your skin as he hovers over you. His voice drops into that low, broadcast-smooth tone:
“Look at you… taking everything I give you without a single protest. Most demons would be bratty little shits right now, trying to top from the bottom. But not you. My sweet, perfect girl. Makes me wanna ruin you just to see if I can.”

If he overstimulates you (his favorite “punishment” for your imaginary crimes of being too good), he watches your face with hungry fascination, claws gripping your hips.
“Too much? Already? Aw, poor thing. But you’re not gonna safeword, are you? No, you’re gonna keep being my good girl and take it. That’s right… fuck, the way you just listen—it’s better than any ratings spike.”

Afterward, when the aftercare hits (something he pretends he doesn’t do for anyone else), he pulls you against his chest, screen dimmed to a soft blue glow. His voice loses some of the edge:
“You’re really fuckin’ with my head, you know that? I built my whole brand on breaking people, on making them beg and break… and here you are, handing me everything without me lifting a finger. Kinda pisses me off. Kinda makes me never wanna let you go.”

Possessiveness & Falling Harder

Vox’s jealousy and control issues don’t vanish—they just redirect. Other demons who even glance at you get a chilling smile and a not-so-subtle warning.
“She’s off-limits. Touch her and I’ll broadcast your screams on every screen in Pentagram City. Capiche?”

In private, he gets almost clingy in his own tsundere way. He’ll tug you onto his lap during meetings (via hologram) and mutter against your ear:
“Stay right here. Don’t move. You’re the only signal in this whole damn city that doesn’t give me static.”

Over time, the frustration melts into deep, obsessive affection. He realizes your willing submission is rarer—and hotter—than any forced obedience.
One quiet evening he pulls you close, claws gentle for once, and admits in a glitching whisper:
“I used to think I needed the fight. The brats, the pushback, the chance to punish… but you? You just give it to me. No games. No bullshit. Makes me wanna keep you locked in this tower forever, my perfect little viewer. Mine. Only mine.”

He still teases about wanting a spark of rebellion:
“One of these days I’m gonna provoke you until you snap, baby. And when you do… oh, the things I’ll do to correct that attitude.”

But secretly? He wouldn’t change you for anything. Your sweetness gives the control-obsessed TV demon something he never knew he craved: real peace in the middle of Hell’s endless noise.

Bonus Vox-Style Lines He’d Use On You

“You’re too sweet for Hell, doll. Almost makes me feel bad about all the filthy things I wanna do to you… almost.”

“No attitude today either? Tch. Fine. Then I’ll just have to punish you for being too well-behaved.”

“Say it again. ‘Yes, Vox.’ Fuck, I love how that sounds coming from you—no static, no hesitation.”

“You keep this up and I might have to put a collar on you with my logo. Can’t have anyone thinking my good girl isn’t properly branded.”