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hyperfixatedbastard · 2 months

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Hi i hope you doing well. I have a resquest... more like a headcanon. What if Adam was a dad ? What his behaviour will be ? Does he be a good or a bad father ?

I understand if you don't do it. I don't want to force you for something you don't want to.

Dadam (Dad!Adam) Headcanons

we bringing out the daddy issues on this one boys

WARNINGS: none

A/N: I haven't done a headcanon type of post yet, but they're easier to write than regular one shots and I'm too tired for that shit. The request didn't specify what kind of Reader (spouse or child), so I just went with general headcanons that don't specify the Reader at all. Insert yourself as you wish!

Also, thank you all for your patience! It's been very busy for me lately and I've been too exhausted to write much, so expect a lot more of these kinds of posts (the formatting is easier and I don't have to write a bunch of dialogue lol).

Dividers

As the father of humanity, Adam had...a lot of kids. The guy lived for 800+ years just populating the earth. That's a LOT of kids. We all know how the first two turned out. That is, not fuckin' well. To be honest, I don't think Adam valued his children. It was just kinda... a thing he had to do. (When Abel died and Cain got exiled, he fr just went and had another kid to replace them.) But I am in deep, deep denial and this is for my enjoyment as someone with severe daddy issues. So fuck all that.

At first, Adam is 100% the guy that freaks the fuck out when he finds out he knocked someone up. That man is SWEATING. He's actually pretty chill if it's someone he's in an established long-term relationship with, though. He still freaks the fuck out, but to a significantly lesser degree and with a much smaller chance of up and leaving. Once he's over the initial shock, he's shocked to find that he's kind of excited. Back when he was alive, having kids was just normal because it was such a common occurrence.

This man knows every little detail about pregnancy and infants. With the amount of kids he's had? He has seen it ALL. Sure, all his information is thousands of years old, but knowledge learned through experience is super valuable when it comes to this shit! He doesn't know what the fuck a uterus is, but he knows exactly how to make his partner the most comfortable, how to deal with cravings, etc. If his partner has a problem, he's got a solution. It might be a fuckin' weird one, but it works! He'll probably grumble and complain, but he doesn't actually mean it. Bitching is just his thing, y'know? But... pregnancy hormones + Adam's douchebag-ness = feelings getting hurt. If his partner starts crying because of some shit joke or complaint he made? He's scrambling so fast. "Shit, babe, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, fuckfuckfuck, don't cry—"

Once the baby is born, he definitely surprises literally everyone but his partner by actually doing helpful shit. Changing diapers? Easy fuckin' peasy (he does watch a tutorial online because he doesn't know how tf modern diapers work but he's a fast learner) Feeding? No problemo. Getting up in the middle of the night to do both of those things? His sleep schedule's already fucked, this shit ain't new.

When it comes to parenting and raising the kid, though... that's definitely where Adam struggles. He'd struggle with bonding. A lot. Adam mostly talks about things that you really shouldn't say around children, much less bond over. I think he'd be better at just letting the kid ramble while he's just sitting there, fully engrossed in whatever bullshit his child is saying. He's not just passively listening with little 'uh-huh's and nods, this man is active in the discussion. Have you ever heard a small child speak? They say the most random shit ever, and Adam would love it. It's peak entertainment to him. Even if it's just incoherent babbling, he'll have full-on conversations with this baby.

He'd definitely have some shared interests as the kid gets older. I think Adam's favorite shows/movies are a mix of action movies and shit like Power Rangers. He's not ashamed of it either—'fuck you, the Power Rangers are fuckin' cool.' This also goes for video games. I know that man is a toxic COD gamer boy and you can't prove me wrong. Basically, the only thing that keeps him from becoming one of those husbands that locks himself away in a man cave to play video games is the fact that he can game with his kid.

And once they get into school, he just gets really invested in the drama. Elementary school drama is such bullshit, and it'd be the best reality TV he's ever seen. "Oh, don't tell me—it's that bitch Cindy. The fuck did that little shit do this time?" He'd be gasping like it's a damn soap opera. 'Oh no she didn't!' kinda vibe.

He'd talk so much shit around his kid about the parents of their classmates, the teachers, anyone. Then the kid would repeat it and Adam would get sat down in the office with his kid like: "Your child said, and I quote, 'My dad says your mom's a bitch.'" "What? She fuckin' is." And yeah, he's not wrong - some of those parents are fucking nightmares.

If his kid got in trouble for fighting, his reaction would depend on the situation. If it was unprovoked and/or a part of bullying, he'd originally laugh it off but would be freaking the fuck out internally. He's probably a little traumatized by what happened with Cain and Abel. But if the fighting was an act of defense (whether of themselves or someone else) he would be the proudest dad ever. Fist-bumps his kid in the office in full view of the principal.

You cannot trust this man to give his kid the sex talk. It just will not go well. Like, if his kid needs advice when they're older (basically anything beyond 'where do babies come from') then he's your guy, but it's still gonna be awkward and uncomfortable. He'd probably have Lute handle most of those issues just so he doesn't have to know about his kid's sex life but can still trust that they have a responsible(?) adult if they have questions.

In terms of where Adam is lacking as a parent, there's a few areas in particular to focus on.

Emotional availability? Not his strong suit. At all. He can't deal with his own feelings, let alone his kid's. Most of the emotional support will be coming from his partner. That doesn't mean he doesn't try. But he can't show it with words all that well. He'll show emotional support in other ways—quality time, gifts, and acts of service for the most part. Like going out for ice cream, watching a movie, etc.

He's not good with discipline. To him, everything's no big deal. If his kid hasn't killed their sibling, that's good enough for him! Generally, his partner will choose when/how to discipline (with Adam's input ofc), but Adam's job is to just enforce it/not overrule it. He's 100% the type to be sneaky about it tho. If his kid is grounded, he'll go out with them to give them a break from being stuck in the house, y'know, stuff like that. Because of this, his kid forms a closer, different kind of bond than with Adam's partner. It's more friendly, I guess is the word? Like, his kid won't go to him for actual helpful advice, but if they fuck up somehow or are in a bad situation that they kinda got themselves into (drinking, car accident, etc.), then Adam is the parent they call.

I think Adam's peak parenting era would be when his kid is a late teen/young adult. 'Cause then he can actually be himself, for the most part. His personality is not very kid-friendly, so once his kid isn't really much of a kid anymore—he is so fucking excited. His relationship with his kid would be a lot more unconventional as they grow older. Like, he's really close with his kid once they're an adult. (totally not basing this off my relationship with my mom) His advice would be shit, but he'd give it if his kid needed it!

Definitely the type to text his kid more often than most parents. Mostly because he texts more like them and has the same sense of humor. Lots of shitty memes.

Also!! I think Adam would definitely make time for his partner. Date nights are a must. His kid better get comfortable with sleepovers at friends' houses or getting babysat by Emily 'cause he ain't letting parenthood fuck up his sex life.

I think that's all I got. Not sure how to end this so uh... shoutout to all you bitches with daddy issues lmao

Taglist: @little-miss-chaoss @fakeguysarehot @3sire-777

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel adam x reader #hazbin hotel fluff #hazbin hotel oneshots #hazbin hotel headcanons #headcanons #adam headcanons #hazbin headcanons #adam x reader

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hyperfixatedbastard · 2 months

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BITCH CAME BACK. vox

You leave the VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. and return to it at 3 A.M.

Vox likes to think you would never betray him like that.

tags: established relationship, bodyguard, relationship issues, implied/referenced sex, big brother is watching complex, canon typical violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, & fist fights

It is not cheating.

He chooses to believe it is not cheating.

No matter what Valentino whispers about you being unsatisfied in bed; no matter what how Velvette teases about how you always leave behind your phone; no matter what his derailing mind starts to image (some muscular hellhound, incubus, sinner, overlord, defined biceps gripping your thighs and –) in his most calamitous moments: Vox chooses to believe you do not leave VoxTek tower to go cheat on him.

Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. In Hell, trust comes from blood signatures and thumping, electric green deals. You and Vox were not bound through these standard demon methods. No contractual deals, you outlined early on, just verbal agreements.

You and Vox did have a certain verbal agreement: three little words. Whispered into the drool spot on his pillow, bleeding from your mouth when you two collided in kisses, breathed on your wrist when you found him hunched and tired in his office, flashing on your cell’s screen, and written on his hand. That was the deal.

Though, Vox muffles a curse into his pillow, you certainly have been saying those words less now.

He moves his monitor off the pillow surface when the rain of the shower ebbs. When you came in, the scent he had picked up on you was thankfully not sex. Instead the scent of metallic blood clung to you like amber honey on a bear’s mouth. Your signature scent. Vark and his hammerhead brother were drawn to how deeply the smell was oiled and shampooed into your skin. Violence: a perfume tailored for you.

A hair-dryer starts up in the bathroom and Vox stops busying himself with sharpening the metal of his claws.

Still, even if sex was not a present scent, that didn’t mean you did not have it. The dark part of him stirs like a hive of bees. Foreplay for you is like a mimic of lions fighting a buffalo to eat her child. His purchases of new screen protectors and bandages increased when you two first kickoffed a relationship. So scent is not a good thing to completely go off on –

The sound of water returns. Ah, the sink faucet. Buried under the first sound, he can hear the tiny scrub of a toothbrush. Light leaks under the closed door. If you kiss him tonight (he hopes you will), he would be grateful for the smell of mint on your teeth. Mint and iron. Mint and iron and the possible burial of body sweat, sex.

You left VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. – in the middle of a weekday before anyone working there would dare to clock out – and then you returned to your shared bedroom at 3 fucking A.M. He should zap the information out of you.

It’s not cheating; it’s not cheating; it’s not cheating.

The bathroom door clicks open. A towel is thrown around your neck. Already dressed in your pajamas, a simple billowing pair of sweatpants and socks, you make your way over. Tiptoeing even though you know he is awake.

At the ping of you entering the building through surveillance cameras, Vox had started to gradually stir. He could not fake being asleep. As soon as the black on his monitor melted away to reveal blue, you knew he was awake. There is no acknowledgement of him from you. No hi honey or night Vox. And his face brightness is not dimmed below seventy percent so you know he is awake. Azure lighting filtering over sheets and floating in the air, you pull back covers to sink into bed, shirtless as was your habit. You turn your back to him, which has regrettably become a new habit.

He tracks his eyes over the canvas of your back. On it, mauve and ebony bruises are speckled. They are like lily-pads in a dark lake or a thousand eclipses lighting up a dark sky. Never an absence of bruises with you. Across the canvas, there are bisecting marks of sharp claws not made by him that cause him some stress.

Vox remembers once connecting all your bruises into constellations, shapes of animals and faces and other things, post-aftercare scrambling up his wires and guiding him do something so sinfully, sentimentally human. He remembers your laughter and whines at his cold claws on warm skin. Remembering not in a human way but in an electronic way, memories always fresh in his mind, recorded.

You were like a virus. The most prominent memories he has are ones with you.

Blue light slimes over your skin. Vox dims his screen in hopes you might turn towards him. No luck. He lifts up one sharpened claw to drag a line shaped like a cleft note from bruise to bruise. He goes to —

“Stop that. It hurts.”

He goes to do nothing. Defeated, Vox returns his hand underneath his pillow. Why are you acting like this? Why were you doing this to him? You must feel his eyes scrutinizing on the cusp of your shoulder. Moving, you do something that takes that dark, calamitous part of Vox and squeezes it like a dog clamping his teeth around a squeak toy, all the ink spilling over and soaping up his systems.

You inch to the edge of the bed, so close to falling off that you might as well leave altogether.

It’s not cheating. Vox rolls over and tries to sleep without dreaming.

You are a hired bodyguard for Valentino. Out of the ten bodyguards employed, you are closest to Valentino. Though you do not flank your boss all hours nor all week, you are seen most in the public eye out of the others employed to protect this pompous moth prince. This is because you are so efficient at your job.

It was that efficiency that drew Vox to even glance in your meaningless, background direction.

For a sinner demon, your physical appearance does not often stir up anything for anyone. Your employer did give you lipstick tubes a few times and perfumes for you to try. If Valentino said you had potential, he wanted you to embrace it. You politely declined but kept your gifts. To be honest, you are very plain. Your hellish form was disfigured to give the mimicking resemblance of an oni, a yokai, but most human features remained.

You had two physical differences that Valentino nettled you on showing off. One: golden spirals running down your arm like kintsugi art; two: a set of heavy, crimson horns growing from your temples. Every first of the month, Valentino mourned your horns.

January first, February first, March first, April first, and so on, you would grind down your horns. Equipped with a hacksaw and then a sander, it was a routine task for you. What could have grown gorgeously into carmine bighorn sheep’s horns were ruined to Valentino’s grief. You snipped them away like a disgruntled gardener. Like two red tree stumps, your horns sat on your head.

You went through with this cosmetic change for two reasons. You could not stand the look of a demon on yourself. Your horns were so heavy that they often disturbed how you moved.

“I could not kill your enemies if I am toppling over due to the heft of my horns,” you told Valentino and he conceded.

So unburdened by that obstructing weight, you did your job remarkably and accidentally captured Vox’s eyes. Sparked him, you joked. And then he came to agree and would say you shocked his heart – which often left you with warm cheeks. A relationship built all because someone grew obsessed over a pornstar and felt owed a performance, thus deciding to take it out on Valentino at one of his clubs.

It was nothing remarkable. You were not intimidated by the demon’s size despite the Vees awe. It was simply your job to do. If someone threatened Valentino, a bodyguard needed to react.

“But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirted with you and the moth kissed your bloody cheek when it was all done.

You were not small in stature like an imp. You retained your human height. However, some sinners grew with the hellish transformation. Thus, a 7’ 6” demon was a spectacle against you who was very obviously not reaching that. Though, your hellish transformation had selected a different prowess of your physical form to alter: your strength. Fondly, you reflect on that day.

“Mr. Valentino! Sir!”

Valentino blinks behind his heart-shaped glasses. In front of him, the head of the sinner woman he was talking to gained a third eye. Valentino only blinks because as she slumps lifeless to the ground, her drink slashes on him, causing him mild stress. Then, he blinks a second time as you grab him by the waist, spinning him off the leather booth, a hole suddenly appearing in the exact spot his back was reclined on.

His lips upturn into a smile, amorous pinks and warm amber lighting raining down on his features. How theatrical you are! He mourns when your hands slide off his waist as you jump in from the shadows to do your job.

He distantly hears Velvette curse. She was sitting on his left so it is only natural she would be startled, so close to when the gunshots were fired. Valentino watches as you jump down from the high platform where the three Vees were sitting and watching the night’s performance before being rudely interrupted.

The demon is easy to make out in the crowd, Carmine-manufactured gun raised in his hand, standing at a height perhaps only three feet smaller than Valentino himself. He is not standing for long. You vault yourself over a table, kicking him down to a height you can reach and starting to take care of your job. Now, this is not as good as the performance on the stripper pole but is not half bad.

“Vox. Light,” Valentino says, turning to his right where the television demon is in a similar state as Velvette, but collecting himself. A cigarette hanging from a long cigarette holder is waved momentarily in his face.

“Thank you,” Valentino says and, smoking, watches.

There are a million tools you could be using – glasses from any of the nearby tables, the arm of a leg chair, Valentino knows you are skilled enough to grab the gun laying two yards across the club floor to finish this job. Yet, all you do is punch and punch, enjoying and savoring your job.

Raising your fist by your head, launching it down into the demon’s face. Again and again and again. Valentino watches with great delight how the speed at which the demon’s legs fail miserably underneath you wans off from panicked kicks to tired scuffling. Your knuckles are recolored. You raise back up your fist. You launch it back down into the concave space you are making. There is a nose, underneath that is a gorey sunken mess, underneath that is a disconnected, bottom jaw. The crimson warmth coating and nuzzling into your hand is a welcome feeling. You miss it dearly when the body underneath you eventually stills.

With a push, you stand back on your feet and start towards Valentino. He raises one of his four arms out to you – the upper right one drawing you in as he spins you excitedly on the platform. Valentino dips you and kisses you on the mouth, giving you the courtesy of blowing out his smoke first.

“Well done!” He pulls you back up into a standing position.

“It is my job, Mr. Valentino.” Your voice is monotone which isn’t too entertaining but it does not dampen Valentino’s cheer. “No need for praise.”

Your gaze briefly flicks over to the couch. Genuine scolding burns you up inside while looking at the hole in the leather booth, should have been quicker. You startle when you see one of Valentino’s associates staring at you. Was the television demon named Vel or Vox? Doesn’t matter.

Hating being ignored, a finger on your face tilts your gaze back to the heart-shaped glasses. Valentino leans down, humming at the side of your face when some gore must have billowed up from the mess you were making. “But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirt with you and the moth kisses your bloody cheek; all of it done and all of it set in motion.

You will never know Heaven. After some tears, skin punched off your knuckles, and snowflakes of broken glass, you accepted this. You will never know Heaven and its comforts. This is a second Heaven.

Red rivers waterfalling over and down trembling fingers. Warm pain of a bruise kissing into an ankle or wrist like an amorous cat. A crack as the cartilage of bone is split like a pencil. Skin rubbed off like latex on a scratch ticket to reveal bone, blood, and fat. Bitten tongues elongating into red syrup; a black gap in the military cemetery of teeth; an eye rolling on the ground in a morbid game of golf. Blood and injury, a frequent lover of yours. All these wonderful experiences and sensations: backdropped by the sound of sinisterly supportive cheers from imps and sinners.

Your chance of redemption. Smoke billows off your lip and past your bloody nose. This is a chance to feel what Heaven could possibly be like. Redemption and honor made possible through violence, something you have known for a long time. A moral as ingrained in you as the gold rivulets falling down your arms.

Fiddling with your cigarette with your tongue, you busy yourself with wrapping white around your hands. Over the left and diagonal across the right – like a child practicing tying their shoes.

You finish your work, checking your compression is tight, when the door opens and a muscular hellborn demon with defined biceps walks in. “(Name).”

“Yeah?”

“Only three more minutes.”

“Got it.”

Vox will never know Heaven. This is nothing that causes him any grief. During his entrance into the realm – before he set up contracts, set up VoxTex, set up a reign of control – it had been a heavy stone to lay with until erosion crumbled it down to a pebble. He will not know Heaven; so fucking what?

He put so much stock in his business that it would be unfortunate for him to be pulled into heavenly gates. This was Heaven, not a second Heaven but Heaven itself. In the military march of obedient corporate slaves, a hymn. With the simple spiral of his right eye, he could get people to revere him. Proverb 15:3 says: the eyes of the Lord are in every place (every cellphone, house security system, every television and computer), beholding the evil and the good. Alastor gone and probably buried somewhere, Vox was on top of his game. Heaven was perfect until you started acting so strangely.

Something dark stirs in him in his news studio. His brain and eyes are wired to every device in the room. Vox turns from talking with the camera operator, words automatic as if they were pre-recorded. Even when you are concealing yourself in shadows, he can see you and when you step out of them, he wants to watch.

“Sir, is this a correct height for the trucking?”

“No, you’re doing it wrong,” Vox says without even turning his body to check the camera’s position.

His attention is raptured by you. As it always is. Woefully, he watches as you talk with Valentino in the corner, before another bodyguard with defined muscles, puts a hand on your shoulder. Vox does not even try to hide the abhor spark that flicks over him. He could hear everything perfectly from Valentino’s phone but it is nothing of use. You switch out a shift and are letting your boss know that you are clocking out. Simple, quotidian activities. Nothing of use to try and decipher where you go.

This is Heaven, Vox reminds himself, standing in Hell.

“Five hundred, nineteen.”

The room tilts and billows.

“Five hundred, twenty.”

There is something about pain that is so satisfying to you.

“Five hundred, twenty-one.”

If you could stay in pain, it would be as beneficial as a plant in sunlight.

“Five hundred, twenty-two.”

You – You, huh? – You turn your head to the side slightly. Blue light fruitlessly hides from you. Oh, he is awake. Releasing the tension from your muscles, your feet take a slight drop to the ground. You can finish the last of your six hundred and sixty-six pull-ups at a later time, you relinquish.

Just as you grab yourself a shirt, Vox finally decides to speak. It is a tone as if he is trying to gauge which version of you he will receive today: your old self or your new self. “Morning.” He rises up from the pillow and smiles dubiously. “You still have a bit more than a hundred to go.”

You stare at him. In his expensive, personally tailored pajama button-up. Him, with the hesitation in his eyes. Vox. Your Vox. Who despite the distance you have carved out, you are still incredibly fond of. You pull the shirt down over your abdomen and say, “Morning.” Slowly, you take a lazy walk to the side of your shared bed. “How do you feel,” you ask as you plant yourself down.

“Definitely felt better before,” he grins lopsided, trying to flash on some boyish charm. “Think you almost dislocated my shoulder.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

“Still, it’s not right of me.”

“...” Vox runs a hand up and down your thigh before lifting it up onto the bed.

“What is the agenda for today?”

“Let’s see. Marketing team has a change of manager which is gonna be a bitch to handle; we have a mid-morning segment to do on Velvette’s love potion; I have a 2 o-clock, a 4 o’clock, then a 5 o’clock; today is Friday so another Vox-2-Nite is scheduled. And that is all planned without any wiggling room. So if just one thing goes wrong –” At the mere thought, his voice starts to drop in octaves, prematurely vexed. World never seems to stop spinning, even when being below it.

“Sounds dreadfully long. Are you sure your charge will hold on through it?”

“I scheduled a fifteen minute break in there … somewhere.”

“Ah, yes, Vox’s infamous fifteen breaks. Ones that always get pushed off until the end of the day.”

“They aren’t so infamous when I have you there, forcing me to take company-policed hour breaks … You really have to stop doing that.”

“Well, you’ll have to trudge through today without me or an hour break. Valentino has me booked today, honey.”

“That fucking bastard,” Vox shimmers, cursing Valentino, and you offer a timid chuckle. You trail a calming hand up and down his arm. Throughout the conversation, he and you had fallen into the lotus sex position – just awfully more clothed and less sexy– one of the numerous you two had been tangled into last night.

Last night … your mind cannot help to wander to it and not fun wandering either. Two awful images keep spinning in your mind. One: the image of you grabbing his upper arm in the cowgirl position only to push too hard and hear a sickening crack from his shoulder, his screen malfunctioning. Thank your lucky star, it was just air bubbles. Two: in the middle of your rendezvous, the image of his screen turning black because you had taken talons and dug them amorously into his abdomen, your passionate action almost punctuating his colon.

You kiss under his monitor when Vox rests his chin onto your head, feeling the warmth of electronic currents mimicking a bloodstream long since retired. You let him stay that way for a while, enjoying his presence. It is a little better than finishing up those pull-ups.

“Hey, are we alright?”

Spoke too soon.

You stone up in his arms like a garden statue – ah, his arms. He has thought ahead and wrapped his arms around you, forbidding you from escaping this question. Well, you can still escape as you had no contract requiring you to answer his questions. Avoidant kisses are speckled past his poorly buttoned-up pajama top.

“(Name).”

At the stern tone coating him saying your name, you bite into his blue-tinted collarbone. Vox is expecting this so he does not even groan at the fresh assault on an already bruised neck. He lets you fight shy of this heavy conversation through your physicality. His pride is quite grand when he does not moan as you attack his particularly sensitive spot, just in the space between the vagus nerve and jugular vein.

“(Name).” You sweat cold when you realize Vox’s voice is still controlled and level, absent of a single glitch.

“Yes, honey?”

“Are we alright?”

“Why wouldn’t we be,” you avoid the question with a question and start to unbutton his pajama top.

“Because you’ve been leaving –” his voice glitches, just a slight temperament, but you jump onto the break in his words.

“Hey, Valentino’s working on,” you press a kiss to his dead heart, “on this new segment in his porn. And it’s got,” you bite down lightly on his nipple, “this really hot position in it,” you scold yourself when your fingers mess up on a button, “called the Valedictorian. I think we should try it.” You celebrate when you manage to undo the last button by sucking on Vox’s nipple.

“(Name).”

At least this time, when your name is said, Vox’s voice is wobbling. And, thus the arms around you are less like a steel cage and more like fragile icicles. Honestly, you could have broken out any time but you would rather slip out of his arms with humane strength.

And Valentino comes to the rescue twice in this eventful morning. Mentioned in name and then showing up in the ring of your phone. Vox is in such an amorous state that he only disconnects the incoming call after the third ring which means its presence has been heard and cannot be ignored.

“(Name).”

This time he says your name mournfully. You place a parting kiss to his throat. From his fragile arms, you slip away. “Duty calls,” you say and then leave as you have done for weeks now.

EXPANDING THE VEES REIN.

That is what the agenda for today’s meeting is, highlighted in bold in the most professional serif font, Times New Roman, and thrown up onto screen behind Vox’s chair. He had wrestled with that for a while, foolishly feeling like the intern he once was in the living world. Not that Valentino or Velvette would appreciate it. Crumpled papers littered his personal bedroom, alliterations and homophones scrapped. Absent from his usual sounding-board (your spot in bed empty), he had decided after frying his favorite mug that simple and cut-to-the-point was the way to go.

Expanding the Vees rein: how can they go about that, the next slide asked to a group of two. Well, don’t damage your dead brain too hard by thinking of that alluring question; Vox was already supplying the answers and then the execution. And he readily rambled on about it:

“Now this little beauty is called SPID. It stands for spider parodying intellect-gathering device. Spied and spider, see? The task of the SPID would be to lock onto anybody’s potential target, infiltrating homes and creating a web of information through this lens. If we refer back to slide thirty-three, we can see the previous success of –”

“Vox.”

The Overlord screeches to a halt. Not really paying attention if either Velvette or Valentino were paying attention, his name being said catches him by surprise. His claws pierce gently into the plastic molded around the spider device in his hand. The SPID is just one of the dozen he has brought in, all masquerading under the purpose of Expanding the Vees Rein.

A snarl appears on his screen. “Yes, Velvette?”

“How long have you and (Name) been together?”

It gives the Overlord pause for a moment. Gently, he takes his claws out of the back of the mechanical spider. Letting the tiny creature join the others on the conference table, Vox grumbles, “eight months, one week, three days.”

He onlys that so precisely because he has a detailed timeline of everything since his fall. Give him a precise date and year, no matter how far away, and he could tell you exactly what he had for breakfast. His memory was pristine.

“Isn’t that enough time for you to trust them? And enough time where we don’t have to sit through your spiraling insecure bullshit?”

With a laugh: “As you can see, Velvette, this meeting is the betterment of the Vees. If one does not always expand his monopoly, he leaves himself vulnerable to be subdued by another monopoly. Sooo – as I was saying, this spider is going to help us –”

“He’s just being pissy because he doesn’t have his little bebito/a under contract.”

The spark of electricity that flies over Vox’s entire body is violent. Volatile energy pulses in the air as formidable as a gun. This time (because he had already picked back up the spider) the SPID dies with a crunch in Vox’s claws. All eight legs twitch in the tiny thunderstorm inside Vox’s grasps. Vox is envisioning crushing a different insect though.

“Neither do yOU.”

“I might not have their soul, but I have their loyalty. Do you?” Vox can tell by the grin pulling up Valetino’s lips that he finds this remarkably humorous. Very pleased at himself that he knows something the Vox doesn’t.

“You FUCKING –”

“Hahahaha!”

They never get to go over the additional twenty-seven slides Vox had slaved over the night before.

“Mr. Valentino? Sir?”

The strap of your duffle bag is choked by uneasy hands. When the door had opened in the back alley of Voxtek’s towers, you had admittedly jumped like a startled cat and screamed like a kid on a rollercoaster. Even when greeting the familiar face of your boss, you are still a little nervous.

“Do you need me for something, Sir?”

Though you are off the clock, so Valentino really should not be down here. In the dirtiest part of the towers, in a small sliver of space ignored by security cameras. Which makes your apprehension completely valid.

“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke, bebito/a?” The uneasy wilts out of you as he pulls his cigarette holder from somewhere.

“Of course, Sir. I will leave you to it.”

“No, stay. That other demon is such a sloppy bodyguard.”

“Oh.”

“Light?”

“Of course, Sir.”

You take your place next to Valentino, his shadow. Looking down at the duffle bag, you judge that you can be a bit late. It is not like –

“Dunhill. Refined cigarettes, cinnamon and suet.” Pink smoke billows off tiny fire, slurring up into the air in the shape of sweet Valentine candy. It never fails to impress you with how delicately opulent it looks. “You know, the best cigarette is the first cigarette in the morning. The untouched, virgin cigarette after a night starved of them. Very new. Very Dunhill.

“I do not like owning second hand garbage, (Name).”

You feel your heart beat faster just a few seconds. That tone of voice is one you have never had directed at you. The straps of your duffle bag cry for release as you strangle them in a worried grip. “I’m aware, Sir.”

“Typically, when you get out of the hole, you do not go crawling back to it.”

“Yes, typically not, Sir.”

You two fall into silence. Where Valentino luxuriously leans against the brick wall, you fall back and dig your shoulders into the brick, making sure to feel the pain and burn of a bruise. At this moment, you can feel your heartbeat under the skin of your throat. You are sure Valentino can hear it too with how he is prolonging drags off his cigarette. Typically, you were not so afraid of Valentino – even now, your fear stems from the thought of Vox instead of Valentino. You wrestle with the thought of the repercussions if Vox knew you were crawling back into that hole as your boss said.

“Answer me this.” Smoke waterfalls off his lips and you look up. The Overlord slowly takes off his heart-shaped sunglasses and bends his height. “Are you being summoned there?”

“No, Sir,” you answer with your untethered soul still inside you, pounding away on your ribcage.

“Hm.” Straightening up to his height, Valentino smiles and puts back on his sunglasses. “Good.”

It is not cheating, Vox reminds himself as he hops from television in stores windows to telephone wire to smart watches. Those four words are a fire blanket coating over his damned soul. They keep him from exploding in fiery rage. Even when he reaches a point where he has reached the last electronic he can use, he repeats that … ugh, prayer … in his head. Sparking out of a telephone wire, Vox stands formidable on the ground, energetic from his frustration.

Then, he tries diligently to shrink and draw less attention to himself.

His screen brightness is dimmed to a submerged 16 percent, all of his notifications are thumbed over to off, and a gray hoodie is zipped over his red-and-black striped waistcoat: all the preparations for this espionage set into place. He had done exceedingly well keeping out of your sight while keeping you in his sight. Head down, Vox follows around the last corner you took.

Every city has its bad areas. Pentagram City has managed to exceed the limits for a bad area quite impressively here. He has to side-step some monstrous activities he would rather soon forget. The depth of red liquid staining his shoes would put to shame a wade in a cranberry bog. Violence swims in the air like a body fragrance.

There is a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit. Vox recounts you saying that once; he pulls up the recording in his files, listening to your voice in the back of his head. Perhaps you have meant here rather than Hell.

Waiting thirty minutes inside telephone wires after you went in was painful. He had boiled over with the anxious energy of just wanting to follow you shoulder to shoulder. He knew better. So while watching you go down a flight of cement steps, past a black gate, into an apartment complex’s basement was like water in the wires, away from him, it was necessary. If you knew about his presence before he wanted to reveal it … well, he rather not clean up shit off fan blades.

This is just a simple check-up. An in and out operation. He just … He just needs to know what you are doing.

Vox cannot really wrap his head around why you are coming here. You are so much better than this cesspool – was it a kink of yours to socialize with the lowest of the low? Skirting around the gate and the door, he walks in uninvited.

No security checks? Really is the lowest of the low. Incredulous, Vox analyzes the place.

It is a lobby of sorts — a mock imitation of it and as close to organized as a hoarder’s house — and there is evidently a large gathering around a desk. There are some outliers standing to the sides of the room. To the far left are double doors, guarded by two well-built and muscular figures.

Black, jealous spirals appearing in his right eye, Vox turns back to the crowd to calm himself. This does not look like a sex dungeon but he can never be certain. He watched as people elect to shove knives into throats instead of shoving to move up into line. Receding into his body, he feels around for an electronic he can teleport in and out of.

Hm?

Hm.

No way.

There are zero electronics in this entire place. It gives Vox such whiplash he ogles at the place until he remembers to school his expression. No one even holds a phone in their back pocket. For the first time in his reign of control over technology, he cannot feel a single spark of anything.

Vox is knocked out of his stupor when some sinner pushes him, “fucking move or lose it, flat face.” and melts into the bloody crowd.

Metal claws curl up into his right palm. He schools that whet vehemence in his soul, knowing he sadly cannot cause a scene. No one knows of his presence. Probably the only praise-worthy factor of a town empty of technology. Joining into the crowd, Vox thinks on how he will find that sinner later. Electrocuting him until his eyes pour out of his sockets like rooibos tea is a calming image to feast on. His digital mind plots in great detail as he waits to reach the front.

— according to — the eutectic point, two solids have the same melting point, of the human skin and eyeball is — between 500 to 2000 volts kills — and saline — a sponge moistened with saline as a conductive jelly for electric currents — according to —

Vox is kicked out of his browsing of the internet when a phlegmy throat clears itself. He narrows his eyes in annoyance, finally stepping up to the seat of his mind and away from the waves of databases.

At least he was recording and listening to what others said before him: “I’ll have 80 on number 7.” Vox says, combining the numbers of two separate customers’ statements. Then, he pulls out his credit card from his slacks. Even under poor lighting, the ebony and gold surface shines pristinely.

The demon at the desk raises an eyebrow at him, “We don’t accept cards, newbie.”

They don't — huh! Even the Epirorium down in Cannibal Town accepted credit cards — credit cards were the most effective way to pay for anything! A quick transaction without the hassle of juggling coins and crumbled bills. He cannot help gritting his turquoise teeth in frustration.

“You cannot be serious.”

“No cards or phones. You’re already breaking one of the rules with that fucking Samsung you got as a head.”

“It’s a LG, not a Samsung.” He can feel his teeth grinding.

“I don’t give a fucking shit.” The demon deadpans. “Do you have any cash?”

Waste of space sinner; if his patience (his very small patience) keeps getting tested tonight, something is gonna go wrong. With a grumble, he searches around in his wallet. Credit card 2, credit card 3, credit card 4, a photo of you and him, credit card 5, cred— a measly five dollar bill. Slamming it down, Vox deepens the pitch and echo frequency of his voice, “Here you go. Five on number 7.”

Worthless piece of shit.

The demon clears their throat and then hands Vox his ticket. Knowing that is all he needs from observation, the Overlord makes a swift turn to the double door. What greets him is crowds upon crowds of sinners, imps, and hellborns. A stadium of sorts? Vox walks across the top floor, analyzing the circling structure of seats. No one is sitting in the seats but they cascade down in a cup-like structure into this eight foot drop where he can guess the entertainment is. Off the top layer floor, Vox finds a staircase and sedately starts walking down them. All the while he listens to the crowd:

“Kill them! KillthemKillthemKillthem!!”

“The stomach! Go for the stomach!”

“They’re getting destroyed out there. I bet my left eye on this, if they don’t win …”

“Cheater!”

So he was correct in assessing this was a gambling spot. A fighting arena of sorts … Vox thinks he is starting to get all the pieces put together when a loud voice, unamplified by any technology but still pristinely clear, yells, “THE WINNER!” The crowd explodes; Vox lowers his hearing and disturbs the charge into his eyes. His shoes click measured on the stairs. Metal claws grasp the railing and he leans forward, curious and suspecting.

“Announcing their one thousandth, two hundred and seventy-second win, it is our one and our only (Name)!”

Some skinny demon, smaller than Vox, raises your arm up by the wrist. The golden patterns on your biceps and latissimus glow like a fanning, spiraling wind-chime made of reflective metal. A Jason Pollock of red blood coats your body. Your hands however are thoroughly drenched in red, making the smaller demon’s grip unsteady and slipping. Your expression is tired and unsatisfied. Up and down, your chest rises in heavy pants. And though you look you could really use a nap, Vox thinks you still look stunning.

That is why Heaven felt so far away: in the news studio, in his bedroom, empty from the march of corporate slaves and the clicking keys’ symphony of obedience. Heaven followed after you.

“(Name).”

Like a dog, you growl around the material in your mouth. Why could he never leave well enough alone? Him and his annoying persistence to always be in your business like a second skin! When he starts pounding on the door, you kick it back hard in retaliation. Thump! Wood groans at the assault.

Glaring as your name is called again, you work. You had told him it would take five minutes and it had barely been two.

Forceps pinched between your teeth, you gently continue what you came in the restroom to take care of before your management interrupted. (Fuck, you were always under the thumb of someone, bending yourself to them always). Performing any type suture is vastly different when fake silicone skin was not geysering out a steady stream of blood. Pulling the needle holder towards yourself, you push your non-dominant away to lay the first knot. You watch as the loop of blue thread shrinks inch by inch. When the first knot is laid, you twist your hands to do the second knot.

“(Name)!”

“For fucks sake! I told you five minutes! Not two, not four! Five minutes!” You squeeze the forceps and needle holder in the same hand, harsh metal almost crushing under your grip. You have enough control to not break the tools you need to sew up your thigh. “Am I clear!”

“I don’t care how long it takes for you to get your rocks off. You come out right now. This crazy fan of yours is causing a fucking scene and I won’t have it. It’s either you or nothing.”

“You own the souls of thirty plus fighters! Get one of them to handle it!”

You look back down at your leg, trying to fruitlessly focus on your knots. Were you on the second or third?

Your management bristles and shouts back, door almost leaning into the bathroom with the weight of his frustrated voice, “you don’t think I’ve tried that! I don’t know how they managed to do it but no one landed a single punch on them. Like I fucking said, it’s either you or nothing.”

If you were not so equally frustrated, you would have taken a moment to absorb that information. Instead, only a fourth done with your interrupted sutures, you bite back, “unless they want me coming out there with my sweats down my ankles, tell them to fuck off!” You tried to keep profanity out of your words most of the time but this was too frustrating. Putting the forceps back in your mouth, you end the conversation.

There is a ghastly noise beyond the door. You startle on the toilet seat, the metal hurting your enamels with how your mouth tenses. It is the hollow thumping noise backgrounded by raining sizzles. There is a bloody cough. The raining sizzles billow then fall back, sound momentarily expanding then shrinking. A man’s electronic voice: “I’ve already seen that.” You bite the metal harder in denial.

“(Name),” Vox says.

Absent of your senses, your hands finally get the second knot tied – it is sloppy and unaligned to the first.

How? How did he possibly find this place? It is so off the grid of the Pride Ring that no maps or GPS know the name of it. It is a rumored place, absent of technology, that only the lowest of the low lived in. You have been so careful with triple checking your surroundings. No one on this side of town could afford a phone. No one on this side of town could afford to ever get out of it.

You will never forget meeting Valentino. Long ago, he seemed supernatural and uncanny. Luxury branded cologne burning your nose and pink cigarette smoke irritating your lungs. Everything, the affluent aspects of him, down to his self-possessed smile was something alien and frightening to a sinner like yourself who never experienced the sight of wealth.

Valentino had been right about it being a hole one would never want to crawl back into. Comparing past and present, you were comparing an orphan on the streets to a prince in the castle. It was obviously better to choose the laps of luxury you had fallen into, content and chesired.

Yet home called to you and you, the bitch, came back.

You stare hard at the bathroom door separating you and Vox. Blood runs down your left thigh to floors that have never seen a mop. If there is a way to downsize yourself into abysmal nothingness, you yearn for that ability. To shrink away … you wish you could. Slowly, you take the forceps out of your mouth and hold them tight in your lap. Seems like you are going to have to address the open wound.

“Vox.”

“Can I come in, doll?”

Two things. You wholeheartedly hate two things about his question. The nickname, doll, implying you could be anything like porcelain skinned dolls; then, the fake shyness in his voice, trying to seem meek when Vox is far from that. “No, you can’t. In fact, I think you should leave.” You can smell the mounting violence.

“(Name), please. I just want to know what the problem is.”

“There’s no problem. We’re fine.”

“If we were fine, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I’m fine with me being here, so you’re just going to have to find it within yourself to accept that.”

You surmise this is it. This is going to be the first argument of the relationship. The catalyst of whether you two were going to spark with a negative or positive charge, growing or dying from this verbal fight. Physical fights are your raison d’etre. Now you shift to a wrestling ring. Amputated from the burden of your hands and left with your mouth. Eyes drawn to your lap, you are unsure if you are going to win this.

“You’re obviously upset over something.”

“I’m not.”

“(Name).”

“Vox.”

“Why can’t you – UGH!” You can tell by the start of his sentence it would erupt into volcanic static and electricity. All the hair on your arms and exposed thighs rise as he sends a wave of energy at something beyond the stall. Good. Physicality you can handle. You wait patiently for Vox to knock down the door. “Do you want us to be public?” Your body locks up, spine pressing hard into the manual flusher behind you. Why – Why is he trying to gauge what has you upset!

As you are reeling from his question, your mouth remains shut. Vox, taking silence as a negative, asks, “are you upset about my past with Valentino because we both have a past with him!” He jumps back when the door thumps and bends with the force of your kick. “Okay, wrong choice of words. Just – ugh! Are you upset about my past with Valentino?”

“I’m not upset over that.”

“Sinners don’t just leave their home from 3 P.M. to 3 A.M. unless they’re upset over something, doll.”

“I’m truly not upset over anything,” you insist. You really need to get back to your sutures before anything has the chance of getting infected. “Vox –”

“Okay, I’ll stop hacking into your phone!” He shouts in defeat.

“You'll stop what!” This time you kick without holding back any of your strength. The locking mechanism splinters down the middle like a wafer cracker. You feel a little victorious in this match when the door hits him in the shoulder, his startled jump just a bit too slow to avoid getting hit.

“Unholy fuck!”

“My phone,” you bite at him, eye to eye finally. Vox and his Big Brother is Watching complex is one of his worst traits. “You’ve been hacking into my personal phone like I told you never to do.”

“You told me never to do it because of trust. How am I supposed to trust you when you leave for twelve hours in the middle of random nights like you’re on a booty call schedule,” Vox bites back. His red sclera are pointed down, resembling the shape of orange slices with how deeply cut his glare is. Defensiveness is written into each twitch of his body.

“What, you thought I was cheating on you?”

“What else was I supposed to think!”

That shuts you up. Your temperature on your face rises with each inch of shame that eats at you … well what else was he supposed to think. The image of him, lying in your shared bed alone, head swimming with sharks of queries about your relationship, paints itself in your mind. Eyes down, you concede that that thought of cheating was warranted. Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. Cheating? … Yeah, you cannot blame him there.

“It’s none of that, Vox. I wasn’t upset about any of that and I’m not cheating on you.”

Even when you cannot look at him, he can tell by the frequency and pitch of your voice that you are telling the truth. A few advanced polygraph technology moves into his right eye, scanning you for any sign of a lie. “I would never cheat on you.” In your chest, your heart beats. Eighty-three beats per minute, completely at rest, completely truthful.

Vox feels awful, finishing up with analyzing your heartbeat. He feels like he has just given a public report wrong on live television and he can feel the social media downfall already materializing in the air; he feels sick to his stomach. And yet he is still mad because, “Why did you not talk to me about this?”

“I was ashamed; and a little scared.” You bite your cheek. “I was ashamed and scared about you finding this place for the longest time.”

Vox raises an eyebrow. “You think I would judge you for needing to blow off steam?”

“This place is beneath you. I know exactly what was going through your head when you entered here: this place is the worst of the bad or this place is the lowest of the low.” Vox inhales through gritted teeth and you know that you hit the bullseye. “I couldn’t just bring you here. You would have been disgusted. And … and that would have led to you eventually being disgusted by me.”

There it is. You guess that is all you really can give him. Still, Vox is looking at you like he does not understand you. He is probably deducing that his past self could have overlooked this revolting place like a lover overlooks an ugly birthmark or stretch-marks. This was not a minor impurity.

“I fell here.”

Understanding dawns upon Vox’s face like a gleam on sunrise. Falling … the spot where one fell was sentimental, perhaps not in fondness but certainly in a consequential way. A fool only dares to insult the spot where a sinner has fallen, their second home.

In a sinister way, this is a homecoming for you. And – sending a wary glance to the bathroom door while he leans into the stall – Vox has realized he committed an illicit act on the same par as perhaps punching your brother or sister. Even if you hated your co-workers?, the sentiment remains.

The live broadcast analogy is frivolous. Vox feels like he is an intern who just spilt coffee on the front of his boss’s suit a minute before the higher-up was scheduled for a momentail meeting. The burn in his stomach is paralyzing.

“I-I uh,” Vox stammers. Little sparks are jumping up his body like happy stars. Frustration that mistakenly looks playful. He moans out, “Fuck, (Name).” and leans heavily on the stall’s inside wall.

You chuckle humorously and finally look up. “Yeah. I know.”

“I guess I get … the secrecy now.”

“I’m sorry for not coming clean. Even if this is a really bad hole, it is my hole.” Vox smiles at you, fondly without his previous hesitation. You know by that smile alone that you two are going to survive your first argument. However, you do not want the conversation to shift away from the thesis. Now that you two have finally managed to start it, there is so much that you have to say. “Vox?” He stares in attention. “... We’ve become domestic, Vox.”

“That bad, doll?”

“It’s awful.”

“...”

“I worry – I worry all the fucking time – about hurting you.”

“I’m an Overlord, you’re a sinner. It is a little insulting that you would think –”

“But I do! Every minute, I just worry and worry,” you interrupt, pressing a hand to your chest to emphasize those words. All your hands have managed to do are kill and maim and injure. Fighting quelled your hands. You were positive that if you drained your hands to the point of exhaustion it would keep Vox from getting hurt. “I’ve never been gentle – I’m awful – and I –!”

Vox kneels down on unwashed ground, covered in blood and piss, in his freshly tailored, iron-pressed slacks. Your dead heart pounds at that.

Then, Vox says three little words that you two have decided to put the coin of trust into, paying the fare to a relationship that both of you wanted to keep. “Hey,” he says to snap you out of your thoughts. Then, as he slowly takes the tools out of your hands, Vox says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As he helps you with your sutures, you still remember when Vox and you had finally said those three little words that built up your relationship. Your contract. One that in a way was not really a contract at all.

I love you. He had said that for the first time when you were checking his grammar for a broadcast. Highlighters and colored pens laid scattered on the ruffled sheets. You had been crossing out the tailing end of a sentence. Eight words stretched out when he only needed three to hammer home his point. You crossed out fifteen words in surprise. In Hell, he is akin to a shark and you are akin to a goldfish. Even so. Sometimes I think love and violence are the same thing. You had meant that as warning but he just leaned into you, biting your tongue when you two kissed.

Accepting that part of you.

#what the FUCK #that is the most beautiful hazbin fic ive ever read #im going to go walk off a cliff now godDAMN #also i love spotting the references in fics #sweeney todd and 1984? fuck yea

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