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Despite common misconception, Velvette actually doesn’t really have anything against the Radio Demon. Sure, he’s a relic that should have been replaced decades ago—really, what losers still listen to the radio?—and that hairdo is an insult to her soul, but other than that? Meh. It’s not like he’s worse than any of the other fuckers. She doesn’t even know him. Hell, he dipped not long after she died.
Whatever marriage tiff Vox has with the other is between them, and she would like to stay out of it, thank you very much.
That does include not having to babysit the red eyesore, even if Vox clearly didn’t get the memo. So now she’s stuck with grandpa scooting after her like a lost puppy.
The wheels of his chair creek with every pull across their marble tile and really, whoever thought to give the fossil a fucking rolling chair deserves to rot in Hell ten times over. He is their fucking Prisoner. Capital P. There’s no reason for him to even tag along instead of rotting in some corner of their tower. At least that would keep him from very clearly ragebaiting the ever-living shit out of Vox.
Who is Velvette kidding? She knows this whole arrangement only exists because of Vox and his unhealthy obsession with the two-legged antique. Really, they had him and his little furry squad cornered, there was no reason for their weird ass, horny power play deal. Verbal deal. V-e-r-b-a-l! Did Vox fry his fucking hard drive or what? They have lawyers for a reason.
It’s not like Mr. Monochrome has any interest in actually joining them. Fucker looked like he was going to throw up when referring to himself as their captive. It wouldn’t work anyways, he’d need a whole image change, pronto. Damn rotten teeth, lawn mower hair, geriatric.
And okay, even she can agree: it was hilarious in the beginning, watching the big bad Radio Demon—she truly never understood the fear-mongering, he’s just some guy, didn’t even put up a good fight—get paraded around like an unruly child.
It was funny for like one day. Or until Vox decided to orbit his entire life around him—even more than he already did—not like that took very long. But now it’s just like a single twitch of these stupid red ears—they’re actually ears, she’d almost feel bad if that fuck ass bob wasn’t the worst crime she was ever forced to lay her eyes on—and suddenly Vox has to prove what a big, strong man he is. Give her a break.
Look, normally she doesn’t care, but it’s disrupting their plan, they need to be a united front here if this is going to work. Wasn’t Vox the one always droning on about their ‘perfect’ image? Their engagement is better than ever, their approval rate higher than it has been all year, especially after they made the radio freak look like the senile old man he clearly is.
But nooo, that isn’t important anymore because Vox has his wires crossed over what? She looks back and sees high, out of his mind, Smiles still following her, and a shudder runs over her back. Because of that? Ugh.
Velvette tries to chill in their shared lounge and keep the discourse about their failure of a ruler and the angels going—really, who thought gift baskets of all things were a good idea, how delusional are they in their cotton candy clouds?—but it’s really fucking hard when their electricity keeps spasming and she can hear the tearful begging of Val’s actors while he rips them to shreds. Her right eye twitches as the light flickers again, and the static white noise is not helping.
“Can you fucking stop?” She snaps and promptly gets rewarded with the light bulbs in the room blowing out, her screen and the other’s shit-eating smile the only things illuminating the space.
“I have no idea whatever you could mean, sweetheart.” Furry ragebait incarnate pushes himself off the wall, rolling over across the lounge and finishing with a smooth three sixty, leaning over her. Prisoner her ass, he is enjoying this. That patronizing tone alone should be enough to justify smiting him, but Mister Fried-Box-Head insists on keeping him as their own personal passenger princess. It’s bad enough that Val is throwing another—for once justified—hissy fit about Vox shelving them for his stupid infatuation with the deer again; she doesn’t need the guy himself gloating over the chaos he’s causing. (They should be celebrating instead of this kindergarten, but nooo, one demeaning comment about their partnership and Vox is huffing like a child that got its fucking candy stolen.)
“Shove it, you know exactly what I mean.” She presses a finger against his chest and pushes him back. The record scratch ringing in her ear does nothing but accelerate her rapidly plummeting mood. “You’re just some glorified Bluetooth speaker, so stop it with the fucking noise.”
He glowers at her finger as if it personally offended him. Don’t tell her he’s a germaphobe. He can't be. Not with these yellow ass teeth.
Plus, she once saw him eat someone. Like, not the Valentino-kind, but literally eat. (Courtesy of Vox—of fucking course—we wouldn’t want our wittle baby prisoner to starve, would we?) That entire display did not scream clean. It was fucking disgusting. And—as she said—totally unnecessary. Why ruin their perfectly good carpet by feeding their captive? News flash, they’re already dead, so unless she missed some big death-changing world update, he can’t even starve if they wanted him to. (Velvette is not even going to get into the fact that Vox acquired some actual fresh sinner meat, just for his red-striped tin can of a crush. Hell, throw some dog pebbles at him if you’re that insistent on feeding him, but don’t use their company money for it.)
All of this was not helped by the fact that Vox looked like he was ready to develop a vore kink (If he hadn’t already, fucking creep. She bets he would get off on grandpa literally eating his dick. Barf.) and seconds away from broadcasting all his new fantasies right there on his face. In the middle of the fucking room. As if the first part alone wasn’t already TMI.
At least frozen-in-the-Jurassic-Era scoots back a few feet, still smiling like he just bit into a lemon. Really, she doesn’t know why he insists on doing that, because if he thinks it’s a good poker face, he’s wrong on so many levels. Smiles is very expressive, especially with these abominations he calls ears. Doesn't mean she knows how to read whatever clusterfuck his face is trying to convey, but her point still stands.
“Don’t blame me for your unimaginative sham of a leader. Well, he never was quite the brightest.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, and Velvette would give everything to just gorge them out with an angelic spoon. Though that would just be what he wanted. (And far too much trouble, she’s having enough dealing with Vox’s normal temper tantrums, she doesn’t want to sort out his absolute meltdown if she did that. ‘Don’t you see, Velvette? He’s valuable, trust me, I, I mean, we are going to be more powerful than ever before, blah blah blah.’ Ugh.)
Through the window she sees every light in a mile's radios go out. Of course, of fucking course, Vox is still listening to every word that decrepit radio says, creepy brain dead stalker hunk of plastic that he is. It’s not like he has any other responsibilities. No, no, please, just keep wasting all their time and money. Not like they need that for something else, like, oh, she doesn’t know, the literal war they just declared on heaven?
“He’s not our leader. We are a team.” It sounds kind of hollow, but someone has to keep them together, and she didn’t rise to power by taking a fucking stroll. She is that #bitch, the backbone of the Vees. Without her, these two grown babies would have drowned ages ago.
“Mhhhm. And how’s that working out for you?”
She’s so close to just hurling her phone at him. Maybe the hampered piece of tech would get an allergic reaction from it and finally bite the dust for good. With the way he’s glaring at it, that sure seems like a possibility.
“I’ve been wondering—”
“Now, now, don’t overexert that pretty little head of yours.”
“Yeah, yeah, shush it.” She rolls her eyes. Christ on a stick, do all men have to be born with that fucking superiority complex. Whatever nutter posted that the Radio Demon is such a gentleman needs to be committed right now. Or reveal where they keep their fucking stash because it must be one hell of a trip.
“As I've been saying, I’ve been wondering. Your deal with Vox? It doesn’t make any sense.”
She still can’t forget the literal babytalk he offered the deal with. Like a parent trying to get their toddler to eat some broccoli. And Vox fucking fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Hell, he threw himself off the cliff of self-respect and rationality as soon as the other even opened his mouth.
“I would say it’s been a well-worth investment.” He spins in his chair, sitting sideways with his legs crossed over the armrest. But for a guy that’s always smiling, he sure as hell looks displeased, and she grins back.
“It sucks and you know it. Unless,” she examines her nails, “there’s something you’re hiding, of course. Why else let Vox have his little power trip? Not like you couldn’t have achieved the same from that tacky hotel of yours.”
She doesn’t miss the short glare he tries to hide, and her grin widens. Hit the nail right on the head, didn’t she?
It’s been nagging at her the entire time. The fucker is ballsy enough to take on a fucking exorcist without any angelic steel. (Stupid decision, he got his ass obliterated, but that doesn’t change the fact.)
There’s no way a small beatdown like that would get him to just surrender. Especially not with two ‘itty bitty conditions’ as shitty as the ones he got. Anyone with half a brain cell could smell that something was off. Well, clearly anyone except Vox. Why even insist on constantly changing his fucking head and bitching about it when he clearly isn’t using it?
“Well, I should be relieved that at least one out of your little propaganda troop has some common sense.”
“Haha, very funny. But really, being Vox’s prisoner for what? For cushion princess crying-over-koalas to not get hurt? It’s not like she even tried to get in touch since you’ve been here.”
He hesitates before answering.
“A small miscalculation on my part.”
It sounds reasonable, but he’s still smiling. (Not like that’s new, but it doesn’t look unhappy enough for someone being caught red-handed.)
She is missing something. This is exactly why Velvette hates verbal deals. Something in his wording was fishy, and she can’t remember what. She can’t even look back on the footage since the anemic fucker made all of it worthless.
This is all Vox’s fault.
“We need to do something about that abomination you call your hair.” Velvette glares at the blaring red insult to her entire existence. Really, if she’s already forced to witness it for a third of her day (Why does she even have to? As she said, he is their p-r-i-s-o-n-e-r. Get with the news Vox.), she very well has the authority to change it. Hell, she might even prove little princess nepotism’s ludicrous claims of redemption and give her some good rep for alleviating the world of that fucking monstrosity. Heaven knows she needs it.
“Come again?” Too much red for an entire lifetime (Really, has he ever heard of another color? Just because they’re in hell doesn’t mean he has to commit fashion crimes as atrocious as his, well, everything.) says and raises an eyebrow at her from his reclined position in that fucking office chair.
“Oh, you heard me perfectly fine. Come on. You can’t tell me you actually think that looks good.” Velvette is still convinced it must be some kind of divine punishment, no one could willingly walk around with that heinous hairdo. It’s like, the ultimate Karen cut, she’d even trust a rooster with no eyes and a chainsaw more with her hair than whatever sadist of a barber radio freak got stuck with. No wonder he refuses to be on any kind of camera or video. She’d rather delete all her social media accounts than ever look like that.
“Mhm.” He kicks his feet (What is he, fucking twelve?) before rolling next to her with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I welcome you to try. It certainly would be more entertaining than whatever dribble Vincent’s spouting again.”
She’s almost offended he even compared her to Vox. She is the icon, he should feel honoured to even be in her presence. Outdated motherfucker. He’s gonna eat his words once she’s done with him.
An hour later, Velvette is ready to rip out her own hair. Or better yet, the Radio Demon’s.
It won’t fucking hold its shape, no matter what she does. She could probably style it with fucking cement and it would still flop down like a wet paper towel, straigther than her fucking grandpa. Whatever chemistry lab Smiles dumped into his hair before taking a fucking flat iron to it, did a fantastic job.
The root of this entire dilemma, frog blinking and looking like he disconnected from this fucking plane, is not helping.
“Whatever you did to your hair is a fucking war crime and I hope you die the worst second death hell has ever seen.”
He cocks his head to the side and meets her judgmental stare in the mirror.
“I’m afraid it already looked like this when I woke up down here.”
“You’re kidding, babes.”
She spins him around and, holy shit, he’s serious. It actually is an eternal punishment. Velvette almost feels bad for him. Scratch that, she does feel bad for Alastor. Nothing he could have done in his first life could be bad enough to warrant this.
“Trust me, darling. I wish I were.”
The worst thing is that he already made the best of it. And it still looks like absolute dog shit.
Oh, Vox is sooo fucking done. Backstabbing little motherfucking burning shit flat ass screen. He’s going down once all of this is over. Fuck her trying to warn him, about his stupid decision of a deal, fucker can dig his own grave for all she cares.
There Velvette is, nice enough to come with him to get old bag Carmilla Carmine on their side, and he fucking forces her to apologies. Fuck being the youngest and most ‘inexperienced’ member of their empire, that’s the biggest lie she’s ever heard. And she’s practically living online!
She was right, and he knows it. Hell, he’s doing exactly what she told all of them half a year ago, but what? Now an old man says it and suddenly it’s a good idea?
She’s the only reason their entire business hasn’t crumbled to the ground because of his stupid obsession with the fucking literal red flag.
Doesn’t even have the decency to apologise or walk back with her. Just zaps and leaves.
No one tells her what to do, she’s an Overlord and the queen of media.
She kicks her door closed, ready for this day to just end.
“Quite an awful temper you have there.”
“Ugh!” she groans. Exactly what she needs. The fucking fossil responsible for Vox’s megalomania. Why the fuck is he even here? She is not his fucking babysitter for whenever Vox is too busy stroking his own damn ego. For someone so obsessed with the fucking radio on wheels, Vox sure passes him off to her often.
“That’s a very different sentiment from Vincent’s.”
“Don’t even get me started.” Velvette throws herself on the couch, fingers rapidly flying over her phone. If she’s having an awful day, then everyone else deserves to have one too.
She hears the chair roll closer, and Alastor comes to a stop next to her.
“Why, I find it most entertaining. So tell me, what did my old pal botch this time?”
She glares at his ugly smug smile. This is exactly what he wanted. He’s not even trying to hide it. But you know what? Fuck it, if she’s back on babysitter duty while Vox runs whatever egotistical plan he has, he can eat his fucking words.
“So you remember that boring ass Overlord meeting ages ago? Of course you do, I brought an exorcist head after all and fucking scaredy-cat Carmilla was too pussy to even consider fighting back.”
“It was a memorable one, I do have to thank you for that. Quite a delicacy as well.”
“Yeah, yeah, can it, fucking cannibal. Anyways, as I said, anyone with half a brain knows I was right. But Vox? Took me to the fucking hag to apologize. Me! Put me on the spot, right there! Like hello?” Velvette stands up, raging through her room. “Ass kissing racist needed me to iron out his fucking mess. It’s not my fault his first pitch went up in flames because he thought fucking maracas would be a good idea. Can you believe it? Maracas!”
Alastor watches her pace around, unfinished garment prototypes flying through the room.
“Why, I do have to say, it does seem inappropriate. After all, Charlotte certainly took inspiration from the little pitch I got from you.”
“Exactly! That’s what I’ve been saying! Fucking hypocrite just can’t handle getting told she’s too senile to do her fucking job. She clearly had no problem providing the nepo baby with weapons. But nooo, obviously I was still wrong for what? Suggesting the exact same thing?”
“Certainly not.”
And she knows Alastor is only agreeing to get on her good side. It’s all he has done since coming here—wedging his disgusting fingers into their business and slowly pulling them apart. Not like that would ever work, no matter what narcissistic high Vox is riding right now, her and Val aren’t stupid, but it’s still good to finally hear someone else say it.
“I really don’t know who’s shitting list you ended up on, but I’d almost say I’m impressed.” Velvette is once again—unsuccessfully—trying to rid Hell of the worst haircut she’s ever seen.
Alastor in turn hums like she just gave him a compliment, which, clearly, she didn’t. The bastard is far too comfortable for someone in his position. But really, even she gets tired of pretending, so here they are. At least he makes for an acceptable gossip partner.
“While I appreciate the enthusiasm, I fear it is wasted time.”
“Shush,” she lets a coarse red strand glide through her hand, “Silence from the peanut gallery.” At this point, even a wig would be better.
The background music stutters for a second, and she rolls her eyes. Fucking fragile man ego.
“So, what’s the tea with the whole hotel sponsor bit? You can’t tell me you actually believe all that crap about redemption.”
“Host, but heavens no.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “Though they can be an enjoyable ensemble to be around. Truly some of the most entertaining months I’ve had in a long time.”
“Uh-huh.” Velvette doesn’t really see how their pathetic ‘therapy’ circle could be considered entertaining for longer than fifteen minutes, but whatever floats his boat.
It’s a fucking train wreck, that’s something she can agree on. Their three-hour visit alone gave them enough content for an entire week.
And considering they still haven’t even heard a single word from them about their missing host, it sure seems more like some deranged delusion than actual conviction.
“And how's that working out for you?” She ignores the shadow tentacle snipping against her shoulder. (Really Vox? Letting him keep his powers? The fucking cable ties look more and more like just another one of his kinks.)
“Better than you might imagine, darling.”
“Whatever makes you feel better.”
Clearly Alastor just has shitty taste overall. The only intel Velvette has been actually able to gather so far is that apparently the fucking maid is a ‘true delight’. And really, from what she’s seen that’s not playing in his favor right now.
Not even his cannibal bestie tried to reach out once. Granted, Vox suspiciously skipped over creepy void eyes during his whole sales pitch, but what would they need these outdated fuckers for anyways?
“Though I must say, my little spars with our vertically challenged king do seem rather underwhelming in hindsight.”
“You’re shitting me.”
There is no way that bastard is serious. Not even he could be delulu enough to antagonize the literal devil without knowing about his little caveat.
“I’m… not?” He tilts his head, his ears flopping with the movement. (They wouldn’t make half bad accessories. Like rabbit’s feet. She wonders if they’d regenerate if she were to cut them off.)
“I mean, you’re joking.” Geez, boomers. Get with the times, they’re not in the fucking middle ages anymore.
“Not in the slightest.”
She whirls him around and grips the arm rests leaning closer.
He's not kidding. The fucker is actually serious. Oh, this is glorious.
“Tell me everything.”
His smile widens, teeth sharp enough to cut through glass.
“Well, he does like to puff up like a plucked chicken.”