Archive of Our Own

"Stop fidgeting," Velvette muttered, not looking up as she dragged a soft measuring tape out of her sewing kit. “It’s been months since I’ve created something new for you, Vox, and I will not have your new appearance to the public look a mess. So stay still!”

"I'm not fidgeting, I’m just ensuring you are actually getting all the measurements correct the first time around. I’m a busy man, Vel. I will not have you calling me multiple times throughout the day.” Vox said, his voice portraying a new sense of confidence that had yet to be seen in months, with only a tinge of nervousness hiding underneath. He puffed his chest out slightly. "It’s my first time back, Vel…I..This has to go perfectly after everything.

"Yeah, yeah. Arms out." Velvettle knew exactly the importance of it all. After the whole heaven incident, Vox had been lying low and had taken a backseat, leaving Vel and Val to be the front for the Vees. It was actually pretty great… well, it was at the start. After a couple of months, Vel and Val had had enough. Being CEO was EXHAUSTING. No wonder Vox was always stressed out of his mind.

Vox raised his arms. Velvette stepped up behind him, looped the tape around his chest, and yanked it taut. She barely looked at the numbers, just tapped them into her tablet with her thumb.

Then she dropped the tape down to his waist.

She wrapped it around his middle, going to pull it snug the way she always did, but the fabric of his undershirt gave way into something soft. The tape didn't slide smoothly; it caught in a crease, burying itself an inch deep into his stomach before stopping dead.

Velvette blinked. She gave the tape a confused little tug, but it stayed jammed right in the soft fold.

"The hell...?" she mumbled. She unhooked it, adjusted her grip, and wrapped it around him again, pulling a little harder this time. The soft flesh just squished out around the top and bottom of the plastic ribbon.

In the mirror, a small cyan blush on Vox’s screen flickered, glitching across his display before he forced his face back into a blank, neutral expression.

"Is the tape stuck on something?" Vox asked. His voice was entirely too calm. "You might want to throw that one out, Vel. The plastic looks warped."

Velvette stared at the reading on the tape, then looked at his stomach, then back up at his screen in the mirror.

"Vox," she said slowly, prodding the side of his waist with two fingers. "This is five inches over your last measurement."

"It's fluid retention," he fired back instantly, barely letting her finish the sentence. "I’ve been drinking those high-electrolyte energy blends all week for the broadcast setup. It causes water retention. It's temporary."

Velvette just raised an eyebrow, not buying a single word of it. "Water doesn't squish like that, man."

"It is water weight," Vox insisted, his screen flashing a bright, sharp yellow warning icon as he visibly sucked his stomach in as hard as he could, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. "See? Perfectly fine. Just... poor posture as well."

Velvette looked at him, holding his breath so hard his screen was literally throwing system errors, and sighed, letting the tape drop around her neck.

Velvette stared at him for a long time. She knew that Vox had gained a few pounds during his time in isolation. She just didn’t think it would be so vast, given the numbers on her tablet compared to the last fitting before the rally.

Vox was holding his breath so hard his screen was beginning to buzz with a high-pitched, strained hum. Clearly desperate for Vel to get this fitting over with. Vel opened her mouth, ready to give him her usual reality check—to tell him he was out of his mind if he thought five inches of soft belly was "water weight."

But looking at him standing there on the pedestal, his claws pressing deeply into his dark navy skin, his screen popping with tiny yellow notifications that were being dismissed as soon as they appeared, she stopped herself. A flash of a messy room filled with scattered liquor bottles, crushed-up potato chip bags, and in the center of it all, Vox curled in on himself. It had taken an immense amount of effort from the two of them to get Vox back to the same confidence he once displayed. If Vel shattered his “mask” days before his first broadcast back, he would spiral, leaving them back where they started.

Velvette let out a slow breath. Okay, this was fine; she could work with this… she would need to make a few… (multiple) adjudgements on things.

"Right," she said smoothly, tapping away at her tablet. "Makes sense with all those energy drinks I keep finding in your office, take it easy on those, alright?”

Vox instantly let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding with a slow exhale, his shoulders slouching downwards, and the soft give of his belly expanding outwards. A flash of relief washed across his screen as the warning icons cleared.

"Exactly," Vox panted, releasing the hold on his poor, abused, trembling hands. "Glad we're on the same page. And yeah, I’ll take the advice and cut back on those drinks…” Vox reached for his robe, tying it as quickly as he could. “Just make sure I look perfect for my first day, alright?

"Well, duh, what do you take me for, Vox?" Velvette said, pulling out her phone under the pretense of taking a picture of the fabric.

The second Vox turned back to the mirror to fuss with his robe. Velvette’s thumbs flew across her screen, opening the two separate group chats: one with only Valentino and the other with her own assistant, Melissa.

Velvette: Code Red. He’s gained like 15 pounds, and he’s in complete denial. Velvette: Do NOT mention it. Tell the camera crew to use the wide-angle slimming filters for the stream, or he will have a nuclear meltdown.

A second later, Valentino’s typing bubble popped up.

Valentino: Oh..Carino finally put some meat on those bones? I mean, I knew he got a little bigger since I’ve--
Velvette: Do NOT finish that sentence, Val. I’m serious. If he figures out we’re messing with the lenses or even his clothes, he is going to lose it.
Valentino: Ugh, fine, fine, though this is Vox we are talking about, you really think he won’t see through all this? Won’t he be even more attentive or like paranoid since coming back…
Valvette: That’s why we are going to make sure everything is taken care of beforehand. I’ll be assigning everyone tasks. Your’s is simple: keep the prince happy.
Valentino: Oh, babydoll, I know just what to do. I'll lay him down and take my fat co–

Velvette swiped off before she could see what perverted response awaited her in the three dots going up and down.

"Alright, you're good," Velvette said, shoving her phone back into her pocket and tossing the measuring tape onto her worktable. "I’ll have your new suit ready for you. Go get changed and then check on the studio set.”

"Excellent," Vox said, his voice regaining its usual swagger as he stepped off the pedestal. Avoiding eye contact with Vel or the three-way mirror, he made his way back to the changing room.

Vel pulled out her phone once more and sent off a quick text to her as well.

|Melissa: Get all of Vox’s current suits now and bring them to my studio immediately. Also, bring me some extra elastic bands.

Vel stared back down at the new, glowing measurements on her tablet. She had a lot of work ahead of her.

Vox headed down the corridor toward the main broadcast stage, feeling surprisingly confident. Sure, he’d put on a little extra weight while holed up, but who wouldn’t after months off the air? Besides, it was strictly temporary; he could burn it off in no time. It was only a few extra pounds anyway. The gears in his mind spun as he mapped out how he wanted his grand return to go. As he passed the production office, he nearly collided with the lead broadcast engineer, who was clutching a stack of schematics on clipboards.

"Boss! Perfect timing," the engineer stammered, shifting nervously on his feet. "We were just... fine-tuning the studio setup for your return."

"Good," Vox said, crossing his arms over his chest—a casual posture that conveniently hid the soft swell against his waist. "I expect everything to be pristine. I noticed we brought in those new camera rigs while I was away. Sharpest image quality in the Pride Ring, right? We're running those tonight?"

"Uh, right. About that," the engineer gulped. He stole a panicked glance at his phone, which was blaring a text from Velvette threatening to skin him alive if he didn't keep his mouth shut and act subtle for once in his life. "We actually... recalibrated the main lenses. Soft focus on the mid-range, and we pushed the key lights back a bit."

Vox frowned, his display tilting on an angle. "Why soft focus? My resolution is top-tier."

"Signal... delay!" the engineer blurted out, beads of sweat breaking across his brow. "High resolution causes broadcast lag on the lower rings. We’re just softening the frame to save bandwidth!"

Vox blinked, letting the explanation settle. A smug grin slowly spread across his screen as he puffed out his chest. "Ah. Smart. Prioritizing the network infrastructure. Hm, not one I’d ideally prefer, but since we are going to be broadcasting to all of Hell this time around about my return, I guess I can let it slide. Vox said still scanning over the camera.

"Of course, Sir, I’m sure we will get the regular cameras up and working soon! " the tech squeaked, practically bolting down the hallway before any follow-up questions could be asked.

Vox chuckled, continuing toward the stage. Everyone is on their game today.

Behind him, the tech yanked out his radio, whispering frantically into his headset, "Phase one completed. Soft-focus filters applied. He bought the bandwidth excuse."

The atmosphere in the studio was electric. The glare of the stage lights, the chaotic shouting of stagehands, and Ethan barking orders into his headset made the room feel feverish, but it felt like home. Vox had missed this.

Or... had he?

An unfamiliar churning twisted in his gut. A cold, prickling sensation spread beneath his skin, making his hands feel clammy. He wasn't a performer who got stage fright—he quite literally was the entertainment itself. Yet the sudden realization that millions of eyes were about to lock onto him made his throat feel tight. He tried to brush off the rising panic, burying it under his practiced script, but the doubt lingered in his mind.

“Alright, live in one minute! Mic check! Makeup, last look!” Ethan shouted before spinning around to face Vox. “Sir, let’s get you seated. I have the script ready. Miss Velvette mentioned it’d be best to ease you back into the broadcast rotation. I’m sure all of Hell is dying to see the brand new you!”

Brand new me...

Vox looked down at his lapels, suddenly hyper-aware of the extra give in his vest. Anxiety spiked in his chest, and he muttered a silent thanks to Satan that the first segment kept him safely behind the news desk. He took his place, pulling up his leather swivel chair and sinking into it only to be met with an alarming, high-pitched creak from the metal frame beneath him.

Vox instantly sat up straight, his display flashing with a sharp, defensive burst of yellow static.

Ethan caught the reaction from the corner of his eye and rushed over. “Oh, sir! That chair is ancient. We were planning to swap it out before tonight! The replacement arrives tomorrow. Special edition, built-in back massager and all!” he babbled frantically, silently praying Vox wouldn't keep prodding Ethan for additional information.

"And you left me with this flimsy thing?" Vox asked coolly, forcing a dark chuckle to mask the tremor in his voice. "Well, I suppose I can't complain too much given the short notice for my return. But see to it that the new one is ready, Ethan. I won't tolerate mistakes."

“On it immediately, sir!” Ethan promised, quickly pulling out his phone to order the crew to switch out the chair, adding that they needed to make sure they reinforced anything that could be used as a chair the second the cameras stopped rolling.

Make-up applied their final touches, with Vox wiping his screen down to remove any smudges. As the time counted down for when they would be live, Vox felt the expansion of his gills flaring as he watched around him things fitting into place wait…was he actually nervous—

No. Vox didn't do nervous. He was the face of Pentagram TV. He was the pulse of Hell’s media. Yet as the studio lights beamed down, searingly hot against his skin, a heavy, nauseating coil twisted in his gut. His hands, resting lightly on the cool glass surface of the news desk, felt clammy. It was reality crashing over him all at once: the entire Pride Ring was about to look at him. Really look at him. The thought made his chest tighten behind his suit vest, the fabric feeling suffocatingly snug as he tried to take a deep, steadying breath. He needed to focus; he can’t mess this up, he can’t ruin this for them, not after everything they had done in his absence.

Ethan cleared his throat loudly, giving the countdown with his hand raised high in the air. "5... 4... 3..."

Vox took one last breath in, closed his eyes, thought of Vel and Val and—

“Hello, my dear sinners of Hell. Yes, I’m back,” he snapped into character, his posture locking rigid. Now, time for the humble smile Vel had practiced with him, the fact that he needed to look as pathetic and modest as possible. He still maintained a stiff posture but relaxed his facial expression, hiding his sharp teeth from view and instead displaying a soft simper.“I would like to start with my deepest apologies to all of those I personally affected during those months, and I’m extending my hand to those who have been affected. Essentially, Vox followed through speaking on those who were misplaced or mishoused. Essentially, Vox followed through with the rest of the facade.

The apology segment went off smoothly, a masterclass in rehearsed humility and grand promises for the network's future. The ratings ticker at the bottom of his desk was practically exploding, shooting upward in bright green numbers. It was a start. Vox had feared a bit that, upon his return, it would be met with backlash, and while some harsh comments did filter in, the majority loved him, and they were buying that this was what mattered most.

"And now," Vox began, leaning comfortably forward onto his elbows, "I know you sinners have been dying to see what we have been up to in my absence. I have a whole collection of programs that I’ve been dying to announce. Let’s take a quick look at our brand new broadcast layout..."

He glanced past the teleprompter over to the main control monitor displaying his live feed. Vox froze mid-sentence, his glowing eye narrowing just a fraction.

Something was wrong.

The image on the screen was crisp, but the silhouette... his silhouette... looked oddly streamlined. The width of his shoulders seemed exaggerated, while his midsection, which was currently pressed tightly against the rim of the desk, looked almost razor-thin on camera. As he subtly shifted his weight, the edge of his shoulder on the monitor seemed to trail by a millisecond, a soft, blurring aura smoothing over the edge of his suit jacket.

Is that... a slimming filter?

A sudden, icy spike of alarm shot straight through Vox’s chest. Were they digitizing his body? Were they putting a fucking filter on top of his image? Vox felt frozen in that moment, his mind a chaotic mess. Get it together, you are live, stop gapping like a fish! They are going to think you lost your edge. Say something! anything!

"Sir! Script!" Ethan hissed desperately from behind the main camera, wildly pointing at the prompter. Before Vox could narrow his eyes at the monitor to demand an answer live on air, a towering, pink-tinted shadow swept onto the edge of the set.

"And cut to commercial!" Valentino’s smooth, purring voice boomed from the darkness behind the studio lights. The giant moth walked right onto the stage, trailing a sweet cloud of magenta smoke. He paid no mind to the frantic stagehands throwing their hands up in panic over the sudden schedule break.

Val stepped up to the desk, sliding one of his main hands over Vox’s shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing the tense knot of muscle and using his lower set of arms to settle upon Vox’s belly.

"Oh, baby, you were absolutely divine," Val cooed softly, leaning down to block Vox’s view of the control monitors entirely. He set a small, gilded plate down on the desk right next to Vox's notes. On it sat a stack of rich, high-end pastries, glistening with sugar. "You looked so sharp, so powerful, my big papi! Vel and I were watching from the booth, and we couldn't wait until the end of the show to bring you a little celebration."

Vox blinked, the sudden intrusion throwing his spiraling thoughts off track. "Val... the feed on camera four, it looked—"

"It looked spectacular, I couldn’t tell which camera to look at, all of them showed such a sexy man mi amor," Val interrupted, sliding a fresh, iced espresso conveniently handed to him by a stagehand and into Vox's hand while picking up a cream-filled pastry and pressing it gently into Vox's claws. "Now eat something. You’ve been working so hard preparing for tonight. Look at you, you're practically running on fumes!”

Vox looked down at the pastry in his hand. The sweet, rich scent hit him immediately, distracting the anxious, knotting feeling in his stomach. Val’s hand remained on his shoulder, a warm, reassuring weight telling him that everything was fine, that he was doing great.

"Yeah..." Vox mumbled, the sharp gray static on his screen smoothing back down into a calm, satisfied blue. He took a large bite, the rich cream instantly washing away the bitter taste of his lingering nervousness. "Yeah, I guess... it was just a light glare on the lens. I should have Ethan look into that”

"Of course it was, papi, and yes, I’ll tell him myself, just relax." Val smiled, his golden heart-shaped glasses flashing under the studio lights as he stroked Vox’s back. "Now finish your snack. All our viewers are waiting for round two."

Vox swallowed, taking another big bite without even realizing how quickly he was eating it. The soothing rush of the sugar hit his system, dulling the edge of his doubts. He brushed a few stray crumbs off his lapels, feeling the snug stretch of his vest, but as he reached for a second pastry, he pushed the thought far, far away.

He was back in his studio; all of hell was looking at him again; his ratings were up; everything was going just fine. He was fine.

The next couple of days of broadcasting were going rather well; the same could not be said for the fashion department, where, over in the wardrobe wing, Velvette’s head tailor was currently hyperventilating over a rack of identical pinstripe suits.

"I can't just keep adding panels!" Melissa whispered frantically, her hands shaking as she held up a tape measure.

"You can, and you will," Velvette said, leaning against the rack while typing on her phone without looking up. "Inseams, waistband, vest backing. Sew in those black stretch-ribbon gussets under the armpits and around the lower back. If he asks why the fabric has so much give, tell him that I’m experimenting with a new 'breathable ergonomic fabric' for maximum mobility."

"Velvette, his waistline just went up another two inches since last month—"

"And if you tell him that, he'll fry your brain through your phone line," Velvette snapped, finally looking up with a lethal glare. "So sew the elastic, let out the seams, and if he compliments how 'snappy' he looks, you smile and agree."

Down on the main set, two stagehands were frantically crawling under the main anchor desk with heavy-duty steel brackets and a hydraulic jack.

"Hurry up, he's coming back over!" one hissed, bolting an industrial support beam directly underneath the central column of Vox's leather executive throne.”I’m trying! This was supposed to be done by the last crew yesterday! But oh no, it’s always us who have to do a rush job!” “Just shut up and hand me that bolt and get this done before he thinks we are stabbing him and he kills us!”

They had spent the last two hours secretly reinforcing every chair, couch, and pedestal across all three main stages. Custom steel plates were hidden inside the upholstery, and extra floor-anchors were installed under his desk to make sure nothing so much as creaked when he threw his weight back into a seat.

Velvette strolled onto the set, holding an iced coffee. Vox looked up, beaming as he smoothed his hands down his torso.

"Vel! honey, question for you is this a new suit or did you do something different? I… feel a bit, I don’t know how to describe it less?

“Less constraining? Well, yeah, I’m testing out some new fabric, considering you’re always waving your arms about, thought it would be nice to have you less restricted in your movements.” Velvette caught the eyes of the two stagehands crawling out of Vox’s prime chair and struggling to find a way past Vox, both frozen in sheer panic. She took a slow sip of her drink. “Vox, come closer for a sec, I want to check something.” Vox approached her. “Here, hold my drink for a second.” Vel then reached for Vox’s collar, pretending to stretch the fabric’s durability, while in reality she signaled frantically to the stagehands to move now.

“There we go, looking all pristine now, V.” Vox handed her back her drink. Vel started to turn around, making her way back to her studio chair.

“ Ah! Vel? Vox called out, making her stop in her tracks, “I..I want to say thanks for uh doing all this. I know I don’t say this enough, but really, I appreciate you.”

Vel was mildly surprised she didn’t remember the last time someone gave her a genuine thank you, and from Vox, no less. Though perhaps this was his way of extending the olive branch further, which she was happy to take. In all honesty, she missed what the three of them had before, but was happy now that they were working their way back.

Vel gave a sinister smirk back. “You’re welcome, V. Now, come on, let’s get you set up for the interview. I heard this sucker of an overlord paid us triple the regular rate to be the first interview once he heard you were back. Saying he wanted to discuss his new status as an overlord”

“You’re kidding, what an idiot,” Vox laughed, making his way to his desk.

"Alright! Studio lights up! Live interview in thirty seconds!" Ethan bellowed from the director's booth.

Vox took his place behind the desk, sinking into his new sleek chair. Huh, Ethan wasn’t lying when he said the massage features would help his aching back. Vox smirked, feeling completely in control as his guest, a smug minor overlord the one Vel had spoken about, took a seat opposite him.

"3... 2... 1... Live!"

"Welcome back to Vox Tonight," Vox purred into the main camera, his screen displaying a sharp, brilliant blue. "I'm joined tonight by Lord Malphas, who’s here to discuss his latest who’s here to discuss his latest upcoming at minor Overlord—"

"My, my, Vox," Malphas interrupted, leaning forward on his elbows with a mocking expression, cutting right over the teleprompter script. "It’s certainly... something to see you back in person. Though I must say, the broadcasts really don't do you justice."

Vox’s smile twitched slightly, a tiny flicker of static marring his display. "Is that so?"

"Oh, absolutely," Malphas chuckled, casting a sly glance directly at the camera feed. "I mean, looking at you on TV, one would think your wardrobe department was keeping you trim. But sitting here face-to-face... that suit is wearing you, isn't it? Seems a bit oversized around the middle. Or are you just hiding a few extra helpings under those lapels?"

The entire studio went dead quiet. Ethan froze in the control room, his face draining of color. Vox’s display glitched, a crackle of blue sparked around his screen, and a line of red cut across his screen as his smile went completely rigid. The air around the news desk grew heavy with an anxious prickle of static, making the hairs on everyone’s arms stand up. He could feel the eyes of all the studio employees on him.

"Oversized?" Vox echoed, forcing a dry chuckle as he gripped the edge of the desk to keep his hands from shaking. "I think your eyes are playing tricks on you, Malphas. Surely you have noticed the new trend—"

"Oh, come now, Vox," Malphas snickered, leaning back comfortably in his chair and gesturing toward Vox's midsection. "We’re on live TV. You can admit you’ve gained a bit of... extra weight. Is that why you were hiding out for months? Needed time to buy a whole new wardrobe?"

Vox felt as if he had been struck; his throat felt completely dry, and the dread in his chest surged so fast that his screen went momentarily black. Before Malphas could get another jab out, the studio lights suddenly plunged into a dramatic, high-energy commercial cue, drowning out the set audio with loud, booming promotional music for one of the multiple ad brands. Unfortunately, this one is promoting a brand-new weight-loss pill.

"And we'll be right back after a quick word from our sponsors!" Ethan’s voice cut over the house speakers, bright with the smallest tinge of anxiety hidden underneath.

The live feed cut instantly. On the control room balcony above the set, Velvette leaned over the railing, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. Her face was cast in a dark shadow, her expression hidden.

"Cut his mic off permanently, take him to drag his miserable ass out the back entrance, and blacklist his entire brand from our network," Velvette barked into her headset, her voice cold as ice.

Below, two massive security demons didn't even wait for Malphas to stand. They hauled him right out of the seat by his collar, dragging him backward through the backstage curtains while he shouted in protest. Velvette strutted down the stairs, her acrylics clicking rhythmically against her phone screen as she stepped onto the set and walked to Vox's desk,

"Ignore the nobody," Velvette said as she leaned against the reinforced desk. "He’s just trying to drum up drama for his dying brand. Nobody's looking at the fit of your suit, Vox. Vox stared at the empty guest chair, taking a couple of breaths to calm himself. The frantic static on his screen gradually settled back into a steady blue. He picked up the coffee, letting the glass steady his trembling fingers, and adjusted his vest.

"Yeah..." Vox mumbled, swallowing down the lingering tightness in his throat. "Yeah. Irrelevant trash."

"Exactly," Velvette smiled, giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring pat. "Now fix your posture. We're back in ten."

So things were still alright, the minor overlord coming on the show and insulting Vox right to his face was a rather unfortunate mishap. But Valentino took care of that mess rather quickly. In fact, he was no longer an overlord but rather some nobody sinner working for them in the basement, chained to a desk, and taught multiple lessons by Valentino on the proper etiquette of being on TV. Along with this, Vel added her own special touch by blasting all the doctored photos as a silent reminder that if you mess with one Vee, you will receive twice the amount of hurt.

Each day in the studio felt as if one were walking on eggshells. Nobody wanted to be the one to bring up Vox’s changing frame, not just due to the fear of being killed excruciatingly, but from the wrath of the other two vee’s awaited anyone who dared to cross the line.

Vox had spent months tucked away in his private suite, stubbornly refusing to return to the studio, even after a couple of months, while at first, Val and Vel thought it was normal, given how big the situation was. It would have taken several months of coaxing him out, ultimately amounting to a year, before they finally got him back to his semi-confident self. Now that he was actually eager to be in front of a camera once again, neither of them was going to allow him to have a backslide.

So, an unspoken rule took hold across the entire tower: Keep it to yourself, or pay with your life.

Day after day, everything seemed to go ridiculously well. Vox’s vibrant energy had returned in full force; his wide smile dazzled on every screen across the Pentagram. To the public—and to the overlords watching from the shadows—the Vees were completely whole again. Powerful. Untouchable.

Vox bloomed under the constant affection and continuous reassurance from his team. The crushing anxiety that had kept him locked in his darkened room for months melted away completely. He was eating well, laughing loudly just like he used to, and finally letting himself believe that he was back, that things hadn’t changed that much. He was finally starting to feel good, safe. The three of them were back in their element, if only it were that simple. While the rule seemed to be holding in place just fine, this was Hell. You can make as many rules as you want; who decides to listen to them is anyone’s guess, and yet there would always be one broadcast frequency in Hell that didn't play by their rules.

Alastor had felt those signals within those months; it was the only thing to let him know that the pathetic picture box of his was still alive. Vox was still full of surprises. He had thought from those signals while they were low in frequencies that he would bounce back just as he had multiple other times…and yet this time around it took much, much longer, nearly half a year!

He had tried to check up on Vox during one of those dreaded months. What he saw made something in his chest hurt. Vox was quiet. So so so very quiet. Vox was never a silent creature, and yet, as he watched the curled body in the bed from the shadows off in the corner.

A small shift within the bed untangled sheets from limbs, uncovering just the slightest peek of a small belly. It was clear that Vox had been stuffing himself full of junk.

A swirling heat began to twist and turn within Alastor’s stomach. It was a feeling that he had not experienced, not even in his human life. Yet here in Vox’s bedroom is where it chose to arise? What was this?

Before he could give more thought, red eyes stared out at him. His heart leaped into his throat. Was he scared? No. Startled yes. He stayed perfectly still. Did Vox see him? It felt like an eternity. Why wasn't he saying anything?

They both stayed like that for a couple more minutes. The longer Alastor looked at Vox, the more changes he could see. The deep-set eyes, bags, his antennae dropped so low they were nearly touching his screen. Vox blinked once, twice, and then closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh, and turned his body the opposite way, facing the adjacent wall away from Alastor.

… that was it? No burst of anger. No burst of electricity? Nothing? He half expected Vox to shout at him. Not just turn over and ignore him.

Alastor debated on whether to say something, really anything, at this point.

Finally, it was Vox who was the one to break the silence.

"God..." Vox murmured to the dark wall. "Even when I'm not trying to think about you, you still appear. Maybe I really am the one who's obsessed... Months alone, and I'm imagining you're actually standing there, Alastor."

Still, Alastor said nothing. His shadow remained pinned to the wall, his microphone cane frozen in his grip.

"Even after everything you did..." Vox choked out, his screen flickering with a faint, pitiful line of white noise. "What we did to each other... I still don't want to let you go."

Clearly, his picture box just needed more time to lick its wounds. Alastor told himself. Fine, be that way. It’s not like this is permanent. However, Alastor would come to regret not staying longer and even attempting to interact with Vox.

He would not get to see Vox for another year—and even then, not in person. It happened as he strolled through the hotel lobby, where one of those horrid VoxTek broadcasts was blaring over the monitors. There, floating above the room, he heard Vox’s voice: bright, electrified, and full of life, just as it was supposed to be.

Alastor lingered quietly behind the others, observing the hotel guests and staff as they reacted to Vox's grand public return. Around him, everyone offered their oh-so-insightful opinions on how remarkable Vox looked after his long hiatus.

Vox might fool the masses, but Alastor was no fool. He could see right through the camera glamours and optical tricks Vox had deluded himself into using. He was still just as broken as he had been at the start; a single year could do so little for someone as volatile and emotional as his dear Vincent.

It was time to see how he was really faring.

While Alastor loathed to admit it, he had been meticulously keeping track of the broadcast schedule for Vox’s talk show, and the current taping was nearing its end right about now. He paused before a full-length mirror, taking a moment to smooth his lapels. A quiet thought crossed his mind: What was he actually going to say to Vox once he stood before him?

He allowed himself to linger in the quiet uncertainty for only a beat. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, ink-black shadows pooled beneath his feet, swallowing him whole as he slipped silently into Vee Tower's high-tech security grid, entirely unnoticed.

Up on the studio floor, the sign-off theme music was fading out. Vox gave a charming wave to the main camera as the red "LIVE" light finally clicked off, signaling the end of another flawless broadcast. Velvette flashed him a thumbs-up from the booth, and Val blew him a kiss from the wings. Riding the high of another perfect night, Vox retreated up the private executive elevator, eager for a moment of peace for himself. These last few weeks back on set had finally made him feel alive again, even if he felt slightly more winded than he used to.

The blue steel doors of Vox’s executive suite clicked shut, sealing out any further intrusions for the night. Vox swiped the console on his screen to Do Not Disturb. He began his usual winding-down ritual, kicking off his shoes to slip into his plush shark slippers, then shedding his suit jacket to hang it up properly. Velvette had gotten on him out recently for leaving it wrinkled, complaining about how much of a pain those heavy custom fabrics were to press.

As he was easing himself onto the couch, a sudden, ice-cold chill spread throughout the room and ran straight up his spine.

Fuck.

The overhead lights sputtered. Shadows stretched across the sleek floor, pooling at the center before extending upward into a tall, familiar silhouette with pointed ears, a razor-thin frame, and a wide, yellow-fanged smile.

“My, my! What a magnificent production!" Alastor’s voice echoed. “Truly, your ability to adapt and craft an illusion is stunning! What was it I told you last time? 'Excuses and lies are your specialty.' It seems you never do learn, do you, Vox?” Alastor purred, ensuring his tone was anything but kind.

Vox could feel his blood pressure skyrocket. Why? Why the hell is he here right now? It wasn't that Vox was afraid; he was mostly furious and exhausted. He just wanted to relax. He thought he had been doing pretty well keeping to his own lane. He knew Val and Velvette wanted him to have nothing to do with Alastor anymore, and he was trying in his own way to fix the trust he’d damaged. It had been working, yet every time Vox finally found his stride, Alastor was right there waiting to tear it down.

"Alastor," Vox’s voice sharp with annoyance. "Why the hell are you here? How did you even get past security? We just upgraded the whole—"

"Oh, please. Your security is as soft as... well, everything else in this building!" Alastor strolled forward, twirling his microphone cane between his fingers as he closed the distance, stopping directly in front of Vox.

Vox braced himself, half-expecting Alastor to strike him or, rather, pierce his screen with one of his shadow tentacles. What happened instead was far worse.

Poke.

Alastor pressed the tip of his microphone right square in the center of Vox’s stomach. He increased the pressure, the tip sinking an inch deep into the soft curve beneath his vest.

“Such a sluggish body, my dear,” Alastor remarked, his eyes crinkling as his gaze lingered far longer than it should have on a rival's frame.

Vox’s body trembled violently. He took a jerky step backward, his screen flaring so hot it felt on the verge of overheating. “Get your fucking mic off me! Don’t fucking touch me! I’m in top condition—my numbers are higher than they’ve ever been—"

"Oh, do save it!" Alastor laughed, cruelly. "You really believe your own drivel, don't you? It is simply fascinating! You sit up here in your obnoxious glowing tower, completely blind to the pathetic little circus your staff is running to keep you from having another breakdown!"

Alastor snapped his fingers the primary display behind the desk flickered violently, overriding the network feed. A translucent, glowing copy of Velvette’s digital notepad manifested in the air, displaying her measurement logs of Vox suits’ alterations :

[CONFIDENTIAL: VOX_TAILORING_LOGS.pdf]

• MARCH: Chest: 42” | Waist: 34” — Standard pinstripe cut. Fitted.

• MAY: Chest: 44” | Waist: 37” — Let out back seams by 1.5 inches. Switched inner, may need to resew… perhaps new fabric blend?

• JULY: Chest: 46” | Waist: 40” — +3 inches on trousers. Added hidden elastic waistband insert. DO NOT USE RIGID LININGS.

• CURRENT: Chest: 48” | Waist: 43” — Full custom overhaul. Reinforce buttons with heavy-duty thread.

"Note for Melissa: He complained about his collar digging into his neck during the 6 PM broadcast. Drop the collar band by half an inch and use soft micro-stretch fabric for the neck trim. Make sure it still looks fashionable.

"DO NOT let him see the tape measure. Eyeball it or pull measurements off his existing suits when he’s in the shower."

"If he asks why the fabric gives when he sits, reiterate: 'That we are using a brand new fabric that I’m developing. If he has any questions, he should text me personally. He asks how he looks, and you shower him in praise. He’s finally having good days again—do NOT ruin it."

Vox’s screen went black. He didn't want to see this. He couldn't look at it. Those weren't Vel's notes. No, no, no, they couldn't be. But deep down, Vox knew that, frantic, handwriting, who else would know Vox’s measurements?

"Item two!" Another snap of Alastor's fingers echoed throughout the silent room. Clearly, Alastor still had plenty to show Vox, ignoring the electric charge within the room.

The screens split, bringing up the raw footage that was supposed to be deleted from all servers. On the screen was the familiar Vox Tonight studio set from earlier that week. It captured the exact moment Lord Malphas had smirked across the desk, his mic audio repeating the same cruel words to Vox :

—"Seems a bit oversized around the middle... or are you just hiding a few extra helpings under those lapels?"—

"Even the lowliest little pests can see right through the costume, my dear!" Alastor chimed, leaning close, his yellowed grin stretching impossibly wide. "Did you truly believe that having your tech team erase the footage would erase the truth of your new, rounded shape? Clearly, Malphas was trying to point out the undeniable fact of the matter: you have gotten soft in more ways than one."

"Shut up," Vox rasped.

He couldn't do this, not again. His own thoughts had already been tormenting him every night. He had barely managed to quiet them down, yet here Alastor was, pulling the floor out from under him just as everything felt like it was finally fitting back into place.

"Shut the fuck up! Stop—stop, stop, stop, stop!" Vox screamed, his voice cracking with a harsh, garbled burst of static.

"And my personal favorite!" Alastor continued, ignoring the desperate plea entirely.

With a final snap of his fingers, Alastor brought out the most damning evidence of all: the carefully configured slimming filters used to trim down Vox's new, fuller frame on camera. Side-by-side frames from different broadcast segments flashed across the array of monitors surrounding them, stripped completely bare of their digital optical tricks.

Dozens of screens displayed unedited images of Vox. His midsection looked considerably plumper than it had ever been, his arms, once thin as twigs, were thick and solid, and his chest had broadened into a heavy, robust rack. Freed from the narrow constraints of his old silhouette, Vox actually looked remarkably healthy, carrying a solid, powerful presence he had never possessed before.

But this was the television business. In Vox’s world, soft, heavy bodies weren't meant to be in front of the camera; they were meant to hide behind it.

"Tell me, does it hurt knowing your grand 'comeback' is held together by frantic, makeshift fixes?" Alastor purred, leaning in so close he could feel the static charge, and the hairs on his neck stood up. "Does it sting that your own business partners hid all of this from you just to prevent another one of your pathetic little breakdowns? Even now, my dear, you are nothing more than a burden to them."

Vox screen still dark and flickered now to a low dim; his expression from Alastor’s angle was unreadable.
Of course, he knew. Deep down, he had felt the extra tension in his vest, felt the strange, giving stretch in fabrics that used to fit like iron, and seen the subtle, unnatural distortion on the broadcast feeds. But after months trapped in that dark, suffocating room, buried under his own failure, he had needed the lies. He had finally been feeling good. For the first time in almost a year, he felt like himself again.

Vox slowly brought his arms up to hug himself, his claws digging painfully into his neck skin, nicking it in the process, creating small red beads to well up. He made an indication of moving from his spot; he felt rooted in place, and really, where could he run within this tower that Alastor wouldn’t find him? Along with that, he certainly didn’t want either of the Vees to see him in this state.

"I knew..." Vox whispered, his voice catching on a dry, pathetic little rasp.

"What?" Alastor whispered.

"I knew, you bastard," Vox murmured, staring at the floor as he hugged himself tighter, willing himself to disappear. "Of course I fucking knew Alastor. I'm not fucking blind, I know how my own technology works, I know how my clothes are supposed to fit, I know…from looking in the mirror just how fat I’ve gotten. But I was... I was finally feeling okay again..." He swallowed hard, his screen flickering with a faint, pitiful line of static before settling back into a dimmed brightness. "I was just... I felt good, I didn’t care. I— Vox didn’t feel like speaking anymore; there was no point.

He waited for Vox to keep speaking, yet it seemed he was done, and nothing more was going to be said. For once, Alastor didn’t know what to say. The delight that was gleaming just moments ago had all but evaporated, and now in its place was a horrible, heavy knot tightening in his own chest. Why he was feeling like this, he couldn’t understand. A very faint, distant voice of Charlie echoed in the back of his mind on a lesson he had been forced to observe on Understanding one’s emotions: Emotion of the day? Guilt!
Was that what this was?

Guilt? Preposterous. He was the Radio Demon. He ate sinners for satan’s sake, he took pleasure in seeing one’s demise, seeing others trip and fall, and get back up only to fall even further until they just lay there accepting their fate in this hellhole. But then again, this was Vox in front of him, not just any sinner off the street. Perhaps, the distant voice of Charlie echoed in the back of his mind on a lesson he had been forced to observe. No, no. Alastor quickly dismissed such feelings.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Alastor spoke again, regaining his composure. "Now, really, Vox, why on earth are you acting like this? I certainly didn't say any of this to hurt you! I am merely stating facts, plain and simple. Vox didn't answer. He just stood staring at the floor; his screen was unreadable.

"Aren't you happy to know the truth now?" Alastor pressed, taking a half-step closer and gesturing toward the floating, holographic measurement logs in the air. "Would you truly prefer to go around living a fantasy, letting those two lie to your face every single day? They treat you like an invalid! I am the only one treating you like an adult! I gave you the courtesy of the truth. You ought to be thanking me."

Vox still said nothing. He just slowly turned his back, trying in vain to make himself smaller, his arms still tight as if this could shield him from the words that Alastor said.

Alastor’s smile twitched. He waited—a second, two, three—desperately listening for anything at this point, just something. But there was nothing. Vox just stood there with his shoulders hunched, staring at the blank wall, offering no game to play.

"Well," Alastor murmured, his tone lacking its usual theatrical bite. "It seems you need time to reflect upon my words. It must be rather shocking, so I’ll leave you to it. Should you manage to pull yourself together, I shall see to it that I am the very first to hear how you plan to discipline yourself and those little partners of yours."

With a swift motion of his hand, a pool of ink-black shadows swallowed him whole, leaving Vox alone with everything still on display with him in the center of it all.

That was five weeks ago, and the studio floor stayed quiet. The primary broadcast stage, once alive, filled with frantic voices and last-minute set changes, with rolling equipment audible from every which way, was now silent. Everything built to tailor just for Vox to retake his place on set had all but collapsed within that single evening with Alastor.

Val and Vel had tried to talk to Vox to understand what had happened and what could have caused such a rapid backslide. At first, they both went crazy trying to find out which employee had opened their big mouth. Only for Vox to stop them and tell them himself that he had always known and that he was sorry for causing them such trouble, wearing such a hopeless look on his face before locking himself once again within his room.

Inside Vox’s room, heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the neon glow of the Pentagram. Vox sat on the floor in the dark between his couch and the coffee table, his back pressed against the couch. He hadn’t worn any of the Vel suits in weeks. What was the point? Who was he trying to impress? Clearly not himself. He had taken up wearing a pair of shorts along with a permanent dim setting; he preferred that way, an extra-large, oversized, worn-out hoodie with a small shark graphic at the center, the fabric pooled over his lap, which he honestly preferred; he would rather not see just how much bigger his thighs and stomach had gotten since locking himself away. His screen was now on a permanent dim setting; he preferred that way, as it required the least amount of energy. He just felt tired, physically and emotionally.

Around him lay the wreckage of a complete relapse: empty takeaway containers, half-eaten sweets, and stale bags of chips scattered across the rug. Vox wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and slip away. Lately, he had found a grim sort of comfort in letting his consciousness drift, unmooring his mind from his physical shell to melt into the endless data stream of Pentagram City. Out there, floating through the signal, he didn't have to worry about possessing a body at all. Some days, he would remain suspended in the code for days on end, until the sharp, persistent gnawing in his stomach dragged him back into his wretched frame.

It was pathetic, really. Even when he abandoned his physical form, his mind still craved comfort, still craved food. God, he was disgusting. This was how he was going to spend the rest of his eternity in Hell.

A shadow pooled silently in the corner of the dark room. The cold surge of dark magic rippled through the static, violently snapping Vox’s mind out of the network and slamming him back into his physical body. He sat hunched on the floor, exhausted, his screen flickering weakly as the gloom shifted.

Alastor stepped out from the darkness. He had expected Vox to come back and bounce back once again, just like he always did; however, this time it was too long. There was no indication that he was even alive at times. That was the most troubling to Alastor; it was those moments when Vox’s own signal would seem to be switched off or disappear for hours or days on end.

He stood over Vox, staring down at his slumped shoulders as the memory of that night in Vox's bedroom nearly a year ago rushed back. Vox had looked just like this then—soft, defeated, staring right through him as if Alastor were nothing more than a cruel phantom of his own spiraling mind.

Alastor took a quiet step forward. "Do you remember?" he asked softly into the dark. "In your quarters... when you lay in your bed and thought I was merely an illusion of your broken psyche?"

Vox didn't answer. He had nothing left to say. He stared blankly ahead, pulling his heavy hoodie tighter around himself and shutting Alastor out completely.

Alastor’s smile twitched, but he kept going. “I was wrong,” Alastor admitted softly, the words grinding like glass down his throat. “You once claimed to be the one obsessed. “I was wrong,” Alastor admitted softly. “I am the one who can’t seem to leave you alone.” He swallowed down the bitter taste of his own arrogance. “I... I did not intend to destroy what little you had rebuilt."

Vox shifted slightly, allowing his head to shift upwards if only by a little bit.

There, Alastor thought he was getting the slight opening; Alastor’s throat worked hard. He forced his posture to loosen.

"And for what it is worth..." Alastor started, licking his lips nervously. He looked away for a fraction of a second before settling his gaze back on Vox. "I never said the weight looked bad on you."

Vox’s screen flickered with the slightest hint of cyan that dusted his face, the first sign of any emotion. Slowly, Vox tilted his head up. His red eyes were dull, rimmed with dark, heavy circles lining underneath.

"...What?" Vox rasped, his voice dry and scratchy from weeks of disuse.

"I said," Alastor repeated, forcing himself to maintain eye contact even as his chest tightened with discomfort, "I never said the extra weight made you look unappealing." That same dreaded heat began to pool within Alastor’s belly. He suddenly felt very hot. How was Vox sitting in that horrid hoodie? Was he not burning up as well? Push through, Alastor thought he needed Vox to hear this before this retched heat scrambled his rational thoughts. "I was mocking the lies, Vox. The ridiculous filters that you placed upon yourself.

Vox let out a bitter-sounding puff of air. "Right. Because pulling up my measurement logs in front of me was just an oh so kind reminder of how large I’ve gotten.

"It was cruel," Alastor admitted softly, "I was... angry and confused that after spending nearly a year rotting in the dark, you finally returned to the world only to hide behind cheap optical tricks. You should have stood all before Hell as you are.

Alastor took a step closer, so close Vox could feel the hum of dark magic radiating off him, and gestured vaguely toward Vox’s midsection.

"Look at you," Alastor continued, his tone carrying a strange sort of encouragement. "You possess power, physical presence, and the capacity to crush anyone foolish enough to mock you under your heel. The last thing any sinner in this pit would ever see is you tearing them apart. Yet you allow yourself to be convinced that your extra weight makes you weak? It is absurd."

Alastor took a slow breath, "I was wrong, Vox," Alastor murmured, the words heavy, painfully sincere. How long had it been since they could talk to one another like this?" And for my part in humiliating you ... I am sorry."

Vox stared at him, his display pulsing with faint, erratic lines as he processed the sound of Alastor offering an apology to him. This had to be some sick trick, right? Vox thought of his fingers, clutching tight into the soft fabric of his hoodie over his stomach. But taking another glance, he saw the sincerity within those crimson eyes. This was no trick.

"I was just... so tired, I was scared how all of hell would react, you know, Al," Vox whispered, the old nickname slipping out before he could catch it. "I couldn't stand the thought of anyone looking at me and seeing how out of control I'd gotten. How broken I was. I just wanted to hide."

"Oh my dear picture box,” Alastor also slipped into a similar familiarity that had once long been lost. Lowering himself to sit on the edge of the low coffee table opposite Vox, bringing himself down to eye level. "They meant well, no doubt. But you are not a delicate piece of glass, Vincent. You never were."

Vox let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the heavy tension in the dark room began to dissipate.

“Come now, Vox, let’s freshen you up, shall we?” Alastor swiped his hand upwards and then down, opening a pocket within his shadow realm, and then reached his hand inside, pulling out a glistening and freshly warm…pound cake???

"Did you just pull a fucking cake out of where? You're not actually expecting me to eat that, are you? I clearly don't need food anymore—" Vox gestured defensively to the clutter of packaging and half-eaten snacks surrounding him. "I mean, I'm clearly big—"

A low, traitorous growl rumbled deep within his stomach, vibrating loudly.

"Damn it, no, Alastor, that wasn't—"

"Ah, ha-ha, no need to worry, Vox! Of course, you are going to be hungry," Alastor purred, setting the cake dish down, feeling a sense of excitement ignite. "Proper food is an absolute must, and surely you can't turn down my cooking, can you? It’s even homemade, through and through!"

Vox stared at him, caught somewhere between utter mortification and profound disbelief. "...Fine. Just one slice, but that’s all."

"Hm, of course, darling," Alastor hummed smoothly, already slicing off a generous portion and holding the fork out toward him. "Here, let me feed it to you."

Vox hesitated, his screen glitching with a nervous, cyan flush. But the scent of rich butter and warm sugar wafted up between them, easily overpowering the stale grease of the takeaway containers littered around the floor. When Alastor brought the fork to his screen, Vox’s mouth opened almost on instinct.

The first bite was rich, dense, soft, the unmistakable texture of a classic pound cake. The butter-coated slice melted on his tongue, instantly triggering a demanding wave of hunger that had been suppressed for days. Vox swallowed hard, his eyes widening slightly.

Alastor smiled, a genuinely soft, satisfied hum vibrating in his chest as he immediately cut a second bite. "There we go. Much better than those sad, chemical-filled snacks, isn't it?"

With methodical care, Alastor kept the fork moving. He fed Vox bite after bite, watching with intense focus as the overlord’s initial embarrassment gave way to pure, instinctive need. Vox’s resistance crumbled under the warm, comfortable weight settling in his belly. The sheer density of the pound cake filled his hollow midsection, replacing that gnawing emptiness with a deep, drowsy satisfaction.

By the middle of the cake, Vox was breathing a little heavier, his shoulders slumped as he leaned forward, completely reliant on Alastor’s rhythm. His belly expanded beneath the soft fleece of his hoodie, pressing taut against the fabric until the waistband of his sweatpants felt snug. He felt full, warm, and loved.

"Al... just... just one more bite," Vox muttered softly, his eyelids drooping, his screen humming a low tone as his fans clicked on softly as he leaned in toward the plate. "Just one more and then I'm done..."

Alastor let out a quiet laugh, scraping the silver fork against the clean porcelain.

"I'm afraid there isn't any left to give, my dear," Alastor said softly, holding up the empty plate for Vox to see.

Vox blinked down at the empty dish, a sudden, slow flush creeping across his display as he realized he had devoured the entire thing without even realizing it. He looked down at his own lap, feeling the heavy, undeniable roundness resting against his thighs.

Before the spiral of shame could take root, Alastor reached out, his hand gently setting the plate aside before resting a warm palm directly against Vox’s full stomach.

"Look at that," Alastor murmured, his voice laced with a deep, quiet pride that made Vox shudder. "You did wonderfully. I knew you needed it."

“Al”…Vox was starting to feel sleepy. He tried to sit up and make his way to the bed, only for him to fall back down. What…The weight of his own stomach pinned Vox.

“Oh dear, here let me help you, what kind of partner would I be to not help after stuffing you so thoroughly?” Alastor made quick work of whisking away all the mess that littered Vox’s entire room and changing those dreaded bed sheets. He picked Vox up gently, his tentacles being considerate, as if he just stuff the poor man to the brim.

"Al... Burrp! ...No, put me down, I’m—ugh—fine, I can—"

Vox clapped a hand over his mouth, his screen flashing a bright, embarrassed cyan as a low, heavy belch escaped his chest. The sudden pressure against his overstuffed stomach forced the air right out of him, making him wince as the rich weight of the cake settled within his stomach.

He leaned heavily into Alastor's grip, unable to mask the deep groan that followed as his body tried to process just how thoroughly full he actually was.

"Come now, sleep, my little poundcake," Alastor hummed gently, lifting Vox with surprising ease and setting him down onto the bed. He pulled the soft sheets up high over his shoulders, his long fingers then sliding beneath the blanket to rub slow, soothing circles into the tight drum of Vox's stomach.

Vox's optics fluttered, heavy with exhaustion and the deep, comfortable haze of a full belly. His hand reached out, weakly catching the edge of Alastor's sleeve.

"Don't... don't go, Alastor," Vox whispered, his voice small in the quiet dark. "Please... don't leave."

Alastor let out a quiet, melodic chuckle, leaning down just enough for his static to hum against Vox's display as his hand continued its warm, steady rhythm against Vox's stomach.

"Shh, darling. I'll be coming here much more often," Alastor purred softly into the dim room. "After all, who else is going to cook you such wonderful meals to maintain that beautiful tummy of yours?"