Chapter Text
If Velvette could use one word to describe this week, she would settle on Hell. Which is ironic, isn’t it? Despite her several decades in these infernal pits, Velvette has had it quite well. She’s everything she dreamed she could be when she was alive. Still, the doll demoness is beginning to reach her breaking point. Exhausted would be an understatement.
Work has been stressful— her incompetent models and amateur models have really been testing her patience with their mediocrity. Velvette is the best thing to ever grace the fashion industry down here, so she should only work with the best. Do they realize how many girls would kill for an opportunity to breathe the same air as Velvette, let alone fucking work with her?
Earlier this week, one of her models had caused her to get into a bloody cat fight with an older designer at Hell’s equivalent of fashion week, hosted by no one other than Velvette herself, of course.
Things had been going well until her model tripped over her own heels and took quite the tumble on the runway. The poor girl was so mortified she didn’t even try to play it off and continue with grace. Lorraine, the has-been designer in question — that washed up, raisin-faced bitch — had the audacity to tell Velvette that she should “teach her toddlers to walk before throwing them on the runway.”
The incident had been recorded by messy bitches in the crowd, nosy journalists desperate for their fifteen seconds of fame. It was online, of-fucking-course it was. Velvette had rewatched the damn video at least a thousand times at this point. She’d gone viral again. How scandalous.
The footage started with her models strutting confidently down the runway, music pulsing in the back as they showed off Velvette’s genius designs. Velvette herself stood at the edge, her posture poised, those big ruby eyes gleaming with pride.
Then, the stumble. The girl’s heel caught on the hem of her gown, sending her sprawling forward. Gasps echoed through the room as the model visibly struggled to regain her balance, cheeks flushed with humiliation. Bloody fuckin’ Hell.
In the video, Velvette’s voice can be heard, her English accent sharp and commanding. “Get up, now. Keep going!” Her words had a sense of urgency while her eyes flickered over the audience, assessing their reactions.
A snarky voice came from the crowd, cutting through the tense silence — the music had stopped — like a sharpened knife. “Maybe you should teach your mediocre models how to walk before you throw them on the runway, Velvette. What are they, toddlers?”
Velvette’s head immediately snapped towards the source, her doll mechanics allowing her to turn her head in a full 360 degree angle, her soft features hardening into a mask of controlled fury. “Excuse me?”
Her voice was sharp and biting. Just who does this smug, silicone stuffed bitch think she is, waltzing in here and insulting Velvette’s work at her own show? By order of the Queen of Fashion and Social Media, off with her head!
Fucking hag! Velvette wants to rip the botox out of this fugly cunt’s face.
The older demoness tilted her head, her tone dripping with condescension. “You heard me, dear. Perhaps if you weren’t younger than your models, they’d have better guidance.”
At that moment, all the doll saw was red.
Long story short, Velvette tore that bitch to shreds. Despite her petite frame, she is not one to be underestimated, especially not when it comes to her work. Velvette takes her work very seriously. She takes pride in everything she does and was not about to let some nobody play on her name like that and make an arse out of her at her own show. She was out for blood.
Does this bitch know who she is? Velvette is the best designer in the fashion game, the Overlord of Social Media, and the backbone of The Vees — she will have that botched bitch and her gas station botox blacklisted . Ruin her already dying career!
The video abruptly ended with Velvette pouncing on her like a feral cat.
Work aside, Vox and Valentino have been getting on her last nerve with their perpetual fighting. She cannot stand them blowing up her phone, bombarding her with endless streams of texts ranting about the other. Their pissing matches were making her sick.
Things can never be simple with those two morons. They aren’t your usual lovers' spats either. Vox and Valentino get destructive whenever they fight. The TV demon is more verbal, he will yell and say genuinely hurtful things in the heat of the moment, while the moth tends to get more physical; Val throws and destroys anything — or anyone , if you’re unlucky— he can get his hands on.
During the long forty years the two spent together, Valentino has had the audacity to hit Vox only once during an argument. It was during the early stages of their relationship. He backhanded him, but learned his lesson real quick when Vox caught him by the wrist and struck him right back, electrocuting him for even daring to raise a hand to him in that way. Vox is not one of his whores and he made that crystal clear.
They didn’t speak for a whole month after that, but fuck, the makeup sex was worth it. It’s always the same— they fight, have angry sex, make up, repeat.
If they aren’t fighting, they’re fucking.
They aren’t perfect, but they do genuinely have love for each other, no matter how twisted it may be. Despite their issues, they do make an effort and generally try not to fight in front of Velvette. It’s an unspoken rule between the two overlords.
Velvette can’t recall an instance of either Vox or Valentino ever genuinely getting mad at her. She’s got them both whipped, wrapped around her little finger.
But even when her boys aren't at each other's throats, they’re so caught up with each other nowadays that Velvette is beginning to feel like they’ve somehow forgotten that she’s a part of this relationship too.
It’s a stupid thought, she told herself at first— but doesn’t it make perfect sense that they would favor one another? They were together long before Velvette even manifested in Hell and came into the picture. Their bond will always be different.
She’s not jealous. Of course not. Velvette’s an Overlord, for fuck’s sake. She doesn’t get jealous, she gets even. Velvette knows her worth, but do they?
Velvette tries to push those thoughts aside, but they linger in the back of her mind, a bad dream she can’t seem to shake. She’s tried talking to those fuckers about it, but every time she brings it up, it feels like they aren’t really listening to her, just waiting for their turn to speak. It’s infuriating.
Valentino brushes her off with a kiss on the forehead and a “Muñequita, you worry too much,” while Vox’s attention often drifts to his screens, giving her a distracted “Of course, my dear, we’ll make more time.”
It’s all bullshit.
Velvette sat on the balcony railing, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe her simmering rage. Her legs dangled over the edge, the city glittering beneath her, a bitter sea of neon and chaos. She exhaled a long plume of smoke, the cigarette dangling from her delicate fingers before she pressed it against her palm, watching the ember sizzle and burn her synthetic skin. The smell of melting plastic mingled with the sharp scent of nicotine, but she didn’t flinch.
She could handle pain. Physical pain was easy. It was the emotional bullshit that was tearing her apart.
The pain was sharp, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else.
A half-empty bottle of pink gin nestled between her thighs, the liquid sloshing slightly with each shift of her weight. The liquor burns in her throat, but not enough to numb the hurricane brewing inside her. It just fuels it, turning her thoughts darker, angrier.
How did it come to this ? She wonders. She used to be untouchable, a queen of her own making. She still is, but lately, it’s like the crown has grown heavy, and the throne too cold. Valentino would dismiss her concerns with a flippant kiss, and Vox would nod and murmur his agreements while his mind was clearly elsewhere. It made her feel small, insignificant, like a pretty accessory they liked to show off but didn’t really see.
They don’t care , a voice whispers in the back of her mind. They never cared. You were just something new, something fun to play with. But now that the novelty’s worn off …
“Shut up,” Velvette hisses to herself, shaking her head violently as if that could dislodge the intrusive thoughts. But they persist, clinging to her like the sticky scent of smoke and gin.
For all her bluster and bravado, for all her loud, manic energy, Velvette feels small tonight, like a doll in a too-big world, easily lost, easily forgotten.
She contemplates the idea of leaving, really leaving. Not storming off in a fit of rage like she’s done before, but actually walking out and not coming back. She’s an Overlord; she can go wherever she wants, do whatever she pleases. But the idea feels hollow. Where would she go? Who would she even be without them?
What if she just…let go? Leaned forward and let gravity take over? She knows it wouldn’t kill her— nothing down here could, save for the deadly kiss of a holy weapon. But it might be a wake-up call for those two idiots, a shock to the system. The thought of their panic, their desperate attempts to fix her and put their doll back together, almost makes her smile. Almost.
But that’s not the answer, is it? Running away from the problem, from them , would be too easy, too simple. Velvette is many things—vain, petty, obsessive— but she’s not a quitter.
The wind whips through her hair, causing her pigtails to dance wildly around her. She doesn’t care if she looks a mess— let them see her, let them see what they’ve reduced her to.
Velvette can feel the rage boiling inside her, a storm she can barely contain at this point. Her fingers twitch with the urge to smash something, to break and tear and rip until there’s nothing left but the satisfying sound of destruction.
The thought reminds her of the show. The incident had been a spectacle, and not the kind she usually found herself orchestrating; she wasn’t the type to get her hands dirty. Velvette’s fight with Lorraine wasn’t just a random lapse in professionalism; it was a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, an explosion of everything she had been bottling up for weeks.
As Velvette replayed the scene in her mind, she could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins again. The older demoness had provoked her at the worst possible time. The nerve of that washed-up relic, daring to criticize her, to challenge her in front of an audience. Did that bitch think Velvette wouldn’t fuck her up?
Fuck Lorraine and fuck the press. Velvette embraces infamy.
Infamy meant attention, and attention meant power. She clawed her way to the top, shredding anyone who dared stand in her way. And she’d do it again.
The doll finally climbed down from the railing, her petite frame wobbling slightly from the combination of rage and alcohol coursing through her. She stumbled over to the balcony chair, the bottle of pink gin sloshing in her hand, and collapsed into it with a huff.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she fished it out with a snarl, resisting the urge to throw the device over the edge. The screen lit up with a stream of notifications— fans, haters, and everything in between. You know what? Perfect. If there was one thing Velvette could always count on, it was her audience.
She feels the gin burning through her veins, a reckless fire that fuels her need to lash out. With a practiced flick of her thumb, the live stream connects, and her followers begin to flood in. The chat explodes with comments— some supportive, others taunting.
Velvette doesn’t care. She’s here to talk her shit, and anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off.
“Hey dolls,” she begins, her voice slurred but still carrying that signature sharpness. “It’s your girl Velvette. You won’t believe the week I’ve had. Fucking Hell.”
She leans back, one leg draped over the armrest as she takes a long drink from the bottle. “Let’s talk about fashion,” she continues, her voice light but with an undercurrent of steel. “Let’s talk about what it means to be on top, to set trends, to be a fucking icon .”
Her followers flood the stream with comments, hearts, and emojis. She can see the numbers climbing, the audience growing. “And let’s talk about those who dare to challenge that. I know you all saw the little incident at my show. I’m sure you watched the video. Cute, right?”
The chat fills with messages of agreement and some laughing emojis. Velvette’s hazy eyes narrow as she reads a particularly nasty comment from a troll. She smirks, leaning crossing to the camera. “Oh, and to the troll who just told me to ‘get over it’ — go fuck yourself. You wish you could even breathe the same air as me, you fucking twat.”
She laughs, a cold, sharp sound that sends a shiver down the spines of her viewers. “Lorraine,” she sneers, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
“First off, fuck Lorraine,” she declared, her voice gaining strength as she continued. “Fuck her and her shitty designs. That washed-up hag had the nerve to criticize my models. MY models. As if she knows anything about fashion anymore. The woman’s a walking fashion disaster, and she’s got the audacity to come for me? At my bloody show? Fuck that.”
She took another swig of gin, feeling the warmth spread through her small body. “Lorraine’s been irrelevant for decades,” she continued, her voice dripping with venom. “She’s jealous, plain and simple. A jealous, dry-snatched cunt who can’t handle the fact she’s irrelevant. She’ll never be Velvette, and that’s what kills her.”
Her bloodshot eyes flash with anger as she rants. As she looks over the chat, a comment catches her eye, and she pauses, reading it out loud. “Velvette, you- you’re just a spoiled brat who got lucky. Maybe you should take a break before you embarrass yourself further.” She laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “Oh sweetheart, you think I’m embarrassed? You think I care what you or that dried-up prune thinks? Please.”
She takes another swig of gin, nearly finishing the bottle. “Here’s a message for all my haters out there,” she drawls, her accent thickened by the alcohol as she leans closer to the camera, her eyes dark and intense. “KYS. You heard me. Kill. Your. Fucking. Selves. Lorraine and all the haters can kiss my perfectly sculpted ass!”
Her words were met with a flurry of reactions, but Velvette barely registered them.
“What, I made you feel a way? Feel a way then, bitch. Do you know who the fuck I am?”
The live stream is still going, but she’s starting to lose focus, the edges of her vision blurring. She knows she should end it, but she can’t bring herself to move, can’t bring herself to care. She just sits there, staring at the screen, the world outside the balcony a distant, indifferent blur.
“Let me tell you something,” she muttered, her eyes heavy. “I don’t take kindly to insults, especially not from washed-up hags who think they can waltz into my bloody domain and disrespect me. Lorraine, darling, if you’re watching this— and I know you are, you nosy bitch— consider yourself finished. Stay the fuck out of my way. You’ve crossed the wrong bitch.”