Unless He Absolutely Could Not Take The Time Away From Work, Vox Had A Personal Policy: He Always Accepted

Unless he absolutely could not take the time away from work, Vox had a personal policy: he always accepted invitations to business meetings, especially when they came from fellow Overlords. Whether the Overlord in question owned one soul or a thousand, or a hundred thousand, didn't matter to Vox. He always sent a hand-written thank-you card -- his desk pen was a sharp stub nib, the cardstock rich and creamy, the ink a deep oxblood -- along with his response.

Usually, the meetings were a snooze, some sad little lost soul pitching terrible ideas, or just wanting to ramble off bizarrely violent fantasies and fetishes in the hopes that he would put a show together for that specific thing. Vox always tried to stay polite and upbeat, cheerful and engaging; whenever he was in the public eye, he assumed he was being watched. It was never just the eyes of whoever he was meeting with on him. It was all eyes on him. That was the only way to keep himslef sharp enough to never show his disappointment or frustration. He treated each and every one of them like a valued companion, even when it killed him a little inside, even when he struggled to find a friendly, upbeat way to say No. And all too often, it was a No. Not always--Vox loved to try new things, loved to be innovative--but most of the time, because most of the time, it felt like someone would need to suffer to make a certain pitch a reality. Val might play fast and loose with his employees' happiness and wellbeing, but Vox valued his--

And considered everyone a potential subscriber, a rich and bountiful vein to be mined for gems and gold.

Besides, most people in Pride--in all of Hell, for that matter--were already his customers whether they knew it or not. He was in damn near all of their modern technology, he could see out of any camera that connected to any of his many, mny networks at any time, he watched every credit card transaction, he paid attention to surges in the movement of souls-as-currency. Vox violated everyone's privacy to sone degree, and it was absolutely glorious. So, they were all his customers, and he would always, always make time for customers.

Still, walking into Visage's club? He was fairly certain he had made a mistake--or that she had. Given that the invitation was to her own establishment, he'd brought a bottle of decent wine with a nice ribbon on it as a gift, but the moment he set foot in here? He felt drastically out of place. He was tired, the ports in the back of his head ached from overuse that day, and he wanted to go home and unwind. Why was he here? This place was thriving, the flow of cash certainly noteworthy, and the dancers looked...

"Excuse me," he said, reaching out to stop one who was dancing nearby.

"You're supposed to go to the VIP booth, sweetie, keep going to the back," she told him, without missing a beat.

"Oh, no, I'm--yes. Thank you. May I ask you something?" At a nod from her, he frowned, hesitating briefly, studying her face intently. If she was going to lie, he wanted to know it. "Are you safe here?" Because that was it, wasn't it? That was why this place didn't feel as sticky and seedy as the haunts Val liked to drag him to? The employees here didn't look furtive, didn't look frightened or harassed.

The sparkle in her eyes before she smiled said it all. Stunned, Vox hurried on to go meet this strange new Overlord.

-

When he saw Visage, he was sure of it. He wasn't supposed to be here. She must have gotten him mixed up in her mind, and intended to invite Valentino. The woman was stunningly beautiful, enough that Vox actually noticed, despite so rarely letting himself notice. There was a sultry energy to her, but a sharp intelligence to her eyes.

Confused, he nonetheless offered her the wine--French, smuggled in from the living world, worth a few thousand souls or nothing at all, depending on one's tastes.

"Visage!" Vox's smile was bright and professional, and he stood with his customary poise and confidence, as if none of-- of this was happening around him. "I hope you'll accept this, a token of my gratitude. Thank you for thinking of me, and inviting me here." He offered his hand. "It looks like the night is going well? Profitable, anyway!"

(For @doublejango's Vox, because I have no impulse control. WHOOP! WHOOP! -- Visage despised politics. It was one of the many reasons she had never been all too thrilled at her 'promotion', but that ship had long since set sail. It was what it was, and she had done her best to make the most of it. Indeed, to make more of the position than many of those that were her peers. Where most of them saw fit to jealously covet their power and collect the souls of the downtrodden, Visage had instead seen an opportunity for change. There was a better way--she would prove it to them. Unfortunately ... going against the grain, especially in an industry so near and dear to another Overlord's heart, didn't come without its fair share of risks. Valentino was not a rival to take lightly, by any means. And while she lacked to power, experience and resources to face her opposition directly ... if she was clever, maybe she didn't have to.

Setting up a meeting with any of the Vees, for someone in her position, probably seemed like suicide on the surface ... but Visage felt confident all the same. Misplaced confidence based on inexperience? Perhaps. There was only one way to find out. Having deliberately chosen one of the busiest nights at the club as an opportunity to show how her business was thriving, the hellhound waited patiently in her personal VIP booth near the rear of the club. The invitation she had extended to the Television Demon had been accepted, but would he actually show...? Time would tell. Normally, the lupine Overlord preferred more casual attire or a 'business chique' sort of look when she was on the clock, but not this time. This was a night of making lasting impressions, and so she had taken the task to heart, dressed in a figure-hugging black glittering leotard with several large sections of missing material ... with just enough in just the right places to keep her breasts covered. These were paired with black metallic cargo pants with a low enough waistline to show that she was not, in fact, wearing any undergarments beneath that leotard. Just enough to make it seem that she just so happened to be caught on a night where she was wearing more revealing attire. Pure coincidence, really.

To be fair, most Goetia don't seem to have much experience with dating. Most of them had their marriages arranged when they were kids.

"You know what? You're right," Blitz agreed, before knocking back the rest of his drink and hopping down off the karaoke stage. It was hot and sticky in the bar that night, the air heavy with smoke, the scents of dozens of different kinds of booze, and way too many demonic pheromones. He was absolutely loving it, having an incredible time, but not so much that he couldn't take things seriously.

Blitz slipped out of his leather jacket--fuck, he loved the way the chrome rings on it felt when they rasped along his spines--and hung it over the back of his barstool, then caught the bartender's eye to order another. With that done, he looked back at this rando, considering if he really wanted to get into a talk with him... but sure, fuck it, why not? It wasn't like anything about him and Stolas was private anymore. After Ozzie's, they'd been pretty well known, but after Verosika's? Everyone knew everything, it seemed like, and it was fucking refreshing to run into someone who wasn't tearing him down or insulting Stolas.

"It's not fucking fair, judging Stolas--or Stella--by the standards of people who actually got to choose, who had the chance to develop our own fucked up social skills, but social skills all the same. Stolas was fucking neglected when he was young, and yeah, Paimon can kiss my little red hole and beg me to let him shove his sad little magic marker up there, fuck him for not seeing how fucking great his son was going to be and like, really having his fucking back. But yeah. Yeah. Having your whole life arranged for you, being told you're just like, born to serve but never to choose, powerful but only taught to use the power for cruel whims, never to like, you know, fucking indulge in any of the sparks of fucking altruism or whatever that they might have--cause they do. They do." He was tipsy and he knew it--or maybe drunk--but Blitz felt so damn passionately about this, he didn't want to hush. "Stolas is a good man with a good fucking heart. And I broke it. And he deserved better. He. Deserved. Better. And it's not his fault he's fucking awkward at shit sometimes. He's still the best. The--fuck. The one. And I love him. And fuck anyone who thinks they can drag him in front of me. I will... oh, thanks." He nodded to the bartender, then took a sip of his new drink. "I will fucking fight for him."

how do you allow yourself to write without becoming depressed by the whole process?

Hopefully my answer will be enough, but if you need to ask follow-up questions man, by all means, feel free.

When it comes to writing for RP, I don't get depressed by the whole process because I love it. I really, really love it. I may be ungodly slow, and definitely try my partners' patience when it comes to that, but I love it. I love reading people's replies, love writing my own. I love reading other threads that have nothing to do with me. I love reading other people's headcanons. Or when a crazy magic!Anon happens, like when Lucid ( @brokendreamscreation ) was turned human and just landed splat into the forests of the Pacific Northwest, I adore trying to keep up on that. I often can't, just because I am too busy during the day, but whenever I catch a glimpse? It's wonderful. Or, although they're someone who is pretty busy with university, when @aroyaltailor pops on and mentions something about their muse, it makes my day.

RP is about the writing for me, but also a lot about the people. I just really like seeing people happy, being part of their fun, even if a lot of the time I am just the audience cheering them on. There's nothing depressing about that to me. The hardest part, what does make me sad, is trying to choose well when it comes to mutuals. I want to follow everyone back, but know that I can't. If I can tell that we're not going to mesh because of differences in rules, or if someone just swamps the dash with endless content that's going to make it way too hard for me to see other people's posts (nothing wrong with that! it's just a difference in styles and priorities), I have to regretfully just not follow, or not follow back. I always feel like an asshole for that, not gonna lie, especially when they have already followed me. I'm not mutuals-only though, so in theory if someone wanted to write together and we weren't mutuals? I would absolutely be on board.

Writing doesn't depress me because coming here, even when it is hard, is an escape, a happy place. I was depressed the other day when I couldn't make sentences make sense--they all felt so slippery--but that was the fresh concussion messing with me, causing its own depression, not something resulting from the writing process. But even with that? I am so lucky, so fucking lucky, to be blessed with just the kindest damn mutuals, who have been so supportive and sweet even when I was feeling useless because of the concussion. There are some really special people to me, who even when they are posting with someone else entirely, just seeing them pop up on the dash gives me that little spark of joy that nothing can snuff out, like @botanikos and @visage-of-hell. There are people who know their muses backwards and forwards, who manage to take characters that a lot of the fandom sometimes seem to ignore, like @moxxietude who has just absolutely taken Moxxie and breathed so much life into him, and who could definitely convince me she was part of Viv's team if she chose to, her writing is that solid, that incredible. I just, like?? Fuck, man. And @poisonedspider is a fucking babe--Strode you're magnificent, don't fight me on this--and @infxnatum is one of those unsung heroes of the RPC, who will always go out of his way to send people messages, even when he doesn't get love in return. I feel like somehow, I landed in the best fandom of all, surrounded by the best people? And like I'm being a monster for not @'ing everyone, I am so, so sorry. I know the natural inclination is to feel left out but please, please, I love you fuckers, don't feel left out, I am just rambling so much and realize I need to end this. And just. Yes.

So, TL;DR?

It doesn't depress me because I am surrounded by the most wonderfully uplifting people, and I will do fucking anything for this fandom, I adore you guys.

And if you meant writing as in the writing I do for work--I am really lucky in that the majority of my content is queer, so I get to roll around in feelings and love for my own community. There are occasional non-queer things, like a short story here or there, or a random zoom lecture I was paid to give, or contract pieces--usually articles, always under dry af NDA contracts--that kind of suck sometimes, but being able to produce content for my community gets me through the hard times <3

(Also, I fight with depression constantly, so writing doesn't need to serve depression up to me. We're bros by now, and constantly knocking each other around).

How about you though, are you like--are you doing okay? Are there points you want to talk about? You can IM me, friend, always.

Oh thank fuck, Stolas replied! Blitz's talons actually scratched the screen as he got his phone back out--fuck, fuck, fuck he was way stronger like this, this was fucking weird. He started to type a response, but when he pierced the screen? Realized that wasn't going to end well.

So, he called him, pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And the instant he heard Stolas's voice on the other end, he blurted out: "I was messing with your book and I had a papercut and forgot about it and might have bled on a page and the power's out here so I'm like, surrounded in fucking candles and--listen." He clicked and clacked his beak, then shook himself hard, ruffling all of his feathers.

"Can you like, fix me? I will give you head every day for a week. Two weeks if you want. Like, first thing in the morning. Or, or--fuck. Anything. This is--I can touch the fucking ceiling. Without climbing the walls. And I can hear everything." Pace. Pace pace pace pace pace. Was that how Stolas's ears worked? Could he hear absolutely everything too? And was his vision this insanely sharp? This was fine. Everything was fine. It was fine.

@doublejango from here.

He blinks at his phone. Stolas scrolls through their texts, looking for any indicator that might suggest the most recent one was a joke, some sort of weirdly themed prank. Eventually, he gets down to the text box and replies.

My devilish little imp, I don't believe it is possible for you to have a cloaca. Or feathers, for that matter. What ever do you mean. . . by all of this? Shall we meet?

for @botanikos's sweet Stolas, who deserves to be allowed to sleep in but unfortunately got involved with a gremlin. continued from here, because of reasons

.

"We're just going down to your kitchen, and don't worry, you're gonna love it!" Blitz declared with far, far too much confidence. Deep down, he had the sneaking suspicion that he might have maybe fucked up, and that Stolas might finally kill him... but hey, the chances were good that Stolas would actually love his present, right? So, fuck it! Hashtag Worth it!

He carried him towards the kitchen--and past all of the staff who might normally be going in and out of there. Now, they were all just standing there, some with wide eyes, some looking frustrated, one or two afraid. Their morning routine had clearly been destroyed by whatever Blitz had done--and one of them was tying the majority of Stolas's forks to himself, apparently as some sort of armor.

"I saw it," Blitz declared, "and the poor thing just seemed so stuck. It was squished up in a dumpster on Earth, and I know you're into this shit, so..." Pushing the door open, he carried Stolas through--and up face to face with an extremely large carnivorous plant. Hell had its fair share of them, of course, as did Stolas's palace--but this new plant, while very similar to some of his, wasn't from Hell. A few of his kitchen plants had edged away nervously, scooting as far away as they could get, while the 'rescue' Blitz had brought him sat proudly in the middle of the room, stretching its roots and vines.

At their entrance, the plant quickly wilted, putting on its most feeble, harmless act, just as innocent and helpless as a lamb--as innocent as it could look with one of Stolas's other plants still sticking partially out of its mouth, wiggling feebly.

Blitz set his baby down and hopped over to stand next to the hungry giant, holding his hands out like this was a prize on a game show. "Look! Ain't it great? It's like, exactly what you grow, right?"

The plant snickered under its breath.

Has Blitzø considered giving his son a job at I.M.P? 

Yes. The one time they actually met, Blitz offered it. He could tell that [redacted] was interested, but reluctant to leave his community, so Blitz left the invitation open and promised to go check on him again soon. But that being said... I will probably only play plots with the son on Discord. I would actually love to do things with him, I fucking adore him, but don't think it's something I am comfortable putting on Tumblr for a few reasons <3 So, for the most part, Blitz having a biological child will never actually be a plot anyone needs to interact with.

That being said, I would fucking love to do a thing where [redacted] gets to meet Stolas, or M&M. Even if it's just a short little one-off thing, Blitz would be so like.. torn between pride and awkwardness at getting to introduce them--while also probably having a fucking silent breakdown because [redacted]'s presence brings up so many fucking things Blitz does not want to remember.