Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Lively swing bursts from the radio. Adèle hums and sways along as she meticulously works, somehow not messing up the makeup she is carefully applying.

Vox watches from her perch atop the counter. Unlike Adèle, she has no cheeks to rouge, eyes to line, or face to powder; she’s already ‘done’ her makeup, in the sense that she’s changed her display to include colorful wings of eyeliner around her eyes and lipstick. Waiting for her friend, she’s quickly getting bored.

“ Adèle,” Vox drawls, “hurry up! We’re going to be late!”

The Overlord Gala, the single-handedly most important social gathering of the decade, starts in less than three hours. Everyone who’s anyone in Hell, not just Overlords, will be attending, even some of the Ars Goetia. Carmilla Carmine, the host, is not one for waiting, and if they show up late and have to bang down the doors, it won’t reflect well on their reputations.

Adèle wags a finger at Vox, not even glancing away from the mirror her face is dangerously close to. “Beauty takes time.”

Vox huffs a sigh. Adèle ought to be utterly stunning—not that she already isn’t—after this, with how long she’s spending on makeup. How long does it take to do a simple look? For Adèle, at least fifty minutes, apparently.

“We’re not even in our dresses yet,” Vox complains, only to be shushed once again. Adèle puts away her mascara and replaces it with a tube of dark red lipstick, carefully applying it to her lips. With one final assessment in the mirror, Adèle turns to Vox to show off her look.

“What do you think?”

Color has been returned to Adèle’s pallid face by dustings of scarlet rouge on her defined cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Dark brows sit proudly above her eyes, the crimson color of which has been emboldened by the black eyeliner and mascara around them and the mix of smoky and wine red eyeshadow on her eyelids. Her lips have been made more heart-shaped by the striking color of the lipstick. She looks dangerous and beautiful as an old Hollywood actress. Vox blinks, mouth opening helplessly.

Adèle blinks back. Then she abruptly spins back to the mirror, reaching for her sprawl of makeup products. “You’re right,” she declares, “it needs more rouge.”

“No!” Vox exclaims, throwing her hands out in front of her. For the love of Lucifer, they can’t waste any more time. “No, it’s great! You look great!”

Her expression must be one of pure fear, because Adèle laughs and drops her blush. “I’m joking,” she drawls, smirking. Then she rests her chin on her hand playfully and bats her eyelashes. “I know I look fabulous.”

Vox sighs with relief, then snorts at Adèle’s exaggerated arrogance, patting her on the shoulder. “Sure, honey.”

It may be a joke, but Vox isn’t truly lying. As old and outdated as Adèle’s style and method is, she does look gorgeous. Stunning. Everything seems to perfectly compliment her sharp features, from the lips to the eyes. That’s to be expected, when you’ve had your routine for over fifty years, but Vox still can’t look away from her.

They head to the main bedroom. Each of their dresses is disguised by its own protective bag, hanging in Vox’s closet. She hasn’t seen Adèle’s yet, as she wanted to keep it a secret, and Vox can’t deny that she’s excited for it. Adèle rarely wears evening wear—or anything besides her signature suit, for that matter. In fact, she’s worn that suit to the Overlord Gala before, but ever since they’ve been friends Vox has made sure that Adèle dresses appropriately. For Adèle’s and her own sake.

Vox takes her dress, lays it out on the bed, and carefully unzips it. Velvette made it especially for her, and Vox would like to keep her head, so nothing can happen to it until after the gala.

But she can’t resist running her hands reverently along the buttery, midnight-blue silk. Smooth under her hands, it shines softly under the light. She adores it, and can’t wait to show it off.

Adèle takes to the bathroom to change, and Vox stays in her bedroom. She undresses and steps into the dress, wiggling a little to get it over her body. It’s bodycon, thus requiring no zipper, and the strapless neckline sits snugly at her chest. It fits like a glove. To complete the look, she clasps two silver necklaces around her neck, one long with a stake-shaped pendant dangling from it, the other shorter and simpler. The action is old and familiar; she doesn't have to think about it.

Heart swelling, she looks herself over in the mirror. The dress shows off the figure she’s worked so hard to maintain over the years; the mermaid skirt flares out in brilliant ruffles around her calves, silvery chiffon dancing with the navy blue like stars in the night sky. The necklaces are just the right touch. It's gorgeous. 

She’s gorgeous.

A grin breaks out across her face. For once, her TV head fades from the picture, and all that’s left is her. Her hands glide down her hips, her eyes fixed on her reflection. This is her. This is what she’s meant to be. An actress, an Overlord, a star, powerful and show-stopping.

The bathroom door opening behind her goes almost entirely unnoticed. That is, until Adèle walks over, and she gasps.

“Oh, Vox.”

Vox whirls around, suddenly embarrassed. How much of a loser is she, so struck by her own reflection? Admiring herself like a mechanical Narcissus? Her fans spin faster, cooling the heated flush rising on her face, as she faces Adèle with newfound nervousness.

“How do I look?”

Adèle doesn’t seem to notice the blush, or if she does, she doesn’t comment. She just smiles, a genuine smile, eyes wide as she looks Vox over. It’s not a gaze of judgment or interest, just simple observation. Eventually, she looks back up at Vox, and her hand tentatively reaches towards Vox’s neck.

Vox tenses, but does not pull away. Frozen yet blazing in her cheeks, she hardly dares to breathe as Adèle’s cool hands fix one of her necklaces, spinning the clasp to where it belongs in the back before pulling away.

“You’re beautiful,” Adèle says, voice utterly sincere, her smile a gentle curve. If Vox could flush any more, she would, but she’s sure she’s already red as rouge in the face. Ghosts of Adèle’s hands whisper over the back of her neck, phantom touches still light and chaste—some part of her wishes they lingered for even a moment longer, or wandered even the slightest.

Wait, what?

Shaking those strange thoughts away, she clears her throat, smiling back. It takes effort not to preen at the praise. “Thanks.” She looks at Adèle’s own dress, and nearly frowns in surprise.

“You’re wearing that?” The words slip from her mouth without thinking. Shit. At least Adèle is not easily offended.

Adèle’s smile dims somewhat in confusion as she glances down at her clothes then back up at Vox. “Yes. What’s the problem?”

Vox hesitates. Nothing is wrong with Adèle’s outfit, really. It’s a perfectly fine dress, thick crimson velvet draping to Adèle’s ankles, sleeveless with a V-shaped neckline that extends into a rather conservative take on a cut-out back. It’s quality material, it’s a nice color, it’s clearly rather expensive, it’s just… so old. Utterly outdated. 

While the waist isn’t nearly as dropped as some of Adèle’s dresses, it’s still a straight cut garment, and with the lack of depth of the cut-out or neckline it truly looks like a pillar. And with the matching satin pumps, the finger-waves, the long gloves, the pearls, the fur coat… it’s all so old-fashioned. 

This ball is all about appearances. Who can impress the most Goetia, who can stun the crowd, who acts the most outlandish and who is the most composed. If Adèle shows up looking like a relic, amidst all the high fashion, it will simply be an embarrassment. 

Especially with Vox knowing that Adèle is truly stunning—even in these clothes, her beauty is undeniable. Collarbones sharp enough to cut, bony shoulders, narrow hips and bust and waist and everything. With the body of a model, tall and strikingly thin (the look other women would kill for), and a face that could knock anyone dead, Adèle could pull off anything. In something fashionable? She’d be unstoppable.

“It’s just…” Vox struggles for words as Adèle’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous, but the dress is just…”

Adèle blinks.

“It’s just a little old-fashioned,” Vox forces out eventually, wincing at the immediate flash of irritation on Adèle’s face. Her eyes narrow and her smile sharpens, rough static hissing and cracking in the air. Not good.

“We could fix it?” Vox offers, forcing a strained smile on her face. “We still have a little while, I could get Velvette to do an emergency alteration. You know, take the waist in a little, make the back a little deeper, maybe ditch the gloves? And the fur?”

No response. Vox gestures towards her closet. “Or you could try one of my dresses. We’re about the same height.” She flings open the wardrobe and rifles through the dresses, eventually pulling out an ink-black cocktail dress. She holds it out to Adèle, smiling in a way she hopes is convincing.

But Adèle takes one look at the scandalously low neckline and high slit up the leg and glares, angry static popping in the air. Her jaw visibly tightens, one eye twitching, as she evidently holds back a knee-jerk reaction of choice words in exchange for a rapid-fire and razor-sharp tirade.

“Absolutely not!” she snaps. “First of all, I would look like a starving orphan in your clothes, regardless of height. Secondly, you will not be altering my dress, thank you very much! You will not be taking in the waist, or cutting out the back, or whatever else your awful business partner would do to it. It’s fine how it is, I like it how it is, and it will stay how it is. I will wear whatever I like, and I don’t want nor need your help.”

Vox stares, gaping a little. Adèle sucks in a sharp breath, her jaw ticking once, before spinning on her heel and stomping away. 

The fur, slipping from her shoulders, reveals her back through the cut-out. It doesn’t even dip to the base of her shoulder blades; it stops a few inches above, where the hint of a few pinkish scars just barely peeks out. One a jagged slash, the other what looks like bite marks.

Shit.

“Adèle, wait!” Vox scrambles after her, reaching to grab her wrist. Adèle jerks her hand away as soon as Vox’s fingers brush her gloves, but whips around to glare at Vox, her hands clenched into fists.

“What?” she snaps, anger vibrating through the radio waves.

“I’m sorry,” Vox says, looking down at her feet. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have pushed you, and for what it’s worth… your dress really is pretty. I like the velvet. You look great.”

For a moment, Adèle does nothing. But gradually, the anger drains from her face and some of the tension leaks from her body. With a sigh, she nods, and relief crashes over Vox.

“Fine,” Adèle says. “You’re forgiven.” 

Vox smiles, and while Adèle only offers a tense one in return, she doesn’t seem too angry anymore. She even helps Vox pick out her shoes while she smooths flyaways from her curls. 

God, she’s beautiful.

Despite the scars on her torso. Despite the stark boniness. Despite the deer features, like the short, velvety fur on her limbs that Vox knows she loathes. Is that why she won’t wear anything more revealing? Vox will have to ask. Later, of course, after the party.

Before they leave, Vox casts one last glance into the mirror. She’s still looking perfect. Confidence swells up inside her—she’s ready for anything, looking like this. By the way Adèle has bounced back, preening with the black fur draped over her shoulders, she is too. Adèle offers her an arm, and she takes it.

Beautiful people, here they come.

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