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can you do „where the hurt doesn’t reach but with Charlie Morningstar, Emily and Verosika mayday? (The reader dies due to abuse of the stepfather and in Charlie and Verosika case he was mistakenly sent to hell)
A/N: Yes, @ultimategraffitiguy! There are quite a few requests for this, most of them are Danganronpa LOL I love switching things up though, so I love that now there are more fandoms I can write for :}
Charlie:
Hell wasn’t what he expected.
There was no lake of fire, no pitchforks, no screaming banshees. Just... noise. Colors too bright. People too loud. The overwhelming sensation of eyes on him- men with their sharp grins and cruel laughter, and women with their razor stares. It was too much. Too fast.
(Y/N) didn’t know why he’d been sent here. He knew he wasn’t a saint, but what happened to him wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair. He had tried to survive. But the world above had ignored the bruises, the fear, the shaking hands. And one day, he didn’t wake up again.
His stepfather had made sure of that.
And now here he was, in Hell.
He kept to the shadows of the city, hiding behind dumpsters, curling into corners when the crowds got too loud. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving. Every man who looked at him with interest sent him recoiling like a wounded animal. He hadn’t eaten in days.
Until someone found him.
She looked like she didn’t belong here. Blonde hair like sunlight, warm eyes, a kind smile that didn’t waver even when she saw how dirty and thin he was. She crouched, slowly, as if approaching a stray.
“Hi,” she said softly. “My name’s Charlie. What’s yours?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was tight. His body, tense. He expected a trap. A laugh. A demand.
But none came.
Charlie stayed kneeling, a respectable distance away, her hands resting on her knees. She spoke in low tones, like a lullaby, talking about a hotel- some place for redemption, a safe place, a home. Her voice didn’t press. It invited.
After a long silence, (Y/N) rasped out his name.
Charlie’s smile brightened, but not in a way that hurt his eyes. It was... soft. Real.
“I’m so glad you’re here, (Y/N),” she said.
He didn’t believe her. Not yet. But he let her help him to his feet.
It took weeks.
Charlie gave him a room at the Hazbin Hotel- quiet, cozy, safe. She let him lock the door if he wanted. There was food on the table every morning. Books. Music. A plant on the windowsill.
She was careful with him. Never touched without asking. Never raised her voice. And when Alastor’s booming laugh or Husk’s growls sent him into panic, Charlie would gently guide him away, her hand hovering nearby, a silent offer. Never a command.
One evening, (Y/N) sat in the lobby, knees tucked to his chest, staring at the flickering fireplace. Charlie sat on the couch across from him, reading something light.
“Why am I here?” he asked, finally. His voice was quiet. Broken.
Charlie looked up, blinking.
“In Hell?” she asked gently.
He nodded.
“I- I tried to be good,” he said. His voice cracked. “I didn’t hurt anyone. I was scared. I was just... scared all the time.”
Charlie set the book down and leaned forward, hands clasped.
“I believe you,” she said. “The system’s broken. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. And you don’t belong here.”
Tears welled in his eyes. His hands trembled.
“I’m not safe,” he whispered. “Not even now. I still feel him.”
Charlie’s expression twisted- not with pity, but with something deeper. Fierce compassion.
“You are safe,” she said, firmly this time. “I swear it. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again. Not ever.”
His breath caught. He stared at her- searching, trembling.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asked.
Charlie smiled again, that same gentle smile from the first day.
“Because I see someone who deserves to be cared about,” she said. “And I think maybe... you haven’t heard that enough.”
The tears finally spilled over.
Charlie didn’t move toward him. She let him cry. Let him feel. And when he looked at her through the blur, she was still there. Patient. Real.
Something started to shift after that night.
It was slow, like ice melting in a warm hand. But it was real.
(Y/N) started leaving his room more often- early in the mornings when the hotel was quietest, when the light from the stained glass made the hallways glow like sunrise. Sometimes, he’d find Charlie in the kitchen humming off-key while burning toast, or laughing with Vaggie over something small. And he liked that. The softness of it. The warmth.
Charlie always greeted him with a smile. Never forced conversation. But she noticed him. She always noticed.
“You’re up early,” she’d say, with that gentle lilt in her voice, like music that didn’t ask anything from him.
And he’d just shrug, or nod. But he didn’t hide anymore.
He found himself drawn to her.
Not just because she was safe- but because she made things feel safe.
Books she left on the counter had little sticky notes in them, pointing out jokes or poems she thought he’d like. Sometimes, she’d pass him in the hallway with a quiet “I made cookies,” and then disappear before he could respond, as if she knew praise or thanks might overwhelm him.
She never made him feel small for being afraid. Or for being quiet. Or for not knowing how to accept care.
(Y/N) had never had that.
He didn’t know what to call what was happening inside him. But when she laughed, it stirred something. When she sat next to him on the couch- still at a safe distance, still always waiting for his lead- his pulse fluttered. He didn’t shrink away anymore. Sometimes… he even leaned closer.
One evening, the hotel was quiet. Most of the others were out.
(Y/N) sat by the window in the common room, watching distant flames flicker across the skyline. The hellscape beyond the glass didn’t frighten him so much now. Not when the room behind him felt like peace.
Charlie approached softly.
“Mind if I sit?”
He shook his head.
She settled beside him on the couch. A bit closer than usual. Not touching- but close enough for warmth to reach him. She glanced out the window too.
“It’s kind of pretty, in its own way,” she murmured.
He looked at her instead. She caught him, and smiled.
And for the first time, he didn’t look away.
“You really don’t belong here,” he whispered.
Charlie tilted her head, curious. “What makes you say that?”
He swallowed. His throat was tight, but not in fear. Not anymore.
“You’re... good.”
A quiet smile played on her lips. “So are you, (Y/N). You just never had the chance to know it.”
He hesitated. Then-
“I like being around you,” he said. Barely above a breath. “More than anyone.”
Charlie blinked, stunned- but only for a moment. Her smile softened into something deeper.
“I’m really glad,” she said, her voice thick with something tender. “I like being around you too. A lot.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was soft. Steady.
And then, cautiously- slowly- he reached out.
His fingers brushed hers on the cushion between them.
Charlie didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She just turned her palm up and gently laced their fingers together.
(Y/N) let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
It didn’t feel like fire.
It felt like home.
Emily:
Hell wasn't fire and brimstone the way (Y/N) had always pictured it. It wasn’t pitchforks and devils with snarling faces. It was worse- confusion. Loneliness. Screams in the distance that never quite stopped. The acidic sting of regret settled into the corners of his soul like mold.
He hadn’t expected to wake up at all. The last thing he remembered was cold tile, the way his lungs struggled to hold air, and the sound of his stepfather’s voice rising like thunder. Then… nothing.
Then… this.
He didn’t belong here. Even the damned knew it.
He barely spoke, flinching away from the touch of strangers, shrinking at the bark of a man’s laugh or the sudden rise of a voice. He wandered the quieter corners of Hell, ignored for the most part- just another broken soul in a place full of them.
Until she appeared.
Emily didn’t look like anyone else here. For one, she glowed. Not metaphorically- actually. Like a star set to wander, her feathers radiant and soft gold, her six wings moving with an elegance that didn’t belong in this place. When she descended into that quiet alleyway where he sat huddled, (Y/N) had thought for a moment he was hallucinating.
He recoiled at first when she reached a hand out. She didn't blame him. She knew fear when she saw it- not the Hell-bred fear of punishment, but the raw human kind. The kind etched deep from betrayal, from pain at the hands of those who should have offered safety.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she had said gently. Her voice was warmth over frost. “You weren’t supposed to end up here.”
He didn’t speak. He hadn’t in days. He just looked up at her, blinking with wide, empty eyes.
So she sat with him. Didn’t press. Didn’t reach again.
She came back the next day. And the next. She brought little things: feathers woven into cords, soft celestial cloth for his shaking hands, the hum of ancient lullabies. She shielded him when passing demons snarled too loud, standing taller than most would expect with those bright, protective wings curling around him.
“You were a child,” she whispered once, brushing hair back from his eyes when he allowed her close. “It wasn’t your fault.”
(Y/N)’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe her.
He wanted to believe someone.
Sometimes he woke screaming. Not from what he saw here- but what he remembered from before. The heavy footsteps. The things said in the dark. The ache in his ribs that never quite faded, even in death.
Emily never flinched. She didn’t try to force silence or push for peace. She simply held him, wings folding like a cathedral around them both.
It was the first time he’d been touched gently by someone older, someone stronger.
He cried the first time she held his hand. Just held it. No force. No pressure. Just presence.
“You were lost,” she murmured one evening, as they sat in a quiet crumbling church where no one else dared go. Her wings shimmered in the shadows. “But I found you.”
“You’re not scared of me?” he rasped. His voice was cracked and unsure, like something unused for too long.
Emily’s expression softened. “You’re not something to be feared. You’re something to be protected.”
Tears welled again, unbidden, burning hotter than any flame Hell had offered him. “I was… just a kid.”
“I know.”
His fingers curled around hers.
She never called him weak. Never asked him to stop trembling. She understood that survival sometimes looked like silence. That fear wasn’t a flaw- it was a wound.
And slowly, with every brush of her feathers, every patient moment she gave him to breathe without expectation, (Y/N) started to believe something new.
Days turned into something like weeks, though time in Hell was slippery, hard to track. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her.
Emily never pushed, but she was always there. In the quiet places. The corners where screaming didn’t reach. The crumbling building where the air felt lighter with her near.
And (Y/N)- he found himself wanting to be near her.
At first it had scared him, how easy it became to lean toward her presence, to seek her glow like a sunflower might seek the sun. But Emily didn’t punish his want. She didn’t mock it, or twist it, or make it feel like a trap. She simply welcomed it.
Some days, they sat in silence, legs tucked beside each other on the old church pew. On others, she spoke in soft stories- of stars, of old memories, of places far above that he had never seen but could picture vividly when she described them.
He began speaking back, little by little. His voice stayed low, cautious. But he talked. About Earth. About the cold tile floors. About his mom, and the music she used to play when she thought no one was listening. About the boy he used to be before everything fractured.
Emily listened as though his words were sacred.
And (Y/N) realized one day- with quiet awe- that he liked the way she made him feel.
Safe.
Worth listening to.
Not a burden. Not broken beyond repair.
Just… him.
One evening, as they sat beneath what passed for a moon in Hell’s sky, he turned to her, eyes still ringed with shadow but no longer so hollow. He watched how her feathers caught the pale light like strands of gold.
“I like being around you,” he said softly. “It’s... easier to breathe when you’re here.”
Emily blinked, surprised by the weight of sincerity in his tone- but then her lips curved into the gentlest smile.
“I’m glad,” she whispered. “Because I like being around you too.”
He didn’t recoil when she reached for his hand this time. In fact, his fingers found hers first.
There was still so much left to untangle inside him- trauma didn’t vanish with kindness. But in Emily’s presence, the sharpest edges of his fear dulled. The ghosts of the past still whispered, but they were quieter now, easier to face.
One night, as he curled against her side, wings wrapped around him like a sun-warmed cocoon, he let himself believe something impossible:
That maybe he deserved this.
Verosika:
The living world had never been kind to (Y/N). It was a patchwork of slammed doors, quiet sobs, and footsteps he learned to fear before he could even drive. His mother tried her best, but his stepfather’s voice was louder- louder than love, louder than reason. Bruises hid beneath long sleeves. Scars weren’t always skin-deep.
By the time he stumbled into Verosika Mayday’s hellish orbit on Earth, (Y/N) was more ghost than boy- skittish, silent, always flinching when any man so much as looked his way. But Verosika? She wasn’t a man. She was fire and glitter and whiskey-wrapped confidence. She was chaos in high heels and didn't give a damn what anyone thought- except when it came to him.
She noticed right away how he tensed around others, how he wouldn't meet her bandmate’s eyes, how even her touch, no matter how gentle, made him freeze for a breath too long. Verosika wasn’t known for tenderness, but she softened around him like ice under sun.
"You don’t owe me anything, sugar," she’d whispered one night, brushing his hair from his eyes as he trembled against her side. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
She let him set the pace. Sometimes that meant silence. Sometimes that meant sitting together, no music, no glamor, just her and him and the quiet.
It wasn't perfect. Verosika had demons of her own- ego, anger, the sting of rejection- but she never raised her voice at him. Not once. Never made him feel small.
But the past has sharp teeth. And some monsters wear human faces… Like her.
The call came on a gray Tuesday, long after she'd started calling him “darling” like it meant something. Long after he started smiling again, small and real and barely there but there. Verosika had just come off stage, sweat still clinging to her skin, makeup smudged from a killer performance.
Then the call.
He was gone.
The bastard had done it. No one had stopped him in time.
(Y/N) died scared. Alone. Verosika knew it the second the voice on the other end confirmed what her gut had already screamed. The world tilted. The bottle in her hand shattered. Her scream shook the walls.
The descent back into Hell was nothing new for Verosika. She'd come and gone a hundred times before, always with fanfare, lights, and an entourage of sin. But this time was different. There were no backup dancers. No adoring fans. Just her, hollow and shaking, mascara still streaked from tears that hadn’t stopped since the call.
She was back in her true form now, wings twitching, tail low, heels echoing through the streets of the Lust Ring like a funeral drumbeat. Everything felt louder without him. Uglier. Useless.
He’s not here, they told her.
“No record of a soul by that name,” the clerks at the soul registry droned, lazily flipping through pages like they weren’t talking about him. “Probably made it up top.”
She should have been relieved- he deserved Heaven, more than anyone she’d ever known. But the thought of him wandering eternity alone, without knowing the truth about her, that gutted her.
Would he hate her?
He’d never asked where she went after midnight gigs, never pressed when her eyes glowed too bright or when she healed a bruise on his arm with a touch she played off as luck. But he wasn’t stupid. Just scared. She never wanted to be another shadow over his shoulder.
Verosika wandered the outlands, hoping, praying- something she never thought she’d do again- that he had found peace.
Until she heard it.
A soft, familiar cry.
Not the scream of the damned. Not wailing torment. Something more fragile.
Him.
She knew it the instant she heard it. That broken sound he made in his sleep when the nightmares came crawling. The sob in the back of his throat like he was trying to hide it from the world.
She ran.
Faster than she ever had in stilettos, wings half-spread, heart pounding like it might give out. Through alleyways of bone and brimstone, down corridors no demon cared to tread- until she found him.
Curled in a corner of a crumbling stone chamber. Small. Shaking. Pale.
He was in his human form. That’s how lost he was. That’s how scared.
“(Y/N)...?” her voice cracked, softer than it had ever been. He didn’t look up at first.
She dropped to her knees beside him, ignoring the soot and blood and heat. Gently- so gently- she reached out, brushing trembling fingers against his arm.
He flinched hard.
Her hand retreated.
But his eyes- those familiar, wounded eyes- finally lifted to meet hers. Wide. Shiny with tears. Recognition bloomed slow in his face, like dawn breaking through thick fog.
“...V-Verosika...?”
She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Yeah, baby. It’s me. I’m here.”
He stared at her, still trembling. “Y-You... You’re...?”
She nodded. Couldn’t lie to him. Not now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted to scare you. I just... I didn’t want to be another thing you had to be afraid of.”
His lip trembled. “Are we... in hell?”
The words broke her.
“Yeah, sugar. But you’re not supposed to be. They said you went up. I think... I think you got lost.”
He looked around, like seeing Hell for the first time, like he hadn’t quite processed it yet. “I don’t... I didn’t wanna leave you... I was s-scared... and then he-”
He cut himself off, curling tighter, and Verosika swore her heart cracked again.
“No, no, no- don’t do that. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, crawling closer but keeping her distance. “You hear me? He hurt you. He was the monster. Not you.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I was so scared... I thought I was alone...”
She bit back her own tears and finally reached out again. This time, when she brushed his hand, he didn’t flinch away. He gripped her fingers like a lifeline.
“You’re not alone,” she breathed, crawling forward until she could pull him gently into her arms, his head tucking beneath her chin. “Not anymore.”
He clung to her like he’d fall apart otherwise. She stroked his hair the same way she used to, back when he was still alive, when he still smelled like cheap shampoo and fear.
“I missed you,” he whispered against her throat.
“I missed you too,” she choked. “So damn much.”
They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the brimstone to cool beneath them. Long enough for the screams of Hell to fade into background noise.
And when he finally slept in her arms, breathing slow and deep and safe, Verosika knew one thing:
If Heaven didn’t want him-
She’d build one for him down here.