I 💙 spectrum (Hazbin Hotel x Autistic reader)

Sleepover

(Originally I was gonna include Val beating Y/N. But I didn't have the heart or stomach.)

(Takes place a week before the Pilot.)

Y/N stood outside The Vee's Tower, feeling the bruises and cuts from the earlier confrontation with Valentino. His body ached, but his mind was even more turbulent. Valentino had left him more shaken than the physical pain. He nervously rocked on his heels, trying to steady his breathing. The city lights flickered around him.

Angel Dust had seen enough of Y/N's suffering. After witnessing the meltdown and the subsequent beating, he had immediately called Cherri Bomb, knowing she had a way of making him feel better.

Y/N: It's okay. Cherri's coming. She's gonna be here soon. Just have to wait a bit longer.

He felt a slight comfort in repeating those words, though the pain in his chest was hard to ignore.

Moments later, the sound of a motorbike revving echoed through the street. Cherri Bomb's unmistakable ride came into view, the bright headlights slicing through the darkness. She pulled up next to Y/N, her face a mixture of concern and determination.

Cherri Bomb: Hey, there you are! You look like hell, kid. Come on, let's get you out of here.

She hopped off the bike and walked over to Y/N, giving him a quick once-over. The sight of his injuries made her fists clench, but she softened her expression as she reached out to him.

Cherri Bomb: Angel told me everything. Don't worry about that scumbag Valentino. Let's get you to my place. We'll hang out, watch some movies, and just chill. Sound good?

Y/N nodded, his eyes a bit glassy from the pain and exhaustion. Cherri helped him onto the bike, making sure he was securely seated before she revved the engine again.

As they sped through the city streets, Y/N held onto Cherri, feeling the wind rush past him.

When they arrived at Cherri's apartment, she helped him inside.

Cherri Bomb's apartment was a chaotic explosion of color and clutter, reflecting her wild personality. The walls were plastered with graffiti art, posters of punk bands, and random stickers. The furniture was mismatched, a mix of salvaged pieces and items clearly bought for comfort rather than style. A sagging couch with a patchwork of fabric scraps and duct tape dominated the living room, flanked by an old coffee table covered in an assortment of empty soda cans, snack wrappers, and parts of explosive devices.

Scattered around the room were various weapons, mostly homemade bombs in different stages of assembly. Shelves held a mix of books, some about chemistry and mechanics, others graphic novels and comic books. Clothes were strewn about, draped over chairs, and piled in corners. The air smelled faintly of gunpowder, mixed with the sweet scent of candy from the bowl on the kitchen counter.

The kitchen itself was equally disorganized, with dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink and takeout containers spilling out of the trash. A small table in the corner was covered in more bomb-making supplies and a few personal items, like a framed photo of Cherri with Angel Dust, both making ridiculous faces at the camera.

Y/N stepped inside and immediately felt overwhelmed by the sensory overload. His eyes darted from one chaotic corner to another, his breathing becoming more shallow. The aftermath of his meltdown had left him fragile, and the disarray of the apartment was too much to process.

Y/N: Too much... too much...

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to create a sense of security amid the chaos. His mind was racing, the mess triggering his anxiety and making it hard to focus. He took a step back, almost retreating back to the door.