Hell had seen many chaotic things. Rain of knives in Wrath. Flesh hurricanes in Gluttony. Mammon's taxes. But nothing—not even the seven-hour strip-legal debate between Beelzebub and Leviathan—could prepare Hell for the velvet-pink, embroidery-eyed, sparkly-butted plushie apocalypse.

Because you, a humble (unlicensed) plushie designer, made him.

The King of Lust. The Embodiment of Ecstasy. The Tallest, Sexiest Bird-Demon Nightmare on Stilts.

Asmodeus.

And not just a plushie. A talking plushie. One that said things like “Worship me, darling~” when squeezed and “Consent is sexy, sugar,” if you hugged it right. Its glow-in-the-dark nipple hearts? FDA-unapproved. Its detachable hat? A choking hazard in three circles. The little stitched butt tattoo that read “Big Daddy Approved”? You never got approval.

It spread like infernal wildfire. Imp children used them as emotional support. Succubi threw them at weddings. Someone tried to marry theirs in Lust Ring Court.

Ozzie? Ozzie found out when he saw a tiny version of himself being yeeted across a Lust Ring parking lot by a group of giggling cherubs-in-disguise.

Two hours later, your mailbox exploded.

One envelope survived the blast. Blood red with a gold wax seal and a feather you suspect was plucked off a flaming chicken. Inside:

“CEASE & DESIST, SWEETHEART 💋” Legal threat level: flirtatious nuclear.

Attached: a sticky note, bubblegum-pink and smudged with gloss, that read:

“Suing your cute little ass 😘. Meet me at 4PM, Ozzie’s. Don’t be late. Or do. I like punishment.” – The Royal Big Man 🖤🔥💋

---

OZZIE’S – 4:01PM

A portal of smoky pink roses exploded into existence like a glitter bomb at a burlesque show. Velvet curtains parted. Someone screamed “HE’S TOO POWERFUL” as the sheer pheromone radius forced three waiters to faint. And then he entered.

Towering. Glowing. Feathers flaring like disco inferno. His eyes scanned the plushie-army stacked beside your table.

Ozzie picked one up delicately—his tiny plushie face smirking back. He gave it a squeeze.

“Worship me, darling~” it chirped in his voice.

He blinked. Then grinned.

“Well,” Asmodeus purred, voice smooth as sin and twice as dangerous, “either I burn you alive... or I put one of these in every single bedroom across the Rings and give you a corner suite in my tower.”

He flipped over a plushie's tag.

“…Did you give me a removable hat and a tiny satin jockstrap?”

He paused. Held it up. Eyed it like a fine wine.

“…I’m suing you for crimes against dignity... and promoting you to lead designer of ‘Snuggle Me Ozzie: Valentine’s Edition’.”

He flicked the plushie. It winked.

“And for the record…” His grin widened. “These butt dimples are alarmingly accurate.”