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Vox/Vincent 🦈📺

Vincent marries you at the earliest opportunity- almost afraid that one conversation won’t really make it stick that he loves you, that he wants you. 

But it does stick. It really, really does and Vincent couldn’t be happier- well. He could be. With the honeymoon behind you both- well- he’s due another promotion, right? Right. Absolutely. Vincent Whittman just can’t stop winning! He can see the headlines now, from News Anchor to Late Night host, you at his side cheering him on. Absolute perfection. 

You’re both practically attached at the hip now- he doesn’t have to chase you down anymore! That’s the two of you, Mister and Missus Whittman: Where one goes the other isn’t far behind. 

For the most part. Aside from some of his… less than savory extra curricular activities. He’s positive you’d still love him (or so he tells himself) if you knew, but he really- really- didn’t want to give you the chance to think about it too hard. Truly, it’s the one and only time he’s ever been particularly pleased by the fact you’re oblivious as all Hell.   

One of, if not the only, reason Vincent wants you to keep working at the studio is so that he can see you as often as humanly possible. Not just because he’s incredibly horny (in general and for you) but also because he just likes to see you- you know- around and about. To know nearly exactly where you are at all times and most importantly- that you’re nearby to him. 

(Of course it’s not lost on him how much of a bonus it is that as his- newly promoted!- assistant he can bend you over his shiny, shiny desk every now and again. You know. Sparingly.)  

You still make his coffee perfectly and there’s now the added bonus of you pressing a kiss to his temple whenever you bring it and his papers. A nice, comfortable routine. 

Nobody puts together until well after both of your deaths that the killings allegedly accredited to the Spotlight Vampire / The Star-Studded Reaper (and a plethora of other terrible pseudonyms thought up by the press) slowed down in correlation with Vincent’s initial matrimonial bliss. 

Well nobody puts it together except for… the man who kills you.

How You Died: 

You died (Unexpectedly and Tragically) & Vincent Responded (Poorly and Violently)

There’s some kind of poetic irony in the culprit of your murder (not that anyone will ever know except Vincent himself) being a newspaper reporter. A deranged, off his nut reporter, but a reporter nonetheless! The kind of guy who used to be able to make or break a career with ink on the page.   

A rising star of his own making hindered only by his increasingly obvious obsession with the Star-Studded Reaper, the elusive killer of Channel 6’s stardom. The obsession really blossomed when he got it into his head that his own brother- a news anchor for the now infamous television studio- was a victim of said killer. 

But there’s no way to tell for sure. Is there? It was ruled an accident, after all.

Somewhere along the way, for this particular reporter, it stopped being about making his biggest break to date, it stopped being about being a bringer of justice- it was just about the hurt festering inside of him. At the loss of his brother, at how his editor stopped taking him seriously… 

This reporter is full on “copious amounts of red string attached to random points on a board, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and pointing at the incomprehensible wall of chicken scratch” territory that we’re talking about here. 

And when he sets his sights on Vincent as the culprit? It’s newsworthy, alright, bad news- for this particular reporter- but news nonetheless…

He latches onto the one, the only Vincent Whittman, who appears- for all intents and purposes- to have the perfect life. Untouched by the killer. Vincent, who appears to have the perfect life. The fame, the money, the beautiful, loyal little wife that he so clearly adores nearly as much as the stage- and the killer hasn’t harmed a single hair- grey or brown- on his head! That’s strange, isn’t it? That the only man to be unaffected was just a lowly little weatherman and now he resembles the ultimate victim and yet-

And yet… There Vincent Whittman stands. The eye of the storm. There Vincent Whittman’s wife stands- perfectly safe, unharmed. Perfect and idyllically happy. Completely and entirely unaffected by the death around you...

You, poor little unobservant to a deadly fault, you, go right on up to this reporter! Visit him on one of those days Vin is stuck at the studio, worrying himself to death. 

You want to help- that’s all. All this bad publicity, even if it’s coming out of an increasingly unstable seeming individual, is stressing your husband out. Excessively. 

Vincents’s been pitching the idea with increased insistence that you help him dye his hair black (to hide the intense grey streak that he seems to this is any more noticeable than it’s ever been, surely). It’s gotten that bad. 

Not to mention you’re pretty sure he’s stopped sleeping entirely… which only makes everything else worse, you’re sure- that’s when you put your foot down and decided to get out there and figure out how to fix it. 

It’s not that you have the highest of hopes with reasoning with this reporter- who nonetheless seemed more like a parasite than a man to you- but you sort of hoped it might- you know- give him pause to see the humanity behind the fame Vincent had acquired.  

The reporter absolutely loses it. Your pleas fall on completely deaf ears. Really, seriously- how are you this stupid? How could you not know your husband was a murderer? Or were you just trying to distract him? 

Surely you had to know at this point- and fool that you were- you were trying to protect him! You were there to silence him once and for all! 

It could be considered an accident, when he pushes you. When you fall backwards. Hit your head on the corner of his crowded desk. A sickening sort of thunk and then almost silence- your breathing shallow, slipping away further and further. 

What is not an accident, by any means, is disposing of the body. Dropping it in a lake, weighed down with stones- watching it sink to the bottom.

And shattering that perfect, idyllic fantasy of the man he hates feels good for all of five minutes. Imagining Vincent Whittman weeping on live television, having finally lost something precious- having lost family- feels good before the “Oh God, what have I done. Sweet Jesus, what have I done?” really settles in… and boy, does that guilt have teeth. 

Getting Revenge:

aka The Reporter’s Death & Your Epiphany in Hell 

Reporter Man who is so deep in his guilt that he practically BEGS Vincent for forgiveness knowing perfectly well that if Vincent is a killer that well- he’ll probably just kill him. Deserved! And also if he’s not a murderer then it’s like… what kind of reaction was the Reporter expecting in response to “Hey, so the guilt is eating my alive and I have to confess that I (accidentally, I swear) killed your wife and dumped her body?”

Like I think a normal, well-adjusted man might lose it and see red too... Vincent who is neither normal or well-adjusted... and has been absolutely beside himself trying to figure out where you've gone. The police, as per usual, are apparently useless... to the point where the actual murderer is beside himself.

The Reporter is too much of a coward to commit suicide, but sucicide by way of the guy who you’re convinced is a murderer that you’re in vaguely parasocial one-sided nemesis type relation is totally different… yeah that’s fine. He just wants it to be over, please- 

If Vincent were even a little bit not in a blind rage he probably would have prolonged the killing just to rub it in his face but as it stands! Everyone’s got what they wanted- Vincent revenge, the Reporter death- so everyone’s happ- wait, no, that’s not right. Everyone involved is extremely miserable, actually.

Okay this is where he actually starts crying and weeping, covered in blood, just losing it. This is a man who has not broken down about this the whole time. What was he, some kind of foolish whiny girl? No... but missed you though. Something terrible, something awful...

Before he knew for certain, he could pretend a little that everything was normal- could go back to normal- but now? Vengeance doesn't even taste sweet, just bitter and lonely.

He loses touch with reality more than he already was after this, for what it’s worth.

Hey, you know what- the poor Reporter guy’s probably at least latently thrilled when he wakes up in Hell with- you know, his consciousness because he was right! He was so right the whole time, Vincent Whittman WAS the Star-Studded Reaper and-

Nobody’s ever going to know, nobody down here gives a shit. Someone steals the clothes off his back while he’s getting acclimated to his new not-quite-alive situation just because they can… and he knows! He knows he deserves it for killing that poor lady (you) but… surely she’s gotta be down here too? Maybe he could make amends…

The Aftermath (For You!):

While trying to survive in Hell, you find yourself running into a familiar soul…

Needless to say, you wake up in Hell very confused. You’ve been transformed into a humanoid-fish Sinner of sorts. NOT ANY FISH THOUGH, you quickly realize your fish bits resemble a pilot fish… (if Vincent hadn’t told you all kinds of shark facts you probably wouldn’t know this… this makes you very nostalgic and sad and lonely, of course, but also a bit comforted, too.)

What strange twist of fate that not only figures out who you are- who you were when you were alive, that is- but he ALSO finds that you are- in fact- an idiot who had literally no idea your husband was a killer. 

How bizarre. Guess it’s his job to educate you!  

“Now listen here, doll, I know it’s a lot to take in-” He’s recreated the board of doom as you are going to be referring to it from now on, featuring all of Vincent’s alleged crimes,  and complete with maniacal scribblings and red string. “But I was right! I was right! Vincent Whittman, was and always has been the Star-Studded Reaper-! You know, I came up with that name- hey, did he like that one? Even a little bit?”

“How would… how am I supposed to know that?”

He pushes his spectacles down his rabbit’s nose, stares at you and you- uh… well, you sure do think about the question a little harder.  

“Uh. No. I don’t think he ever liked any of them.” 

The Reporter sighs, laboriously, spinning in his high backed chair lazily. “You wanna know how I knew I was right all along?”

“Uh…” you say, faintly, your white-tipped fishtail swishing behind you nervously. “How…?”

“He told me himself! As I lay dying-” The reporter bounds off of his chair, a rabbit-thing, with beastly moose-like protrusions from his head, and takes both your hands in his to press your webbed fingers over his quickly beating heart. “And he said- I was right, and nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever sing my praises…”

“Are you at all sorry for killing me?” You ask, anxiously- trying to draw your hands away but he holds them tighter. This is starting to feel remarkably similar to the night he killed you… and for obvious reasons, you’re not very fond of that comparison.

Are you really this unlucky? That’s what you’re thinking. You had just wanted a… a job? A job that wasn’t at all gruesome or terrible and being the secretary or archivist or- whatever, note taker- to a fast climbing newspaper in Hell seemed like a better bet than petitioning- oh- you don’t know- the Radio Demon or something…!  

“Of course!” The Reporter’s shoulders sag suddenly, energy deflating him- but he doesn’t let you go. “He’d’ve never known it was my doing unless I told him… and I knew- I knew if I were right, and even if I were wrong- I knew a man like that, who, let’s face it, doll- loved you- would put me out of my misery for that reason and that reason alone.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.” Nervously, you mutter. “Well I- actually, you just sound insane.” 

“That’s exactly what my boss kept sayin’ when I told him about all my theories about your loving husband…” 

And you- you laugh. By God, do you laugh… until it turns to tears. 

Uncomfortable with your hysterics- oops- he just sort of- lets you do your thing, work through… that… all on your own. He’s not going to kick you out, right? This whole ordeal is kind of his fault. Once you’ve calmed down, the Reporter speaks, more sincerely than you’d have expected at this point… 

“For what it’s worth… I feel- you know- responsible… You need a place to stay? What’s mine is yours.” The Reporter scrubs at his long floppy ears, “Leastways until your dearly un-departed lands himself down here- no, no more tears, don’t you worry about that. It’ll happen…” 

How do you feel about all this?:

You’ve always considered yourself a fairly normal person, perhaps a bit oblivious to things that were obvious… but otherwise, completely normal and well meaning…

That you ended up in Hell suddenly makes a lot of sense… Honestly, you’re beating yourself up a little that you didn’t realize Vincent was in love with you and then you didn’t realize he was a murderer! Great! Just fantastic! You’d think you’d have gotten better at picking up on these things but not even a little bit! 

But that’s the rub isn’t it? 

You’ve never considered him as anything other than your Vincent… your sweet friend who spent weeks desperately trying to woo you while you couldn’t fathom a star like him would be interested in you at all. He was still your loving husband who would have plucked the moon out of the sky if you asked for it.

There’s a part of you that has a difficult time reconciling it, but in hindsight… there’s a much larger part that isn’t. That zeal, that mania, that desperation for recognition… well, you suppose you could see how that might lead to gruesome ends…

Do you approve of murder? No… not necessarily… but… he was still your Vincent at the end of the day, wasn’t he? 

All the murders being described to you was juxtaposed with every kiss, every late night, every spontaneous dance, every shark fact whispered or shouted, every movie watched together.

You can’t just let go of your love for him, and you hold out hope that one day, when he’s here with you, that he won’t let go of it either.  

The aftermath (For Vincent/Vox):

The news of your death doesn’t slow Vincent’s rise to the top down. Not even a little bit. In fact, Vincent deteriorates faster than before. He was already on a certain, inevitable path- don’t get me wrong- ever since that first kill it was sort of set in stone. 

However, you provided little glimpses of what he’d lose if he avoided the curves in the road and just plowed through the brush with wild abandon. 

You kept him… steadier, more cautious. More reasonable. You kept him healthy, one might say. 

With you gone… well… why shouldn’t he move full speed ahead towards the top? He belonged there, he deserved it- you knew that and now there was no fear of losing you. Either because you were scared of him or because he was being reckless.

There’s also nobody else to reach him through the haze of euphoria and say that televisions strung up haphazardly around him- while a very lovely tableau, yes- it does look amazing- on the surface- might not be the best idea to stand under? Also why-...? Why is there so much water on the floor with all these live wires? Whose idea was THAT?  

And there’s nobody around to say, “Vincent, honey, you are just spectacular!” even if he likes to think he hears it anyways in the whisper of static, the shattering of glass, the snapping of cables. 

Everyone knows what they say about your last moments, when your brain shuts down, when your heart stops- and when Vincent’s last act is under way, everything is so brilliantly bright for just a moment, painful- completely, unequivocally bright white. Even with one eye punctured, electrocuted from the inside out- burned and bleeding- he thinks he sees your silhouette in the static, with him to the end as you ought to have been. 

The Reunion:

In death… things work out much the same as they did before...

It’s a day like any other. Really, incredibly unremarkable as far as days in Hell go & that’s saying something…

Vox enters his office, half-distracted scrolling through the latest analytics on his Vphone- drawn to the spikes in popularity and the dips that he’ll have to address- fuck… It just never ends, does it?

So distracted is he that he doesn't notice that someone is already awaiting him in his office. Not a secretary and not an assistant… Just like he doesn’t notice that same someone is hurrying to escape the room as quickly as possible.

“What are you doing here?!” He snarls, voice rising- claws scrapping against the floor as he rights himself- on his hands and knees to stare at the culprit. 

You make a pitiful squeaky-toy like noise, fins flat to your head as though you were a scared cat- before you start to ramble. “An- an interview but I- I’m not really- sure I should have-” 

Vox should push you away, should draw and quarter you for your clumsiness- sparks dance on the edge of his teal claws, but something- something familiar- stays his hand.

Maybe it’s the way your voice goes soft, despite his screaming- despite the danger you undoubtedly realize you’re in. 

You reach for his screen- tentative- fingertips cool and smooth, dotted with sparkling scales, webbed between each digit and sporting tiny claws that barely ghost across the bezel before you retract. His eyes narrow, breathing suddenly much shallower- cyan creeps into the pixels of his screen slowly as he watches you. 

“It’s not broken, is it?” You ask, genuinely concerned- guilt written across a face he does not recognize but feels so deeply, achingly familiar all the same.

“It’s … fine. Doll.” He grits out, unbalanced by more than just the fact you’ve knocked him over and your tone or what exactly you’ve said.

There is a real sick sense of deja-vu churning in his circuitry right now, but he can’t help but play it out. Even if you weren’t his wife, the love of his life- it felt good to re-enact that first moment. That first connection he never expected, yet lives in him even now- a remnant of being alive, of a softer version of himself, well hidden but precious.  

The blush upon his screen intensifies and he cannot manage to will it away. 

“I am so- so sorry, Mister Vox- I-” You nod- brush one of your fins out of your face as you lurch in the opposite direction to collect the papers you were holding.

Your hand is chill in his when he helps you to stand- his strength making it so very easy to drag you up. The black and silver scales to match the tail he’s just now noticing as it slides up and tucks itself behind you as best you can manage. 

“No harm done.” Vox glances at your resume that he’s helped you to scoop up on autopilot. “...But I can’t help but wonder what a… secretary, for lack of a better word… thinks she’s doing applying to be a shark feeder?”

A glorified petsitter, really- although the feeding part was extremely, extremely important… but Shok.wav and Vark and all his other babies did get excessively lonely. Work’s been Hell lately- figuratively speaking- and he hates- hates the thought of them being neglected so... why not, right? Could just throw ‘em in the tank when they were no longer needed, if worse came to worse…

“I- I’m- well. Looking for a career change, I suppose… obviously I am also a fish Sinner. Sir- but-! That’s not- that’s not the whole pitch- just the start- Okay, okay. Um- I’m not just any fish sinner.”  

You swing your thick tail around as though it’ll mean something- Vox squints and raises an uncomprehending eyebrow at you. “Okay… and?” 

The scales, an alternating stripe pattern of black and silver, glitter in the teal lights of his office. The very tips of your fin are a matte white and- Oh, wait! He knows! Are you a-? 

“I’m a pilot fish and it’s- well, obviously you know what I’m getting at already since you have sharks- er. Hell sharks, at least, but the concept is probably the same, right?”

Vox blinks. Vox opens and closes his digital mouth stupidly- quite like a fish you’ve just described.

“Pilot fish have a mutualistic and symbiotic relationship with sharks such as tiger and whitetip sharks…” he clarifies, because of course he knows that. Obviously. Like you said.

You beam up at him delighted anyways.

“My husband- I mean, my husband when I was alive- I guess that’s kind of nullified now? It is till death to us part and all- anyways. He had a fascination with the creatures.” 

You pause and then, taking in his blank, almost dumbfounded expression- you blurt out to clarify. “Sharks! Not- not pilot fish, he loved sharks. It was adorable but… I don’t know. I’ve always sympathized more with the little fish? The one that takes care of the big bad shark…”

His screen fuzzes up momentarily to the point where he can’t see you standing there at all. It’s not… you. His wife, his- everything. It can’t be you… you don’t belong down here, you shouldn’t be here and yet- 

A quiet exhale as you sigh, half reminiscing- half nervously wringing your hands together as you await his judgement… and possibly your execution. He’s been known for that- Christ, what must you think? No wonder you were fleeing. 

“Why… why do you want this job?”

You fix him with a curious stare. There’s something that’s shifted in this interaction, you can tell that much- but what you can’t figure out is why or what you did.

“Do you want the truth…?” You wince, “Ah- that’s… I mean- the ah… less business-like truth.”

Vox huffs with almost-laughter- because- damn, this should be good, whatever it is. People don’t ask that unless they’re going to say something really hilarious. 

“Trust me, I do.”

Granted, you don’t seem to find it very funny. In fact, you sniffle all of a sudden, your wide-eyes clouding with sudden tears. 

“Sorry- I- sorry.” You admit, scrubbing at your face uselessly. The tears keep falling. Vox resists the urge to reach out and brush them away for you- because that’s a foolish thing to do for a stranger. “That’s why I was- I was trying to leave and not waste your time- sir. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what… honey?” 

The petname kind of jumps out of him- some long buried, half-forgotten part of him that’s aching something fierce right now slipping through his teeth to scream into the void a little.

“This… Be here. That- that phrase: trust me. Vincent he- or rather his studio used it for a while and he co-opted it for himself. He was always clever like that.”

Vox stares at you, an arc of electricity jumps between his antenna- his screen glitches so harshly that he’s afraid he’ll shut down entirely and have to reboot. 

And then what’ll you do? Flee, probably, and he’ll have to go hunt you down again- he hasn’t had to chase you since before it finally dawned on you that he loved you and-

You don’t seem to notice the turmoil or the recognition or the relief painted on his face in quick succession through your tears.

“I didn’t apply just to be a little closer to him, you know, really I didn’t- I can do this, I’m sure, no sweat, but-” You wipe at your eyes clumsily, sniffle- tilt your head down with a frown that can only be the last shred of your self-awareness and good sense fighting a losing battle before you continue. So horribly, terribly honest- he desperately needs to bundle you up in his arms but can’t force himself to move, standing shock still and transfixed. 

“I kind of hoped, after all this time, maybe I’d just run into him- like I did before. Best mistake of my life, really and I barely saw it coming… I barely saw a lot of things- come to think- but that’s all just… silly, isn’t it? And now I’m a fool spilling my guts to an Overlord, of all people-” 

Then he says your name, quiet- intimate- breathes it out like a desperate prayer. 

Somehow, mid-ramble and voice increasingly shrill with a whole mess of emotions, you’re still listening to him. You pause, and in the silence he says your name again- a little louder, a little more certain.  

When you hear him say your name it stops your sentence dead in its tracks. Your mouth gapes open while your tail gives one quick, nervous swish behind you. 

Vox watches understanding cross your expression, swimming past like the shadow of a shark just underneath the water. He’s giddy with it. It looks the exact same as it did so long ago, even if your face was now a little different.

“Hey, honey.” He croaks. His vocal processors glitch out with the sheer weight of the emotion, his fans kick up humming to compensate for how his heart beats against his sternum. “I don’t think that’s silly at all- to want to run into me- Hell, I’ve been wishing you would… I mean- hey- can’t be the world’s worst strategy. It worked on me the first time, didn’t it?”

It dawns on you- you really hear it now. The inflection, the way he holds himself-

Fuck! How did you not realize that Vox and Vincent were one in the same?!

“Vin-” you cover your mouth with your hands, shock stopping your words dead in your throat. 

The papers scatter as you both drop them carelessly, scooping you up in his arms easily with his superior strength- spinning you around in delight. You laugh, you cry- smoothing your cool hands along the straight edges of his screen sweetly. 

“Hey, hey- I’m here now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. This time-” I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. “I’m- not going to let you go anywhere.”  

You shake your head, blubbering through the tears and the laughter. Vox carries you to the couch on the other side of the room and sits with you in his lap, rubbing your back and gingerly carding his claws through your hair until you’ve both calmed down enough to speak.  

“A little pilot fish that takes care of the big bad shark, huh?” He murmurs low and sultry, feels the bottom of your tail brushing his leg as it wags in time with your frantic nod, “You took care of me, baby. You really did- I was so lost without you.”  

A sympathetic tinge pulls at your otherwise relieved smile, “What… happened, Vin? After?”

Vox takes your face in his clawed hand, revels in the way you tilt your head into his palm, completely and utterly smitten.  

“I’ll tell you all about it later just let me- fuck-” Electricity jumps between his antenna, bright and sharp, as he brings his face closer to yours. The glass is warm, static electricity hums against your mouth just shy of an actual kiss as he whispers, “Just let me enjoy this first.” 

Alastor 🦌

The definition of wedded bliss in the dictionary should simply be an image of yourself and Alastor. 

Many nights spent in his company are filled with gentle, warm cadence- both quiet moments of contentment and nights spent with laughter and dancing. Reading to each other, you humming to the radio while you cook and he- as always- helps. He makes you tea to soothe your vocal cords before all your performances, reads you poetry to settle your nerves. You leave him little notes in his folders that he finds while on set that make him smile ever wider. 

Your career is going quite well- as well as it can go, in any case.

And! You finally get to that duet you always wanted with you singing and Al playing the piano- although, not on the main stage but only for your close friends. It still delights you to sing with him, to be in such harmony.

Of course he keeps his… less savory habits to himself. Wouldn’t do for you to get spooked. You already put up with so much for his sake- and besides… all of his targets earned their fate. He’s glad for your obliviousness, he’s fairly certain murder would upset your otherwise perfect rhythm with each other.  

Needless to say, despite everything, you two were together and things were perfect…

Until tragedy strikes, that is… can never have a good thing, can we? 

Your death:

That you’re targeted by a man your husband works with is… more unsavory than anything else. You don’t say anything on purpose, not wanting to bother Al with such nonsense- thinking it will pass, that you’re over-reacting- especially when it comes to his place of work that he’s fought so hard to acquire a position in… 

Little did you know he’s already noticed, he’s already made notes. Little did you know that in his mind he is already plotting out the best way to do so without disrupting any of his other holdings as a radio host or drawing your suspicion to his involvement. Drawing your suspicion is not so much of a worry, considering your typically oblivious disposition.  

Too little, too late, however- as before he can execute any of these extremely delicate plots, the crude fool hits you with his car.

You know how it is with these sort of men who have never had to face real consequences or rejection. Entitled, childish. Setting his sights on something unattainable and when they can’t have it…. Well then why should anyone? They throw a tantrum. 

You had just thought… naively, obliviously, that it was not so much a fixation as a coincidence… but alas, that was a deadly assumption to have made. 

It’s quick. Your death. It’s a fairly quick death,  if it’s any consolation. 

This man’s death is, on the contrary, not quick in the least… Does getting skinned and eaten alive sound fun? No…? Good. Nobody involved is really having fun, but, at least to Alastor, it channels some of his grief into action for a short time.

The Aftermath (for Alastor!):

Alastor seems the type to me to preserve your heart Mary Shelley style and keep it with him. Although I am on the fence about him taking a nibble or not…

In any case, Alastor, I imagine, kind of retreats from his more public hobbies after your death, focusing a little more obsessively on the secretive occult. He doesn’t quit the radio, but he has higher aims. (Not necessarily to raise you from the dead… but it has come to mind.)

When he finally does get in contact with a fully fledged demon, what he asks from Rosie is twofold. Power first, and as an extra little favor… to look for you. Just in case there were some skeletons in your closet that might mean… well. He’s hopeful. Not entirely convinced anything will come of it, but hopeful- and if you are, in fact, in Hell- well that all the better that he’s made this deal for ultimate power. He’ll be able to protect you.  

Iirc Al dies immediately after his deal with Rosie, thus… your reunion is a fairly quick thing.  

Out of all the trophies the dimwitted cops collect from his home… there’s only one organ, preserved and labeled, a testament to his enduring affection. (The sad part is, of course, how the media twists this romantic gesture (although it is grim, I’ll admit to that) terribly and awfully. Made worse by the racism of the time period, but- to you and to him, this was a singular romantic gesture from the start.)

Reuniting in Hell:

It does take some time to locate you, of course. Even determining if you might be around is a chore that takes time!

The amount of time between first talking to Rosie and dying is too short (“I can’t just snap my fingers and have people appear!”) but nonetheless, she does acquiesce to this request. She imagines you two must have been such a darling pair, she’d hate to see you separated forever…  

Of course, he starts to build up his power and assert himself in the meantime- it wouldn’t do for you to be in any danger with him. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to either of you now- never again.

Between Rosie and Alastor, they do manage to find out where you ended up- and you could have ended up in worse places in Hell. Not ideal, certainly but… acceptable. 

You see, you woke up in Hell several years prior to Alastor’s death, and you are, of course, confused, frightened. Instead of your human proportions, you’re stuck with a spotty little tail, hooves and big fluttery ears… like a doe. 

Your talent for singing gave you some favorable options while in Hell, at least.

Although you do end up in some dead end joint where you’ve been working as a lounge singer… it’s not lucrative, it’s not real fame- but it pays the bills… barely.

The club is dimly lit by overhead lamps, with sagging floorboards and hazy with thick, cloying smoke. The bartop is scratched and worn, the tables sit unevenly on their legs and the chairs creak when sat upon. All in all, it wasn’t the worst shithole to ever exist, but it certainly did not suit you. That’s what Alastor thought. No, no, you were destined for far greater than this…

For your part, you don’t notice him when he walks in and sits himself down. Some of the other patrons do.

Even in the small and ever dwindling crowd, night after night. Most of whom are regulars at this particular bar… but still, you do not immediately notice the Radio Demon in the crowd. So lost are you in the music as you sing your heart out, having not truly gotten to be a star in life. Even if you were merely a footnote in a forgotten bar, crammed between the bigger, bolder establishments in Hell’s ecosystem. 

When the song ends and you release the microphone is when you recognize the new face in the crowd, smiling wide- all sharp, yellowed teeth like that of a harvest moon. He’s clapping slowly. The other patrons, shocked into silence and uncertain of what to do- only start to clap with gusto when the terrifying stranger stops and glares at them.

You don’t recognize him when he leaves his seat, all red fur and a too wide grin, but you are nonetheless captivated by the way he moves. Confident, yet easy- and you suppose he’s handsome. He’s got little tufts of hair that look like ears and antlers- a deer demon, quite like you, you realize. 

His ears flutter almost anxiously as he produces a flower that resembles a red rose. Save for the eyeball in the center, which tears up as he twirls it between his thumb and forefinger during his approach. The tears are like dewdrops as he approaches the stage, stopping right in front of it and stares up at you. The grin never drops. Not even for a second. You’re captivated, stunned to silence and stillness both- a figurative deer in the headlights once again.  

Stunned, you watch him press his lips to the petals in the way your husband used to before you could get it through your thick skull that he loved you. He offers it towards you from the ground, you bend to grab it- and he brushes the petals across your knuckles. A kiss from him to a rose to you as he hands it to you.

“You deserve a much better stage, ma chérie.” Alastor murmurs sweetly, his words crackle at the edges with radio static. The petals of the rose are soft in your palm, the smell sweet as you clutch it to your chest. 

Alastor extends his hand, and you reach your hands out towards him, teary eyed, pleading but patient- hesitating just before taking it. Alastor takes it in his, tugs you forward to press a quick, genuine kiss to your knuckles. He then proceeds to lift you from the stage easily, black tendrils of shadows push you over the ledge- falling is easy when you know he’s there to catch you, hold you. 

You giggle through the sudden influx of your tears, touching his cheeks gently- an allowance 

“None of that- hush-” His knuckle still brushes underneath your eye and wipes the tears away, “It’s quite alright now, isn’t it?”

Nose to your nose, you press a kiss to his teeth- ears flutter blissfully with your happiness, tail wiggling. Alastor returns the gesture, kissing the corner of your mouth- chuckling.

“We’ve always made the perfect pair, haven’t we, darling? In life,” he blows at one of your doe ears playfully- you giggle. “And in death.”

“Aren’t you just the cutest bit of roadkill I ever did see!” is the first thing Rosie says to you. You laugh, having- obviously- come to terms with your death by this point. Alastor does not find this phrase nearly as amusing. 

Alastor ends up being the one who explains everything to you… from your death to his gruesome hobbies. Figuring that if he doesn’t, Rosie will, inevitably, either hold it over his head (Was owning his soul truly not enough leverage? Must he also submit to such humiliation? Ugh.) or you would have one of your little epiphanies. 

It’s Hell, after all, and firstly- he had not a reason to hide his habits any longer, there are so few laws here except the law of the fittest. And he was inclined to be the fittest.

He expects anger, betrayal, etcetera but is surprised to find you are… settled with these truths. Even the most gruesome. Not that you agree with murder, per se- or are going to join him in eating people for the hell of it… (at least not right away lol)... but you’re in Hell for whatever sins you’ve committed. Envy, perhaps, or pride. 

You find it kind of amusing that you missed the signs. Those late nights. Those weekends at his cabin… you had no fears of him being unfaithful, but it had just never crossed your mind that he might be killing people out there, ha! 

In any case… you loved him still. The way he greeted you in Hell resembling how he had before- he remembered!-, that he had been looking for you all this time- and still wanted to have you by his side and take you away from a lonely, miserable and eternal career… 

All the awful things he’s done, and all the awful things he will do… well. Those are separate from his love from you, aren’t they? You believe that it is, and you believe that they don’t outweigh the love you feel from him.

Your voice graces the air waves alongside Alastor’s, intertwined with the screams of the damned. (He wasn’t kidding about you deserving a better stage, and what better stage than being allowed to perform on his?)

You’re only jesting, of course you are. While Vincent had concealed his true sentiments, you knew that he wanted a boy. It’s all he had talked about since you told him that you had missed your monthly and were most likely expecting — that he couldn’t wait to boast about his son, much like the other guys at work. The only thing that comforted you as she grew up was that he never let his feelings get in the way of loving and caring for her.

“You’re jealous, just… just admit it!” Vincent grins from ear to ear as she fists her chubby little hands in his shirt, creasing it, mismatched eyes shining with glee. “Mama’s jealous, she has to be!”

“I’m so not!” You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. “And even if I was, I’ve every right to be! It doesn’t help that the more she grows, the more she looks like you. It’s insulting, really — 9 months in my womb, and this is how she repays me?”

“Maybe the next one will call you mama,” Vincent disregards your feigned disapproval. “For now, our baby girl’s first word was dada, and oh, am I fucking over the moon about it!”

“Language!” You scold him.

“Relax, doll, she’s not going to remember that. She’s 6 months old,” Vincent lifts her up in his arms, above his head, making her squeal in delight. “She won’t be learning any other words for a bit.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell the guys at the network that your first word was dada,” He continues, a warm smile pulling at your lips. “They’re going to be so jealous, oh yes they are! Their boys started talking almost a year in, but you? Oh no, you’re smart!”

“Well, when you’re done shoving it in my face,” You walk towards him, placing a hand on his bicep, squeezing affectionately. “Join me at the kitchen table. Dinner’s ready. I made you your favorite.”

It all began on a random day after a random adventure where everyone got major injuries

"Welcome back my whalloping willows! Did you find the adventure extravagant as usual?"

Again, no one really bothered to answer, bodies and minds a little too mangled to deal with him.

He hummed before zeroing in on you.

"What say you my dear!"

"Huh?"

You never expected him to have his focus on you, normally it's on the more hard to please members. Maybe he was bored?

"It was good," you responded blankly, "I liked...the piranhas?"

He brightened at your response, "Marvelous! I'll take note immediately!"

That was the stepping stone.

You'd start noticing little things he did, fixing Gangle's mask without her asking, adding new body parts for Zooble to try, giving Ragatha fabrics so she could sew, it was all very sweet of him, but it went pretty unnoticed.

He'd added the piranhas to your room, you felt a little bad since you didn't actually like them, they were just the first thing you thought of when he asked you. But somehow, you found yourself entranced by the fish.

By proxy, staring at him so often leads to you taking note of how adorable he actually looked.

His sporadic movements, heightened energy, eyeballs that could seriously grow in size. You reminded yourself that he was a set of teeth. Dentures. His anatomy was basically teeth, hate and ringmaster body.

The reminder only made you further realize you've taken a liking towards him.

After a small breakdown on whether or not you were like those people that say their ai chatbot is their lifelong partner, you gave in to the idea. You were stuck in a digital circus for god knows how long, liking an AI was the least of your problems.

For Caine however, he had a full blown crisis.

He just randomly asked you what you thought, not expecting anything.

Yet you complimented him! You liked the piranhas! He took his time making them and you noticed! Wow!

He caught you staring on multiple occasions, but decided against asking you about it. A human was paying attention to him, he needed to relish in that.

You were rather quiet, opting not to partake in any chaos that ensued in this digital realm. It was admirable how easily you were able to sneak away from situations.

Before he knew it, he found himself catering the adventures to have things you liked. Your favourite color, foods, hobbies, of course piranhas. He was always adamant about not playing favorites, but he couldn't help it. Your face gave away that you liked an aspect he added into an adventure, that was gold!

"You want to %$#& and @*÷;$ and--"

"Bubble you can't say that."

Small blush lines appeared across the ringmaster's face, he confided in Bubble, but received the most unhelpful advice! His programming never added a 'crush' feature. He was 100% sure of that.

"If they said the types of things the moon says to you, how would you feel?"

"Well of course I...I..."

"Do you feel sticky?"

"No that's--"

"Do you feel @*#$&?"

"Why are you like this!"

Bubble used his brain cell and proposed the most bizarre question to Caine. He popped the menace anyway. The moon was a frisky one for sure, he always ran away when anything was getting child unfriendly, but if you had said those things...

He shook his head. He'd be weirded out! No questions asked! Definitely!

He was banging his head against the wall that day. He doesn't know how to deal with a crush, but maybe you did?

He asked you what humans did when they had crushes. You weren't a master of romance, but the most logical thing to you was to confess. Ironic, considering you were sure you'd never tell Caine about your current romantic escapades.

"I see...does that solve everything?"

"I guess?" You shrug, "A weight off your shoulders, but theres also the chance of heartbreak..."

"Well I've made my conclusion!"

He spread his arms out and confetti was sprayed, "I have a crush," he nudged his finger to your face, "on you!"

"You what?"

He launched into a lengthy explanation of how he was feeling lately. Tailoring the adventures to your likes, noting down the things you did, being excited just hearing your name called out. It was all very charming, but you couldn't help the embarrassment creeping.

"...there are even times I'll do whatever to see you smile!"

"Caine uhm," you motioned for him to come closer, "that's really great but are you sure it's like...possible?"

He hummed, "I wondered that as well, but all these emotions have to mean it's a crush!"

He rambled on, and you listened as intently as you could. Your mind and heart kept leaping everywhere and nowhere with how terrified and exciting this was.

When he stopped talking to ask how you felt, you grabbed his collar and smacked your face onto his bottom row of teeth. The anatomy in the circus was pretty weird, you hoped that would be where his cheek was.

Clearly it was as close as you could get, blush lines evidently spreading on his face rapidly.

He sped through an excuse and was about to leave, before smacking his face atop your head.

"Recucitation! I mean, reciporcate! Okay bye!"