redrobinsgf

— tim drake

— dick grayson

— jason todd

a/n: baby's first SMAU! this is a prompt that has floated around in my brain for a while and i'm honestly kind of shocked that i've never seen it done before (let me know if u have). all the pictures are from pinterest btw. let me know what u think!

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

You could only remember bits and pieces of getting back home: Vincent's hand clamped around your elbow, Alastor on your other side with two fingers resting at the small of your back. The two of them had steered you up the service stairs and out to the car like a pair of men helping a friend who'd had too much to drink.

Now you sat in a velvet vanity chair in your own bedroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The studio's box office darling, and you looked like you’d been dragged out of a river.

"You're freezing." Vincent shoved a crystal tumbler toward your mouth, spilling rye on your lap. "Drink. Please. It'll help, baby. I've got you—you're safe, I swear to God you're safe—"

Before the glass reached your lips, Alastor caught Vincent's wrist with the crook of his cane and pulled it back.

“Do be careful, Vincent. You're crowding her.” There was none of the bright radio lilt in Alastor’s voice now. He sounded almost bored.

In the mirror, you watched him come up behind you, unhurried, drawing a folded handkerchief from his vest pocket. His hair was still neat. His smile hadn't moved. Entirely too put-together for a man who had just killed someone.

“I hardly think drowning her in rye will improve matters, Vincent.” Alastor’s gloved hand settled at the back of your neck, holding you still as he wiped the blood from your cheek. “There now, cher. No need to let such an ugly business spoil that pretty face.”

You actually liked rye. Drank it neat most nights the studio got to be too much. But your jaw had locked somewhere between the basement and here.

Alastor didn't ask you to drink, or to speak. All you had to do was sit still and let him hold your face in his hand.

So you did.

Vincent’s breath came out sharp. “Her face?” he snapped. “Are you fucking serious? She just watched us cave a man’s head in, and you’re worried about how she looks?” He set the glass down hard. “Get your hands off her.”

The order was barely out before he knocked Alastor’s hand away and pulled you from the chair. One arm slipped behind your back, the other beneath your legs, and then you were in the armchair with him, dragged tight across his lap.

A small, choked gasp escaped you— the first sound you’d made all night.

Vincent's hands locked around your waist, bunching the silk at your hips. He buried his face in your neck, breath ragged against your skin.

“Look at her,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “She's not even here. She’s shell-shocked because you turned a contract negotiation into a fucking slaughterhouse.”

You shifted. His grip tightened.

“I'm staying tonight. I'm not leaving her like this.”

Alastor folded the handkerchief and set it on the vanity. "Leaving?" His eyes flicked to the bed. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Vincent’s nails dug into your waist. It hurt enough that you tried to tell him, but your jaw still wouldn’t open.

“No,” he spoke through his teeth. “You’re not doing this.”

“Doing what, precisely?”

“That.” He glared at Alastor over your shoulder. “Standing there like you've already decided how this goes. She's staying with me.”

Alastor's gaze dropped to where Vincent's hands were locked around your waist. “And what comfort do you imagine she'll find, smothered by your nerves?”

Vincent's grip loosened by a fraction before he caught himself. “Fuck off. You're not getting in that bed.”

Alastor looked back at him, still smiling.

“My dear Vincent, you speak as though you have a say in the matter.” He slipped two fingers beneath your chin and turned your face toward him, his thumb resting over your pulse. “She has grown rather attached to you. I had hoped, for her sake, that you might prove useful tonight.” His eyes dropped to Vincent’s hands around your waist. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”

Vincent's nails dug even deeper into your waist. Pain finally broke a word loose from your locked jaw.

"...Vinny."

You meant to tell him he was hurting you. His name was all you could get out.

Vincent lit up like you'd handed him a gift. "Hear that?" He pulled you tighter, grinning against your hair. "She wants me." He pressed his mouth to your neck, already rewriting the last five minutes into something he could live with.

Alastor’s thumb slid along your jaw, turning your face toward him. “A sweet sound, Vincent, but she's looking at me. Aren't you, darling?”

Before Vincent could stop him, Alastor slipped one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you off his lap— not a strain in it, as if you weighed nothing at all. Alastor drew you against his chest and carried you to your bed.

“Put her down, Al!” Vincent was already moving. “She doesn’t need some relic from the silent era pawing at her. You’re thirty years older than her, for fuck’s sake. You’re old enough to be her father.”

Alastor’s hand stilled at your shoulder.

Vincent caught it. “She needs someone who can actually keep up with her.”

Alastor lowered you onto the pillows without looking back. “Then it is a profound mercy she has you around to keep track of the calendar, Vincent. But do keep your voice down— surely a man who is a full decade ahead of her himself shouldn't pretend he's her peer. If I am ancient history, my boy, you are hardly the new release.”

Alastor sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes before settling beside you, his fingers tangling into your hair as he leaned against the pillows and drew the covers over you both.

Vincent didn't bother with his shoes. He dropped onto the mattress on your other side, the springs groaning under him, and threw a heavy arm across your waist.

You couldn't do anything but lie still between them.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Alastor doesn't enjoy to cuddle after. He'll allow you to cuddle into his side while he is already on his back, coming down from your shared ecstasy, but don't expect him to return it. He won't stay too long like this either, preferring to get cleaned up right away before he will want to wrap his arms around you. If it was a more emotionally charged session, he will be more inclined to stay close for a while.

To him, sex is less about the physical relief it gets him than it is about how close he can be with you; it is an intimate act between the two of you, and the closest thing to being literally under your skin.

However! He will be more than happy to fulfil any service you need of him after. Your throat is a bit sore and you want a glass of water? Alastor is getting it for you, no need to get up yourself. You want to clean up? He is already on it, gently wiping off whatever mess he has made of you. may or may not be compelled to push his seed back in

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Well, obviously — Alastor likes his smile best, it's charming. Granted, it doesn't get him much further than having charmed you into the bedroom already, but his teeth certainly do. He found they are quite useful even when they are not currently tearing the flesh of sinners. He can bite you, too! Sinking his teeth into your delicious flesh and taste your blood on his eager tongue, or tearing through your clothes to get them off of your body.

His hands and claws come in second, for much the same reason.

On you, though? Honestly, Alastor will most enjoy your thighs. There is so much to do with them — grab them tight for bruises to bloom under his fingers, squeeze them even tighter to keep you in line, tease them with his claws, or latch onto with his mouth and suck hickeys into. And bite them, most obviously. Your thighs are his favourite to nibble and bite on and make bleed so he can lap it up again.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

I suppose that depends on his partner's preferences.

Personally, Alastor would prefer to cum inside you as he won't risk impregnating you down in hell — and it leaves less of a mess after he pulls out of you with a hiss, and he does so enjoy watching you squirm when he gathers his spend leaking out of you on his thumb and pushes it back inside your twitching hole. It would be a shame to stain those sheets with your mess, wouldn't it, darling?

But if his partner suggests it, he may also cum on your skin. After all, Alastor is used to much dirtier messes considering his... occupation while alive... and so, he will delight in smearing his carnal sin over your stomach or your arse.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I suppose this one is less a secret secret and more of an open secret; but Alastor does have a little oral fixation. He genuinely really needs to sink his teeth into your supple flesh at least once per day or he will start tweaking. It doesn't matter how you will let him, it can be anything from a nibble to your cheek, a bite on your lip during a kiss, or chewing on your thighs. As long as you bleed you and he gets to taste the sweet nectar that is your blood — and his life essence, now — he will be happy. Alastor can't make you more his than that.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He is not. Alastor had no interest in casual hook-ups while he was alive, and even less so when he died. He is quite knowledgeable in theory but not so much in practice. That's something you will have to introduce him to. He will be a bit clumsy in his enthusiasm at first.

Luckily, he is a quick learner — and eager when it comes to pleasuring you. He enjoys when you show him what makes you cry out the most, and he will soon be using that cruelly against you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Alastor's favourite position is cowgirl. That way, he has access to all parts of your body — your face, your breasts, your ass, your thighs — and the most control. While you may naturally seem to be in charge, being able to control the pace with which you take him and how deep, he can take that control back just as easily. Alastor could bury one hand in your hair and pull back your head to expose your throat to his teeth, and the other one wraps around your waist or thigh to take back the reins of pace and depth.

It's a delicious trap, and that is precisely why he likes it best.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I'd describe him as rather serious. Like I mentioned before - Alastor doesn't have sex for the pleasure aspect of it, but he wants to have you as close as he can. If he could, he would devour you. He is reverent in his devotion to you.

Of course, that does not mean he won't be teasing you, but more on that later.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)

Alastor is very meticulous about his appearance everywhere. He is not shaved, but he certainly keeps it well-trimmed for his own comfort.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Alastor is surprisingly romantic in every aspect of sex. He will whisper sweet nothings in your ear before, during and after, and he will always let a little praise for you slip out of habit to make sure you know you are being appreciated, and not only your body.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn't, not really. He had the urge to, occasionally, before he met you; but Alastor rarely indulged in it and simply... let it pass again. It was bothersome, more than anything else.

With you, he would rather indulge in this desire together when the mood does strike him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I don't know how many more times I will get away with saying this man will bite you BECAUSE HE WILL. There simply is no way around it. He may try not to do it as much in the beginning of your relationship, but the urge to sink his teeth into you and make you yelp out in surprise will haunt him until he does.

I also think he may enjoy a bit of a chase with you. I mean, he has a whole bayou in his hotel room, who's to say he is not inclined to chase you through it? He will certainly get a thrill out of it, reminiscent of his golden days in New Orleans, but this time, the reward will be all the sweeter because it's your blood he will be tasting at the end of it.

Blood kink, if that isn't obvious from literally all of the above. Alastor is a cannibal, and I am a firm believer that it's born out of a sadistic pleasure or satisfaction to own his victims. Of course, you are not his victim and he would not dream of ever seriously injuring you — but tasting your blood is the closest thing he has to you becoming a part of his.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom — occasionally his radio tower, if Alastor is feeling particularly frisky. He would never broadcast it, seeing it as something sacred that happens between the two of you, and he'd prefer it stayed like that. But he loves being a radio host, and to have you in that radio tower where he is in his element — allowed the privilege to see you blissed out there once he's done with you — is something he would most certainly love to share with you.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The mood will strike Alastor out of nowhere and build up for several days. He will feel a bit funny around you, at first, until that funny feeling turns into a searing hit when you do as much as breathe in his direction. Still, he will make a slow approach on it and make it seem as if it was your idea all along.

In addition, since I don't know where else to put it, he likes it when you pull his hair. tug it — he loves that. It triggers something in him. What does it trigger, you ask? I don't know, and neither does he! All you know, that you are in his lap, threading your fingers over his buzz while riding him, before you reach up into the strand of his hiar and give it a slight tug — and suddenly you're under him, breathless and gasping, while Alastor literally growls above you as he pounds you to see heaven. It's not that he doesn't like it — he likes it too much, and doesn't know how to deal with it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Uh. Anything that would genuinely harm either your dignity or his own. He won't do anything that involves getting dirtier than the usual sweat and cum on your bodies.

Alastor would also be strictly against bringing a third into your bedroom. The closest thing you're getting to that is his shadow watching and messing about, if you're into that, you freaks.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

I wouldn't call Alastor a munch, but he definitely prefers giving over receiving. Like, I see a lot of people headcanon their favourite characters like that, but I think this is especially true for Alastor. He may enjoy being on the receiving end on occasion, when he feels particularly dominating or pent up, and having you servicing him is surely enticing — the act itself is the least pleasureable aspect of it. For him, he doesn't see the point.

However, when it comes to eating you out? Oh, that is something else entirely — first of all, it gives him the easiest access to bite on your thighs, which we have already established multiple times by now, but second, he has complete and utter control of you and your pleasure. Oh, how easily he can pin your hands down. Oh, how nicely he can spread your thighs like that. It's only your pleasure that is the focus here, and he will be sure to leave you well-satisfied — and overstimulated, if you allow, but only if you earned if after denying you your orgasm for the fourth time now.

Alastor may be humping the mattress by the end of it, but his tongue game is off the charts. also, his tongue can reach places, oh boy

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Oh. Oh, that really depends. I think it will always start with a slow pace but deep thrusts that will have his cockhead kiss your cervix from the get-go, and later turn into sloppy, clumsy thrusts the closer Alastor gets to finishing.

But if Alastor needs to work off some frustration? Some lingering argument with you or anyone else? Oh, you better be prepared because he will not be gentle about it. He thrives on control, and if he feels it has been taken from him or that he has been slighted in any way or form, it is easy to feel validated again when he has someone that is eagerly allowing him fold them under him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Alastor's not... he is not a quickie guy. He wants to take his time with you, and simply dragging you off into a dark corner feels like he is doing your relationship a big, big disservice in what you mean to him.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Alastor is open to experiment a little. If you have any kinks to share with him, he will try them out at least once and only refuse if he is genuinely repulsed by them at the end. As to getting caught... well, I suppose that is taken care of quickly.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Alastor will go for a long round, not many. Once he has reached his peak of it, he'll consider it a done thing. Naturally, he will make sure that you are left satisfied and well-spent, but it's rare for him to be motivated enough for a second round. It does happen, just not a lot.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

No, I don't think so. If you bring out toys such as a vibrator or a dildo, he'll definitely side-eye them. It's not that he is feeling threatened by them or anything, but in his opinion, you may as well do it by yourself then. It defeats the purpose of indulging in the first place. He may be compelled to use them on occasion with the right arguments, but he WILL side-eye them — before and after.

Other toys, such as blindfolds or including ice cubes, are more accepted by him as a method to heighten the sensations.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh, Alastor's a tease. You know it, I know it, we all know it. He may be reserved when it comes to being touched, but he certainly is not when it comes to doing the touching. He'll do anything — from making you shiver when running a sharp claw over your spine to dragging his tongue over your clothed cunt until you're begging for him to tear them.

He'll also tell you any praise there is. Genuine? "Look at you. Taking me so well, my darling, I see."

Sarcastic? "Oh, I know, I know — but you sound so pretty when I do that — how am I supposed to resist that temptation?"

Degrading? "My, what a mess you are — and so quickly, too! You really are a dirty girl, aren't you, darling?"

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Alastor will groan, grunt, but he will rarely moan. He mostly talks, anyway, so —

At unexpected touches, however, such as touching his ears or his antlers, you may also coax out a whimper or even a bleat if you're lucky. He will gaslight you after

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Alastor prefers keeping his clothes on, simple as that. He may undress you fully, and you may think it is unfair, but sex is a vulnerable experience in and of itself, and if Alastor doesn't like one thing, it's feeling naked — figuratively and literally. It's not that he doesn't trust you, or want you to see him like that, but it's something he hasn't let go of in a century, and old habits die hard as they say.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Oh, gosh — how do I put this? Alastor is a tall demon, and slender — so, such is reflected down there. His length is certainly above average while his girth is slightly under, but thicker again at the base. He has a slight but noticeable curve upwards.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Ay. It's not high. I wouldn't say every-once-in-a-blue-moon low, but just not on a regular basis.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Alastor doesn't sleep a lot in general, so he will wait for you to fall asleep first. Besides, he does enjoy seeing you in this peaceful state — considering it is the Radio Demon you are sharing a bed with. No matter what sin you have committed that caused you to end up in hell, Alastor will always view himself as the undeserving fool of you.

Most people who worked directly beneath VoxTek’s upper management developed a frantic sort of survival instinct: some trembled constantly, others lived in aggressive denial, and the truly seasoned had learned to cry silently while still taking flawless meeting notes. Ethan had somehow mastered a miserable combination of all three.

At the moment, he stood near the edge of the Channel 666 soundstage, clutching his tablet tightly to his chest like a shield while his headset slipped down the side of his face.

“Two minutes to air,” he called out, his voice cracking slightly as he avoided looking Vox in the eye.

Nobody listened. The soundstage was in complete chaos. Crew demons dragged thick cables across the floor, weaving between cameras, light stands, and half-built pieces of the set. Towering server racks lined the back wall, their cooling fans humming a low chord beneath the sharper buzz of overhead lights. Every screen in the room flashed with some variation of the same branding package for The Launch—all blue glare, red accents, and aggressive, animated V logos.

Subtlety had clearly not been invited.

“Where is my second camera?” Katie Killjoy snapped from the interview desk, glaring toward a sweating camera operator as if she could personally combust him through eye contact alone. “I am not filming two Overlords with one angle. This is journalism, not some shitty school play.”

The camera operator scrambled to adjust the rig.

Beside you, Vox glanced toward the nearest monitor, adjusted his tie, and angled his screen until the studio lights hit exactly where he wanted them.

“You heard her,” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the studio static. “Move the camera. And if I see one bad angle on the live feed, I’m replacing you with a tripod and telling your family you resigned.”

The operator moved twice as fast.

You sat in the armchair opposite Katie’s desk, one leg crossed neatly over the other, watching the entire production unravel with mild interest. This was not the first time Channel 666 had turned a promotional interview into a hostage situation, and it wouldn't be the last. Katie worked best when she assumed everyone in the room was beneath her…which meant she was currently at peak performance.

Vox, unfortunately, operated on the exact same wavelength. That made the two of them nearly unbearable when trapped on the same set.

“Relax,” you murmured, glancing toward him. “The camera’s fine.”

Vox didn't look away from the monitor. “Fine is what people say right before ratings die.”

“The interview hasn’t even started.”

“Exactly. Plenty of time for someone to ruin it.”

Katie’s smile sharpened from across the desk. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s my job.”

Vox finally turned toward her, his screen brightening into a heavy, glowing blue. Almost charming, if you ignored everything else about him. “Katie, honey, your job is to ask the questions we approved.”

Katie visibly stiffened for a split second before she forced her manic, wide-eyed television smile back into place. "Of course, Vox! Just adding a little... journalistic flair for the analytics."

"Save the flair for the lower districts.” The static under Vox’s voice sharpened. “We’re selling a vision today. Make it sharp, make it expensive, and don’t make me say it twice.”

"A vision. Right. Absolutely," Katie mumbled. Her smile stayed fixed, but her knuckles had gone white around the stylus. “We’ll stick to the script.”

“Fantastic," Vox purred. "Say it with more eye contact when we roll.”

Ethan appeared at Vox’s elbow before Katie could find another way to make things worse, his tablet lifted like a shield.

“Mr. Vox, uhm…we have a problem.” His voice dropped. “The lower district feed is lagging by three seconds, Velvette found an outside signal buried in the launch code, and, uh, one of the teaser clips just hit the feeds before approval.”

Vox’s display went momentarily dark.

Ethan swallowed hard, his blue skin turning pale. “Also, Valentino says the green room champagne is offensive.”

“Of course he does.”

“He said, um…” Ethan looked down at the tablet, visibly regretting every life choice that had brought him to V Tower. “He said if he has to drink room-temperature garbage, he’s going to start killing interns.”

Vox’s glare locked onto him. Ethan went entirely still.

“You’re an assistant, Ethan.”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Not an intern.”

Relief crossed Ethan’s face a second too early.

“Which means he’ll probably start with you.”

The relief vanished instantly.

You burst out laughing. Ethan’s eyes crossed over toward you, then immediately back to Vox, as if he was trying to figure out if laughing along would get him killed faster. The tension in Vox’s shoulders eased just a little as you regained your breath, grin widening. Before he could get too smug about it, you leaned back in your chair, breaking the spell. “That was cruel.”

“It was accurate.”

“It can be both.”

“It usually is,” Vox countered. His gaze lingered on you before the studio lights shifted overhead, cutting through the heavy blue glow of his screen. He snapped his attention back toward Ethan. “Now, go tell Valentino, if he kills anyone before the interview wraps, I’m deducting it from his quarterly budget.”

Ethan nodded so quickly his headset nearly slipped, then hurried off toward the green room.

A producer near the monitors lifted a hand. “Thirty seconds.”

The room snapped into motion. Makeup artists cleared the set while the camera drones drifted overhead. A second later, the lights brightened, washing the news set in a white glare.

Vox took the seat directly beside you, his shoulders easing as he wrapped an arm around the back of your chair.

That was always the strangest part of being around him. One second, he was barking at employees and threatening camera operators; the next, he became the polished, electric version of himself that Hell tuned in for, smiling as if every word out of his mouth had already been pre-packaged for a replay loop.

You knew that trick. You had learned it long before Hell, back when cameras still pretended they cared about the truth. All they really wanted was someone who knew where to look when the red light came on.

Vox glanced toward you as the producer began counting down with his fingers.

Five.

“You good?” he asked quietly. The question was casual, dropped in a low register that anyone else would have missed beneath the hum of the studio.

Four.

“I’ve survived worse interviews.”

Three.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Two.

You turned your head, locking your gaze onto the lens of the main camera. “I know.”

One.

The red recording light snapped on.

Katie’s smile bloomed instantly. “Good evening, sinners. Katie Killjoy here with an exclusive Channel 666 first look at what V Tower is calling its ‘most ambitious media rollout to date’.” She turned toward the two of you with theatrical interest, her stylus poised over her tablet. “Vox. Always a nightmare.”

“Always a pleasure, Katie.”

“Half of the Vees in my studio,” her predatory gaze moved to you, eyes narrowing, “including Hell’s favorite headline, back in front of a camera. Should I be honored or concerned?”

You offered the lens a smooth, practiced smile. “Both, if you’re smart.”

Katie’s grin widened. “Oh, good. I was hoping this wouldn’t be boring.”

Vox leaned back in his chair, draping one arm along the edge of it. “If it were boring, we wouldn’t be here.”

“No, you’d just make some lower-tier executive do it and take the credit,” Katie shot back.

“Exactly. You do understand branding.”

Katie ignored him, turning her full attention back on you. “Let’s talk about The Launch. The Vees have promised a complete media expansion across broadcast, streaming, nightlife, fashion, and public image management. That’s a lot of corporate jargon for ‘we want everyone watching.’”

“That’s usually the point of a launch,” you noted.

“Cute. But this isn’t just another VoxTek product drop.” Katie leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “You’ve been highly selective with your appearances for years. Some would even say elusive.”

“Some say a lot of things when they need clicks.”

“And yet here you are…front and center.” Katie’s eyes glittered under the high-intensity lights. “Why now?”

It wasn't the worst question she could have thrown, but it was close enough to be irritating. Vox opened his mouth to deliver a perfectly engineered PR response, but you beat him to the punch.

“Because Hell has a short attention span,” you replied, your eyes locked onto Katie's. “And we’re tired of renting it.”

The studio went entirely quiet behind the cameras.

Your voice had changed on the last sentence. For most of the interview, you had given them exactly what they expected: warm, effortless radiance—the kind of inviting, magnetic charm you had perfected back when you still had a pulse.

 Now, the warmth had dropped out of your expression, and every demon in the room seemed to remember you were not just there to look good beside Vox.

Katie’s stylus paused against her tablet. You looked past her then, straight into the nearest lens.

“The Launch is not a request for attention,” you said, each word perfectly measured and heavy. “It is a reminder. If sinners want spectacle, we own the stage. If they want scandal, we own the headline. And if anyone thinks they can step into our broadcast to test our patience, we will broadcast their ruin to every screen in Hell.”

The silence stretched just long enough to sink in before your smile returned. It didn't reach your eyes this time. Somewhere behind the main monitor bank, one of the production assistants whispered, “Holy shit.”

Despite the sudden drop in room temperature, Katie recovered quickly, because unfortunately, she was excellent at her job. “That almost sounded like a threat.”

“It was a courtesy.”

Vox let out a low, deeply approving chuckle. “Put that on the teaser.”

“You say that like it isn’t already clipped.” Katie’s smile sharpened as she glanced toward the production booth.

Vox didn’t bother looking. “It better be.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Katie pivoted. “There are massive reports flooding the system right now that V Tower is desperately trying to drown out.”

Vox’s smile stayed exactly where it was. “V Tower dictates the news, Katie. We don’t chase it.”

Katie shrugged, clearly delighted by the return of violence in the air. “Oh, but this isn’t just a tech glitch, Mr. Vox. Multiple eyewitness feeds just went live across the pride district…the local radio waves are experiencing analog interference for the first time in seven years. Rumor has it the radio demon’s back.”

Seven years of silence, gone in a single sentence. Your mind blanked, and for a split second, you weren’t sure your face was still doing what it was supposed to.

But, the cameras were still rolling. This would have to wait until later. You held your composure, rigid and unblinking, and buried the rest.

You watched Vox react from the corner of your eye. To anyone watching at home, he still looked composed— amused, even. But you caught the faint static crawling along the lower edge of his screen, and the tiny delay before his grin refreshed.

He knew about Alastor’s return. And he hadn't told you.

Interesting.

You turned back to Katie before she could notice the shift between you and played along like you had been briefed from the start. “Alastor has always appreciated a dramatic entrance,” you said. “But, an engine as massive as our launch doesn’t pause for a single sighting, Katie. We are rolling out across five districts tonight.”

Katie’s grin turned outright predatory. “A strategic response. Still, the feeds are already digging up historical broadcasts. Cozy footage of the two of you, before his vanishing act. Are the Vees ready for a narrative reboot?”

“The past is an excellent foundation,” you stated, locking eye contact with the lens. “But I prefer appreciating history rather than living it. My focus is right here.”

Katie sat back, looking entirely satisfied with the segment. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“You’d get more viewers if you did,” Vox interjected.

“Are you offering?”

“I’m suggesting you value your job.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Threatening the press on my own show. Classy.”

“Correcting the press, on my show,” Vox replied with a lazy smirk. “You’re welcome.”

The interview moved on. Questions about The Launch turned into questions about V Tower's reach, and then Katie tried, twice, to get Vox to say something she could turn into a headline. Both times, you cut in before he could take the bait— catching his arm and steering the cameras back to you with a laugh.

It was almost fun.

Almost.

By the time the director finally called cut, the live metric bar had climbed high enough that three high-ranking executives near the back of the room were whispering like they had just discovered religion. The red light on the drone shut off, and Katie’s television smile instantly collapsed into a look of sheer exhaustion, though she quickly caught herself and offered Vox a tight, eager nod. “Well! Uhm—absolutely fantastic segment, boss. Pure gold for the network, as always.”

Vox didn't even look at her, his eyes already scanning the live metric bar. “The numbers will think so.”

“Of course they will. Just... brilliant,” Katie murmured quickly. She began frantically gathering her notes, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to get out of his immediate airspace before he found a reason to look her way again.

You stood up before Vox could start arguing with her purely for sport. The moment you stepped away from the desk, the studio snapped back into motion. Crew members swarmed the floor to reset equipment while producers shouted over the replay of your answers coming from the soundboard.

You hated hearing your own voice played back. You always had.

Vox appeared at your side before the audio clip could loop a second time. “That,” he said, his eyes tracking the monitor, “is why we put you on camera.”

You kept your stride even, eyes fixed on the exit. “Careful.”

His gaze shifted down to you, his neon smile slowing down into something intrigued. “Careful?”

“You’re about to make it sound like I’m equipment.”

For a moment, he said nothing. On the main screen above, your recorded voice echoed out again:

My focus is right here.

Vox looked back toward the broadcast, his expression unreadable beneath the blue glow. “Equipment doesn’t talk back this much.”

“Then you should have an easier time respecting the difference.”

Just then, Ethan hurried over, tablet in hand, his headset now fully crooked across his brow.

“Sir, the clip is already trending across three districts, and Ms. Velvette wants both of you in the VIP lounge immediately.” He swallowed hard, staring down at the tablet in pure dread as he paused an audio message. “She—she just sent a voice note, sir. She said... um, she said to tell you to stop... uh—eye-fucking the ratings report, and to get in here before Val starts eating the furniture.”

You blinked.

Ethan seemed to realize exactly what he had just read aloud at the exact same time the rest of the room did. “I—sorry. That was—it was a direct play-back, sir, I didn't mean to—I mean, those were her words, not—”

“Ethan,” Vox said, his voice dropping an octave into grinding metal.

“…yes, sir?”

“Stop speaking.”

Ethan’s mouth snapped shut.

You stepped past Vox before your own expression could betray the unwelcome warmth rising in your cheeks. “Come on. The brand needs us.”

“Our brand is perfection,” Vox muttered. This time, there was a faint, distinct edge of distraction beneath his voice.

You glanced back over your shoulder at him.

He recovered quickly, smoothing his jagged grin back into place as he followed you toward the elevator. “And apparently, according to our head of fashion, it’s also eating furniture.”

“That sounds more like Valentino’s brand.”

“Valentino’s brand is whatever gives me a migraine before noon.”

The elevator doors opened with a sleek, electronic chime. You stepped inside, Vox following right behind you, and the chaotic noise of the soundstage finally disappeared behind the closing glass doors.

A tense quiet settled between the two of you. Below, the studio faded into a blur of neon and movement, your own voice echoing from the monitors as you ascended.

You didn't bother to raise your voice to compete with it. “You knew.”

Vox didn't have to ask what you meant. “The old signal logs?” He didn't look at you right away, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the city sprawling beyond the glass. “Katie wasn’t supposed to bring up…him. It wasn’t in the script.”

“But she did,” you said, stepping closer into his space. “Because you already knew about it, and you chose to leave me in the dark.”

His digital gaze finally snapped toward you, his grin pulling into something tight and defensive. “It was low-level noise, an overreaction to some far-fetched speculation. Not worth distracting you with before airtime.”

“Clearly it was,” you countered. “Old images are already resurfacing all over the internet, Vox. He’s back, and people are already asking where my loyalties lie. Whether I ever actually left him at all.”

Vox scoffed, his screen rippling with a jagged flash of static as he turned back to the glass. “He’s timing it. Cocky bastard sits in the dark for seven years, dead silent, not even a signal— and picks now to light up? The second we log the launch code? He’s trying to fuck with me!”

You watched the reflection of his erratic static bounce off the glass.

“He isn’t trying to…well, fuck with you, Vox.” Your voice lost its sharpness as you remembered the mannerisms of a demon Vox never understood. “He’s returning. And if we’re going to handle the fallout, we need to be on the same page.”

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the climb, the heavy silence dragging until the elevator finally shuddered to a halt at the VIP level. As the doors parted, you turned your head slightly, catching his electric gaze before stepping out.

“Either way…he has our attention now. Let’s see what we can do with it.”

Vox’s screen flickered. One eye narrowed into a sharp, vicious slit while the other widened, the red target at its center snapping into focus.

“Now, that,” he murmured, “sounds like good television.”

The green room doors had barely shut before Valentino started.

“Unbelievable. Pathetic.” He dropped onto the white leather sofa like someone had personally betrayed him, his feathers puffing with dramatic outrage as pink smoke curled toward the ceiling. “On live television, Vox? You let that oversized praying mantis tease the radio freak’s return right on our couch. It’s bad for the brand, honey. My girls are asking questions, the directors are distracted—it's a circus!”

Vox didn’t look at him. He was already pacing, his screen a flashing storm of loading icons and error messages.

“The numbers didn’t dip.”

“That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.” Vox’s voice snapped hard enough to make the nearest lamp buzz. “The second we stepped up to the desk—” His screen flicked toward you, a static pop cutting through the edge of his voice. “Ratings hit a seasonal high. Killjoy didn’t draw blood. She poked a hornet’s nest.”

“Yeah, well, the hornets are all over the feeds now.” Velvette didn’t look up from her phone. Her thumbs moved with aggressive speed, sharp little taps against the screen, before she shoved a tablet onto the glass coffee table. “And it's not just some feeds. Katie says his name and two seconds later he's already trending everywhere. Every platform. Someone wanted this seen.”

You stepped closer.

The screen was packed with re-trending media: broadcasts nobody had aired in years, hashtags clawing their way back to the top, fan pages that had gone quiet a decade ago suddenly posting as if no time had passed at all.

Velvette tilted the tablet toward you. “Twenty years of dust, suddenly getting traffic. Literally.”

You leaned over her shoulder, your camera-ready public voice dropping into something far colder as your eyes tracked the forum posts. It was all there: the whole narrative hell had traded on since the mid-2000s.

Everyone knew the history. A decade running the radio district at Alastor’s side, then the split, then Vox. That part had never been a secret. What the tabloids had always chased was the question underneath it: whether you’d really left, or just gone quiet. Whether the loyalty had ever actually transferred.

And now, with Alastor supposedly back and the fourth Vee contract barely dry, the boards were waking up the exact same question under a massive, pinned header: 

A CRACK IN THE V TOWER FORMATION?

Your stomach went still before your face did. “That’s not a casual archive scrape,” you said. Vox stopped pacing. You tapped the screen once. “This was planned.”

Valentino sat up a little, all his earlier outrage sharpening into gossipy interest. “Oh.” His smile stretched around his cigarette holder, red eyes lighting up. “So we’re digging up corpses, chica?”

"Worse," you muttered, stepping away from the couch. The tension in the room was a little too thick, and Vox's anxious pacing always gave you a headache. You crossed over to the small wet bar in the corner, reaching for a cold can. "We're digging up a narrative that was supposed to be re-written.”

Velvette rolled her eyes, but shifted her weight on the cushions to keep you in her line of sight. She tossed her tablet aside and slid closer, shoulders dropping as she looked up at you. “Whoever they are, they're playing old-school games. I've got eyes on the account clusters pushing this, but they're routing everything through dead broadcast towers just to choke out my filters. It’s like chasing smoke, Vee.”

"Don't stress your pretty little head too much, babe," Valentino assured her, leaning back and resting his legs right over Velvette’s lap. You walked back over with your drink, and Val reached out, playfully tugging a loose strand of your hair. "Our girl invented star quality. Let the bitch talk. We'll own the narrative and ruin them by morning."

You managed a faint smile, sitting down on the arm of the sofa right next to Velvette. For all their public insanity, inside these soundproof walls, they were the only people in Hell who actually had your back.

Before you could take a sip of your drink, Velvette’s phone let out a harsh, rhythmic chime. Then Vox’s screen glitched. A sharp line of static cut across his eyes, and every wall monitor in the green room spiked at once.

Velvette blinked down at her phone. “What the hell?”

Valentino sat forward, his earlier amusement dropping off his face. “What is it?”

“Something just hit the mainstream feeds.” Velvette swiped hard, forcing the tablet on the table to sync with her phone. “All of them.”

The trending tags loaded first. Then the image.

You set your drink down a little too carefully.

It was the cover of an old tabloid, yellowed at the edges and blown up too clean to be accidental. The headline was obnoxious, all block letters and bad punctuation, but no one in the room was looking at that.

This wasn’t a press photo. It had been taken somewhere out in the neon rain of one of Hell's older districts, close enough to be a mistake— the kind of shot you'd thought had burned to ash twenty years ago.

Whoever took the photo had caught you mid-laugh in it, half-shielded from the flash by a heavy wool coat. Alastor stood behind you, one hand at your waist, the other lifting the edge of the coat to keep you both out of the light.

The tag underneath was already climbing too fast to track.

#Hell’sOldFlame

Velvette looked from the tablet to you, jaw slack. "Since when—" She shook her head. "You always said it was mostly business. Old news. Nothing serious."

"It's old," you said. Your voice came out flat enough that even Valentino stayed quiet. "Old trash from dead channels."

Vox wasn't looking at the metrics anymore. He was looking at Alastor's face. "He's not smiling." His voice had gone strange— quiet, for once, instead of blasting through the speakers. "Seventy years. I have never once seen him not smiling."

Then, just as fast, the quiet broke. Vox’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the ice in your glass as his voice blasted back through the speakers. "And it just cost us forty percent of our traffic off The Launch page. In under a minute." His eyes flicked back to the photo before he caught himself. "Forty percent. Do you understand what that photo just did?" 

“Vox, lower the volume before you fry my signal,” Velvette snapped, though her thumbs were flying across her screen. “I’m scrubbing servers, but whoever queued this up buried the origin path in an old broadcast loop. It keeps bouncing off dead towers.”

Valentino hummed, leaning over the tablet. Pink smoke curled past his smile as his eyes settled on the photo.

“Oh.” His eyes lit up. “That’s cozy, babe. Very cozy.”

“Valentino,” you warned.

“What? I’m observing.” He tilted his head away from you, smile widening around his cigarette holder. “Careful, Vox. You’re staring at her waist again.”

Vox’s screen glitched hard enough to make the tablet flicker, a static pop cracking through his speakers. “Alastor’s a relic,” Vox snapped, his voice strained and low as he stepped closer, angling himself between you and the tablet. "An outdated radio freak with a corpse's haircut and a broadcast range held together by dust. He has nothing to do with this company."  His static hitched. "He has nothing to do with you." 

Velvette cut a look between you both, her eyes catching on the blue sparks jumping across Vox’s screen. A slow grin spread across her face, and she sank back into the couch to watch him crack.

You didn't notice. You were already staring straight through the glass table, entirely focused on the headline.

Vox turned fully toward you. The static around his screen crawled higher, casting a red glare across the leather furniture.

“You told me it was handled.” His voice had dropped lower, thick with distortion. “When we brought you in—when you finally signed on as the Fourth Vee—you said your history with him was done.”

“It is done.”

“Then why is it trending now? On the night of our biggest corporate launch in a century?!”

“Because someone knows exactly how to rattle you,” you spat out, reaching up and pulling him down by the shoulder until he was sitting beside you. “And you’re making it very easy. Alastor and I parted ways a long time ago, Vox. It was mutual. There is no blood between us…but if you go and throw a tantrum on live television, the public is going to invent a war that doesn't exist.”

Vox didn't answer right away. Instead, without seeming to think about it at all, he hooked one hand under your ankle and pulled your leg over his lap, settling it there like he'd done it a thousand times before. “I don't throw tantrums,” he said, static still crackling faintly at the edges of his screen. “I have concerns. There's a difference.”

Valentino snorted smoke through his nose. "Concerns, right. Is that what we're calling it when your whole screen goes green over some dead guy's hand on her hip? Relax, Voxy, nobody's gonna believe you gave a shit about engagement metrics looking like that."

Vox’s hand hit the coffee table, the reinforced glass cracking down the center— the other hand on your ankle never moved, thumb still tracing slow half-circles like he hadn't noticed it was there. Valentino lifted his drink clear of the spreading crack without missing a beat.

Holding her phone like a raised weapon, Velvette stood before any of you could speak again. “All of you, shut up. We don’t have time for whatever this is.”

“It’s not whatever this is,” Vox barked.

“It is absolutely whatever this is.” She pointed a finger at him, then at you. “The Launch party starts in exactly two hours. The red carpet is already packed, and thanks to that tag, every single microphone in the city is about to ask if our newest Vee is sleeping with the enemy.”

Valentino hummed. “Technically, former enemy.”

“Not helping.”

“Rarely trying to, babe.”

Velvette looked back at you, eyes scanning your face. “Can you spin this or not?”

You looked down at the tablet.

The newsprint had gone soft with age, rain-spotted at the edges— a piece of your life you'd never let anywhere near V Tower. His hand at your waist. The coat. For a second, you could feel the weight of it on your shoulders again.

You picked up your drink and took a slow sip before speaking. “Open the ballroom doors, Vel. Let the press in. Let them ask whatever they want. Let the crowd get drunk.” You reached over and stole the cigarette right out of Val's holder. He watched, delighted, as you took a slow drag.

Velvette’s mouth curved into a sharp grin. “That’s the answer I was looking for.”

You stood up, smoothing a hand down the front of your outfit. Vox's hand slipped off your ankle, and neither of you looked at where it had been. “We’re giving them a spectacle,” you said, looking back at him. “And if the Radio Demon wants to play with old fire…we’ll let him burn.”

The next hour and a half disappeared into hands.

Hands fixing cuffs, touching up lipstick, sweeping broken glass into neat little piles before anyone important could step on it. Someone brought fresh drinks. Someone replaced the coffee table. Nobody mentioned the crack in the old one.

That was how V Tower survived most disasters. Fix the lighting. Fix the angle. Keep moving.

Velvette stood at the mirror, already bored with the crisis now that she had an outfit on. Valentino drifted behind her in silk and smoke, humming along to music no one else could hear. You looked at your reflection. The person staring back looked untouched.

Good.

You let the smile come back and followed them out.

The atrium was already packed; the noise hit first — a raw, deafening roar that rattled your teeth the second you crossed the threshold. Camera drones hung low over the velvet ropes, flashes bursting hot and white, while a wall of reporters shouted over each other from behind the barricade.

Valentino slipped an arm through yours, like this was all deeply amusing to him. It probably was. "Smile, baby. The vultures are starving tonight."

"Let them choke," Velvette tossed back, all gloss and teeth as she leaned closer to you. "By the way, Val, did you see the feed? The hashtag gained another fifty thousand impressions while we were getting dressed."

"Oh, I know," Valentino chuckled, leaning down slightly so his sunglasses brushed your shoulder. "Look at him. He's going to fry his own circuits before we hit the first microphone."

A few steps ahead, Vox waved to the cameras like nothing was wrong. It would have worked, too, if you hadn't been close enough to feel the heat coming off his screen. Every few seconds, a thin line of static cut across his eyes.

"Careful, Vox," Velvette called out over the screaming fans. "You glitch on my live stream, I'm cropping you out of every photo. It ruins my color grading."

"My signal is flawless, Velvette."

Valentino leaned closer to you, nudging your side with his elbow. "His left eyebrow is currently vibrating at sixty hertz. Calm down, papi. You look like a broken television in a shady motel."

A camera drone swooped low before you could answer.

You turned into Valentino like you'd been waiting for it, one hand settling against his arm as the flash went off. The laugh you gave was perfectly timed.

"He's sensitive about vintage media," you stage-whispered, just loud enough for Velvette to hear. And, judging by the way Vox's shoulders locked, loud enough for him too.

Velvette snorted, adjusting the sharp line of your collar for the cameras before stepping back to give you the floor. She didn’t bother to lower her voice. "Please. He's sensitive because he didn't get to exclusive-license your history first."

Before Vox could turn around and snap at either of you,  security opened the ropes. The press rushed forward, a dozen microphone flags shoved forward into your faces like a row of spears.

“Overlords! Overlords, over here! Is ⁠#Hell’sOldFlame⁠ an official confirmation of a split inside V Tower?”

“Is the Radio Demon involved with The Launch?”

“Are the Vees prepared for a hostile takeover from the old regime?”

Vox stopped so abruptly the nearest reporter almost walked into him. His screen flashed white, a low hum buzzing through his speakers.

You stepped in before he could make it worse. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves, darlings,” you cut in, taking the nearest microphone before its owner could shove it any closer. Your smile warmed for the camera. “A twenty-year-old tabloid scan trends for ten minutes and suddenly Hell thinks it’s uncovered an Overlord conspiracy.”

The reporter blinked against the flashbulbs. “So the photo is real?”

“The photo is old.” You raised a brow. “So is the story. It’s a charming little relic from a bygone era, back when Hell still ran on paper and ink. But tonight?”

You stepped back, casually sliding your hand into the crook of Vox’s rigid arm, giving it a firm squeeze. “Tonight belongs to the future. The ballroom doors are open, the drinks are free, and I suggest you find something more current to obsess over.”

The press line went quiet.

Behind you, Velvette gave a whistle.

Valentino clapped once, loud enough to make the front row jump. “You heard her, vultures! Inside! Move!”

The ballroom doors opened, and the party swallowed the red carpet whole.

Bass rolled out first, followed by red light and the sharp-sweet smell of expensive liquor. The crowd pushed forward, the press scrambling after them, because nothing killed a scandal faster than an open bar and something prettier to look at.

You crossed the threshold with your hand still tucked into Vox’s arm.

He didn’t look at you. His screen had settled back into blue, but his attention was already fixed on the metric wall above the dance floor.

“The tag dropped three slots in the trending algorithm,” he muttered.

You gave his arm one last squeeze before letting go, already moving toward the VIP tier. “You’re welcome.”

For almost an hour, the spin held. The party did what it was supposed to: lights, liquor, bass loud enough to shake a thought loose before it could become a headline. You moved through the room like nothing had happened, letting the cameras catch you laughing at the right moments.

By midnight, #HellsOldFlame had slipped safely under The Launch.

The bass hiccuped first. One note held a half-second too long, distorted, like the speaker was straining against something it couldn’t quite play.

Vox’s screen stuttered. You caught it out of the corner of your eye—not his usual glitch, something rougher, green cutting sideways across his face—but before you could turn toward him, the wall screens went with it, logos warping into grid lines.

Then, the music died mid-beat.

Nobody moved. Somewhere near the bar, a glass clinked down too hard.

Into the quiet came a scratch, a needle finding a groove, and then jazz, tinny and bright, the kind that hadn’t been played in this building in years.

The doors at the back of the ballroom groaned open, rain hissing in behind them.

A tall, sharp silhouette filled the doorway, framed by the dark street outside. He was already smiling. He always was.

The entire room held its breath.

For seven years, Hell had only said his name in careful voices. He was a warning with teeth, a rumor that made rooms go quiet. And now, he was standing under Vox’s own lights like he’d been invited.

Alastor stepped inside. His gaze moved over the frozen crowd, past security, past the executives, past Vox sparking on the upper deck.

Then it locked directly onto you.

The radio static swelled into a warm, crackling hum, his voice broadcasting with canned theatricality. It was the exact same frequency that had rattled your drink earlier, when Vox slammed the table— but this time it came from the room itself.

“Why, look at this grand assembly!” Alastor purred, taking another step forward as the shadows at his feet lengthened into jagged claws. “A truly magnificent spectacle. And here I thought I might have missed the registration for the evening's festivities. I do hope I’m not late.”

He paused, tilting his staff toward you. When he spoke again, the theatrical echo dropped away, replaced by a quiet, terribly familiar fondness.

“It has been a terribly long time, cher.”

“Al?”

The name slipped out before you could stop it.

Alastor’s head tilted, and a soft chuckle drifted through the speakers. Of course he had heard you. “Ah, so you do remember,” he grinned. “For a moment, I was afraid all this machinery had gotten to you.”

The mezzanine railing sparked under Vox’s grip. His screen flooded red, error codes tearing across his face as a low hum rolled through the upper deck.

“You.”

Blue lightning cracked through the ballroom as Vox materialized on the floor. The crowd scattered back as he surged forward, ozone burning through the air. He planted himself between you and Alastor, his frame completely blocking the Radio Demon from your sight.

“Shut the fuck up and get out.” Vox’s voice ripped through the speakers. “You’re trespassing on my grid, you dusty piece of shit.”

“My, my, what a welcoming committee!” Alastor leaned weightlessly on his staff, looking at Vox with the patronizing curiosity of a man examining a loud insect. “And here I thought VoxTek prided itself on customer service. Tell me, old friend, do you always greet your distinguished guests with such a tragic signal-to-noise ratio?”

“I am not your friend, you pathetic, outdated relic,” Vox snarled, his speakers buzzing with angry distortion. He didn't look back, but his hand shot out behind him and locked around your wrist. He was overheating badly enough that you could feel it through your clothes. “You've been dead for seven years. You're a ghost. You don't exist anymore.”

“Oh, I assure you, I am very much intact,” Alastor chuckled. His smile didn't move, but his eyes dropped to Vox's hand locked around your wrist, then to how he'd pulled you against his side.

You felt Vox’s pulse jump against your wrist. You hadn't even known he still had one.

Alastor’s gaze found yours through the narrow gap beside Vox’s shoulder. “Though it seems you’ve acquired a rather loud shadow since we last spoke, cher.” His eyes slid back to Vox. “Tell me, does he always speak for you, or does he simply lack the bandwidth to let others take the mic?”

Vox’s grip tightened.

“Vox.” You didn’t pull away—that would look like weakness to the crowd of Overlords watching from the shadows—but you shot him a sharp look. “Let go.”

One by one, his fingers reluctantly loosened. You stepped around him before the silence could sour any further, a smile sliding back onto your face even though it felt cold there.

“Alastor,” you greeted, meeting his eyes head-on. “You know, most people RSVP. You certainly know how to pick an airdate.”

“And miss such a spectacular premiere? Heavens, no!” He gestured broadly with his staff. “Why, I would never let a bit of cheap yellow journalism dictate the terms of my return.”

Alastor didn’t spare the camera drones a glance. He stepped past Vox like the man wasn’t overheating badly enough to warp the air around him, crossed to the bar, and took a seat.

The demon behind the counter stared.

Alastor smiled.

A glass of whiskey appeared in front of him a second later.

“A charming little relic,” he said, echoing you as he lifted the glass. His eyes found yours over the rim, sharp with something that almost looked like approval. “Our lovely host was quite right. If Hell is truly so starved for entertainment that an old photograph can cause all this fuss, then perhaps my absence has gone on long enough.”

A murmur moved through the crowd. Vox stayed completely still.

Alastor raised his glass toward you. “To new beginnings, cher. The main feature is about to begin.” He downed the drink in one smooth motion, set the glass back on the counter with a clean clink, and stood.

Before Vox’s processors could even begin to register the sheer humiliation of being entirely ignored in his own building, Alastor was already moving toward the exit.

“Do enjoy your launch...”

Alastor’s gaze flicked to Vox at last, his toothy smile widening.

“...Vincent.”

The lights snapped. His silhouette dissolved into a pool of pure black, and Alastor vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there.

For one awful second, no one breathed. The radio static cut off, leaving the ballroom in silence.

Then, the metric wall rewrote itself.

#Hell’sOldFlame dropped so fast it nearly disappeared. A new tag slammed into its place:

 #TheRadioDemonReturns

The ballroom erupted. Reporters turned, drones swinging after a ghost already gone into the dark. When the bass came back, louder than before, the crowd took the excuse. Drinks lifted again as conversations restarted too fast, and the ballroom forced itself back into motion.

Beside you, Vox hadn’t moved. His screen was still a blinding white, one frozen error code stretched across his face while a low, broken whine crawled out of his speakers.

Suddenly, his screen snapped back to blue. Vox lunged forward, closing the distance until he was practically looming over you, his voice dropping into a hiss.

“What the fuck was that?” he snarled, clawed fingers twitching at his sides. “Cher? You called him Al? You stood there and let that ancient piece of garbage rewrite my fucking launch into his welcome-back party?!”

“Our launch,” you corrected, your voice low. You kept your expression locked in place, very aware of the cameras drifting overhead. “Read the room, Vox. We killed the scandal. Alastor dismissed it himself.”

His screen crackled.

“If we fight right now, the press wins.”

“I don’t give a shit about the press right now!” Vox’s voice glitched, a high-pitched frequency piercing through his words. “He walked into my building, ignored me, and toasted to you. What are you playing at? What THE FUCK IS HE TO YOU?!”

“He’s a ghost who just handed us a win, you INSECURE IDIOT!” you screamed back, matching his venom beat for beat, completely blind to the rest of the room as you invaded his space. “I saved the brand tonight. If you could stop obsessing over him for five seconds, you’d realize—”

Velvette’s laugh cut right between you, loud enough to break the spell. “Oh, this is disgusting,” she snickered, stepping up beside you both.

Valentino leaned over her shoulder a moment later, a plume of red smoke trailing from his lips. “Disgusting? I think it’s kinda hot. Seriously, though, you two need to shut up and look up.”

You and Vox turned toward the metric display above the dance floor.

The live wall was updating at a dizzying speed. #TheRadioDemonReturns was still there, but rapidly descending. Above it, the new number-one trending topic in Hell glowed in flashing neon letters:

#JustPartners?

Right beneath it, the sub-tags were already multiplying by the second:

#VoxProtects

#VTowerPowerCouple

Someone in the crowd had caught the whole exchange on their phone and posted it— Vox's hand locked around your wrist, the way he'd planted himself in front of you— and it had done more for you in thirty seconds than any press conference could.

Valentino let out a delighted gasp, clapping Vox on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Oh, baby! See? I told you, papi. They love a protector.”

Velvette was already typing furiously. “Alastor thought he was hijacking the launch. Idiot didn’t realize he just gave us the best promotional B-roll of the century. We look untouchable.”

The cheer had already started by the time anyone said a word, glasses lifting toward you and Vox from the VIP decks, spreading through the floor. The music, already back at full volume, seemed to swell right along with it.

You kept your eyes on the metrics wall, but the sudden weight of Vox’s stare pulled your attention right off the screens. When you turned to look at him, he didn't manage to break eye contact fast enough to go unnoticed.

You gave him the smallest, sharpest smile you could get away with on camera. “Guess we got lucky,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, not quite looking at you. “Lucky.” His hand found yours in the crowd as the cameras swooped in.

The door to your bedroom clicked shut behind you, cutting off the pressure of the party downstairs.

Alone, finally.

You crossed to the vanity, pulling off your gloves and dropping them onto the glass before catching your own reflection. Your camera smile was gone, but your wrist still felt warm where Vox had grabbed you on the carpet.

A sudden wave of electric heat hit the back of your neck without warning, smelling heavily of ozone and scorched copper. No doors had opened, no footsteps had sounded, but the sudden shift in pressure told you everything.

You didn't bother to look up as a familiar blue glare reflected in the vanity glass. “The ballroom's full of investors,” you remarked, dragging a cotton pad across your makeup. “Velvette's going to notice if both her headliners vanish before the midnight toast.”

“Let her notice,” Vox snapped from behind you.

You turned, crossing your arms and leaning your back against the vanity. Vox was pacing, his claws flexed at his sides.

“Very strategic.” You folded your arms tighter. “You dragged me off the carpet in front of half the Pride District because you couldn't handle a few questions about a twenty-year-old photo."

“It wasn't just a few questions.” Vox's voice cracked into static, hard enough to flicker the lights overhead. He stopped pacing. “The feeds are choked with it. The second we roll out the biggest launch of the century, that piece of trash drops one archive file and you just let him control the room.”

“I was managing the press, Vox. I had them exactly where I wanted them.” You stepped into his space, refusing to give ground. “But you couldn't play along for ten minutes. You had to go full territorial and show all of Hell exactly how easy it is to rattle you.”

“I am not rattled.” White static ripped across his display as he leaned down, inches from your face. “I'm trying to run an empire.”

“You're throwing a tantrum.” Your chest was heaving now too. "You're acting like a damn child over a ghost story. What is your problem?”

“You.” The word came out stripped of everything polished, everything broadcast-smooth, just raw feedback. “You're my problem. Okay? Fuck. Yes. I'm jealous. How could I not be? That bastard had you for a decade. He walked in the second you landed in Hell and took something I've wanted since the day you walked into this tower.”

The confession left a ringing silence behind it.

Vox went entirely rigid, irises blown wide. His breathing was heavy and erratic as the static around his shoulders finally cut out. For all his money and all his towers, he just stood there looking entirely bare. Trembling.

His claws hovered between you, half raised, like he wanted to snatch the words back out of the air.

The silence pulled tight enough to snap.

Then it did.

You didn't think. You grabbed the lapels of his coat and dragged him down.

The kiss hit hard enough to send a literal jolt through his frame. He froze against your mouth, paralyzed by the shock of it for a split second. Then the restraint gave way. A low, rough growl rattled through his chest, his hands slamming onto your waist to haul you against him until your hips hit the vanity.

He crowded you hard against the wood, his mouth crashing into yours with a raw hunger that left no space for anything else. Electric current snapped between your lips until the sheer lack of oxygen forced you to pull back, your fingers still knotted in his lapels. Vox stayed right there, his forehead nearly touching yours as his internal fans hummed at a frantic pitch. His hands were white-knuckled on your waist, anchoring you so tightly against his frame that your next breath hitched.

“You still dragged me off the floor like a lunatic,” you breathed, keeping your eyes on Vox.

His forehead dropped against yours. The glass of his screen was hot against your skin. “I know.”

“I'm still furious with you.”

“You should be.”

You trailed your fingers from his lapels up along the edge of his collar, where the screen met the rest of him.

Dropping your voice to a murmur, you leaned in and pressed your lips there. “So what's the play, Vinny? Velvette's waiting. Do we go back down?”

The sound of his actual name against your lips made his internal fans go dead for a second. He didn't move. His gaze dropped to your mouth, his screen darkening into a blue that had nothing to do with the network.

“...The broadcast's automated for the next hour.” His voice came through clean, for what might have been the first time all night. “Velvette can handle the investors. Val's occupied.”

"Is that so?"

He didn’t bother to answer directly, instead stepping in to crowd you fully against the vanity, one hand trailing up your side as the other tangled itself in your hair. “Nobody's looking for us. No feeds. No logs.”

His thumb traced your lower lip, claw tilting your chin up.

“We have an hour.” His voice was barely a whisper now. “Tell me to open the door, and we go downstairs.”

He paused.

“...Or tell me to leave it locked.”

The crazy string of events that led to this once in a lifetime moment were peculiar, to say the least. It was only just a few days ago that you became a lone girl, aging out of the orphanage, waving goodbye to your friends, and wishing them luck and families of their own. You had trudged through snow-covered pathways one step at time–apprehension in your heart–, on your way to new life, whilst longing for a family of your own. Now, if everything went smoothly, your dream would be coming true.

“Morningstar…” You mumbled a last name that had been etched into your brain. Never-ending, mind-numbing studying of family history and etiquette of the Morningstar family filled your days since Vincent and Alastor discovered you in that abandoned castle. It was quite the lucky coincidence considering you would’ve never stepped foot in there had your new dog, Razzle, not done so first. If you hadn’t spotted him stuck in the snow during your trek, this wouldn’t be your life right now.

“Bark!”

Speaking of the little menace. A smile pulled up the edge of your lips. Unlike the ships loud horn, that was a sound you had grown very accustomed to. You glanced behind to see your furry companion wagging his tail. “Something on your mind?” You asked, crouching down to stroke his head. Razzle ducked away from your loving hand and began trotting opposite of you, barking again.

“Huh? What’s wrong?” You questioned, standing to follow behind.

Razzle offered no response and continued on his leisurely walk. With every glance back at you he took, it was obvious the dog was expecting you to follow behind. You rolled your eyes at his silly behavior and kept going as a means to placate him. It didn’t take long for you to spot the two men who had fashioned themselves as Morningstar experts. Judging by the checkered board perched on aging crate between them, it was safe to assume they were in the middle of a round of chess.

Vincent held onto his chin, a pensive expression contorting his features. Alastor, on the other hand, appeared smug with crossed arms. From those looks alone, anyone passing by could discern who was winning.

“Hmm, checkmate?” Alastor snickered with a low drawl. He leaned into Vincent’s space, elbows on his kness. The rickety crate being utilized as a chair leaned with him.

Vincent’s lip curled and he shoved Alastor away. “No! Let me think, damn it!” He shouted, a rosy tint on his cheeks. He reverted back to his thinking pose.

Alastor rolled his eyes and leaned back, jerking due to the uneven crate. He mentally prepared himself for yet another prolonged game of chess despite there being a clear winner. His head leaned to rest over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in festering boredom. A paper lifting with every pass of wind grabbed at his attention. His aging notebook sat at the edge of the board, where their respective scores were cataloged in a neat scrawl.

Alastor Vincent

III I

With every lift given to it by the ocean’s breeze, another page underneath it was revealed.

Princess Vincent

IIIII III III

Alastor chuckled to himself and smoothed the page down with his fingertips. That princess of theirs certainly held a fiery wit, all of it directed towards a certain sore loser. Watching the two go tit for tat on the train ride was an entertaining sight. How unfortunate the show had come to an abrupt end when their respective train car suddenly unlatched from the rest and threatened to crash. Alastor previously pondered on what could have possibly triggered such a dramatic turn of events. Nothing ever came to mind. His only being an intangible purple mist.

The strain on his brain from thinking too hard only served to frustrate him. That anger made him lose focus on the end goal he shared with the man sitting across from him. There was no point in losing sleep over something impossible to prove anyway. “What a pain…” He grumbled, biting his lip and forcibly evicting the mist from his mind.

“Keep your pants on, Al! I’m almost done!”

Alastor rolled his eyes. His eye roll was a common occurrence when in the company of someone so frustrating, one thing he successfully deduced. He forced his mouth to remain shut. There was no reason to engage in a battle of wits along with the current game of chess. Nobody would hear the end of it if Vincent lost to both.

Something solid nudged at the side of his shoe. He turned his head downward and spotted Razzle, wagging his tail with his tongue out. “Have you found our princess, ti chen?” Alastor asked, idly scratching under the little mutt’s chin. Despite his heavy distaste in dogs, Razzle was far easier to tolerate than Vincent at times.

Razzle barked in response to his inquiry and pointed his head in the opposite direction to direct Alastor’s attention up. His head lifted–body still bent over as his hand remained attached to Razzle’s chin–and spotted you. Half-lidded eyes once filled with boredom widened, interest coming to consume them. You stood a few steps away, twirling in a new dress–paid for by Alastor and Vincent–as a means to show it off.

“My, my. What a lovely sight,” commented Alastor. He stood from the slowly rotting crate and subdued a pained groan–a dull pain had spread over his ass. He took your hand in his and lifted his arm to assist you in another turn. “You look just about ready for the ball, cher.” He bowed and pressed a kiss onto your hand.

Alastor delicately dropped your hand and clapped his own together. “Only thing missing now is dancing lessons,” he said. He meandered over to where Vincent sat–who was silently convincing himself the game wasn’t over–and grabbed him by the collar. “Vincent, be a dear and help. We both know the game is won.” With a surprising amount of strength, Alastor dragged Vincent up from his old crate.

A pair of hands reached down towards the board. “Hey! Come on!” Vincent then stretched his arms behind him to claw at Alastor’s wrist. “I almost had it!” He whined.

Alastor made no response to the preposterous claim and pushed Vincent to stand beside you. The sore loser rubbed at the back of his neck, perspiration beginning to shine on his forehead and dampen the hairs hanging over it. “I, uh… I’m not really good at this,” he muttered sheepishly.

“Don’t be shy, old pal. Place your hand on the lady’s waist and hold her hand,” instructed Alastor form the sidelines. After a few seconds of watching Vincent refuse to take charge and being entrapped by the color of his shoes, Alastor’s eye twitched. With a sigh, he delicately placed a hand over his cheek. “Oh my, must I do everything myself?” He goaded, nearing closer to where you waited.

Vincent violently twisted his head around to glare at Alastor. “N-NO! Shut it!” He sputtered with reddening cheeks. With a now rage filled confidence Vincent grabbed hold of your waist and dragged you in.

Your controlled breathing stuttered the moment he pulled you into him. Your hands lifted and instinctively placed themselves atop his shoulders. His body was pressed so tightly against your own, his chest squeezed into yours with every inhale he took. His body heat seeped through his shirt, hitting you in waves and warming your abdomen. The steady hands on your waist caused the increasing heat to spread over your face and an involuntary shiver to skitter down your spine.

Even as your body shuddered from his unexpected warmth, your mind couldn’t even comprehend it properly. You were too busy losing yourself in his piercing gaze. Those eyes. One green. One blue. Such simple colors, but on him, those two colors reflected what truly makes the earth so beautiful. Evergreen flora so vast one could get lost in it forever. Crashing waves that threatened to pull you in. Like a siren’s enchanting song, those eyes dragged you into their depths.

Every second staring into those mismatched eyes was coaxing you further into his space. Vincent felt himself succumbing to the same spell.

A polite cough cutting through the tension made you flinch away. “Ahem.” Alastor’s hand was in a fist over his mouth. “Do remember it’s one hand on the waist. The other is used to hold her hand.” He waved his free hand, pointedly stabbing one of Vincent’s own with a look.

One of the hands resting over your waist ripped itself away. “Uh, right. Yeah.” Vincent nodded and grabbed one of your hands on his shoulders.

Alastor shook his head with a sigh and perked up to begin your long overdue lessons. “Vincent, you lead. Princess, you follow,” he said, gesturing to each of you as he spoke your names. “Now, 1, 2, 3… 1, 2, 3…” He sang rhythmically.

Vincent’s brows pinched together and became tighter the longer the dance persisted. He counted along under his breath and stared down at his shoes instead of you. He stumbled over his feet trying to match Alastor’s slow count. His movements were rigid and you could feel his uncertainty with every step. Due to his, your own steps suffered along with it. Developing the necessary skills to impress your long-lost family was going to be impossible at this rate.

“Time to switch partners.”

A different hand came into the corner of your eye and swooped in to take the hand held by Vincent. A sharp gasp split your lips open as you lost your footing. You leaned in towards your new partner, resting most of your weight against as you gathered your bearings. A careful arm wrapped itself around your waist.

“Hu-Hey!”

Alastor stared down at you, paying Vincent’s protest no mind. He smiled and kept a tight hold on you. “Careful, cher. Wouldn’t want you falling on us,” he teased, softly coaxing you upright with every pass of his feet.

You silently nodded, unable to form proper words. Fingers perched on his shoulder dug into the fabric of his shirt, scrunching it and causing small hills of creases to form. That same pull you experienced with Vincent hit you again with Alastor. Your body pushed itself into his, the heat growing in your gut invaded your face, and a different pair of eyes sang the same song from before.

The dancing lessons didn’t stop until the dimming sun descended under the distant horizon and the moon rose to fill the space with darkness. Throughout your lesson, you were swapped between Alastor and Vincent every few minutes to accustom yourself to an “authentic ball experience”–Alastor’s words. Hopefully, dancing sloppily and stumbling like a newborn fawn was a common occurrence.

It was currently Alastor’s turn, one last hurrah, he had said. Despite having been on his feet for multiple dances, he remained steady on his feet and didn’t stutter over them once-unlike Vincent. “One final twirl and we’ll be done, dear,” he said, shifting away with one hand staying in yours to move you in a delicate circle.

Your eye drifted shut, allowing yourself to be fully guided by his careful hand. You were completely blind to your surroundings, unaware of the menace inching towards your feet, eager to join the fun one more time. The edge of your shoe nicked Razzle’s paw causing him to yelp in alarm and scamper off. You responded with sound of alarm of your own, eyes shooting open. In an effort to fix yourself, the heel of your shoe knocked against the toe of the other.

You flailed your arms behind you in circles to try and catch yourself before the fall on the ship’s hard wooden deck. It did you no good. You clenched your teeth and eyes tight to brace for the impact. But, instead of slamming into rough wood, a pair of sturdy arms caught you. You grabbed the forearms of whoever saved you to ground yourself.

Clenched eyes born from fear slowly peeled open, blinking a few times to dissipate a temporary blur. Those same eyes opened wider after processing both Alastor and Vincent’s scared gazes. One of their own arms was secured over your waist. You stared at each of them while both stared back at you, all of you panting from rushed adrenaline. Their grip–as well as yours–stayed even as your breathing slowed. Those feelings from before crawled back into your heart. That overwhelming need to be in their space.

That needy ache gave you the strength to stand on your feet. You called upon that strength as the two man stared at you with a deep look in their eyes. As if they wanted to taste every inch of you with no mercy. Your lips parted and you shuffled closer into their space. The heat churning low in your gut, demanded to explode and spread throughout every inch of you body. You were prepared to grant it access to every part of you as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Bark!”

A pair of tiny paws smacked into the back of your knee, sending you forward and into their chests. “Argh! Razzle!” You scolded, craning your neck back to glare at your mischievous companion.

Both men cleared their throats in perfect synchrony and helped you to your feet. The three of you avoided each other’s eyes after stepping away.

“Perhaps it’s time to call it a night,” said Alastor.

You and Vincent nodded in agreement. Not another word was spoke between you three.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Yeah, that’s right… Fall asleep. There’s no escaping me in your mind, spoiled princess.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

As the darkness of the midnight consumed the starry sky, strong winds howled and shot heavy drops of rain against the deck. The ship rocked, fighting back against the punching gusts of wind and raging waves bullying its sides. Undeterred by the stormy gust was a tenacious purple-colored mist. It wormed its way between the cracks of the ship to where three people lay peacefully asleep. The smoke slithered and prodded at various belongings as if searching for something.

The mist–as if it caught scent like a dog–creeped up a bed post and over the sheets of a certain long-lost princess yawning serenely and shuffling in her sleep. It circled around her in delight, transforming itself into three innocent butterflies.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

A bothersome purple light shone over your closed lids before being completely overtaken by a softer golden haze. You smiled and opened your eyes. The sky above you was colored in the hues of the setting sun.

You placed your hands down as a means to sit up and brushed your fingertips over the field of golden-green grass you laid on. As you sat up, you took in the sight of flora stained with the same sunset colors.

Just across from where you lay stood a little girl, covering her mouth to suppress delighted giggles. She smiled at you with three butterflies flying in circles around her head. She lifted her arms and waved them out, beckoning the creatures in your direction.

You laughed, eyes crinkling as their thin wings tickled your cheeks. The butterflies flew away after circling you. You stood to follow them.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Three butterflies leaving a trail of purple mist called you out of bed towards the hung open door. The door leading out of the room swayed open and closed, matching the movements of the ship. It somehow managed to click shut when you stepped out.

Razzle, after feeling an odd shift in the sheets and hearing the door, awoke to see your spot empty. He grumbled in confusion and jumped from the bed to begin clawing at the door. He barked while pawing at the stubborn door knob. After making no progress, he growled and leaped to where your “tutors” lay.

“Wha… What happened?” Mumbled Vincent, groggily sitting up and rubbing at his tired eyes.

“Razzle?” Alastor asked, confused. He sat up and glanced around the entire room. His eyes widened at the empty bed. “Where is she?”

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

The ship was forcibly shoved from side to side with every violent, towering wave smacking into it. Harsh rain pelted you at every angle, but there was no real world feeling in any part of your body. The butterflies sang to you like a bewitching siren, luring you further out onto the deck.

You fumbled with every step, unaware the ocean’s fury was causing your uneven steps. One heavy tilt of the ship sent you down on your hands and knees, crawling up a set of stairs.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

You laughed wholeheartedly, grabbing onto unsteady rocks as the little girl jovially skipped ahead. “Come on!” She called out, giggling back at you. You stood upright, wobbling on two feet as a serene breeze danced over your body. You placed your hands over the skirt of your dress as the hem lifted with each gust of wind. You scrunched your hands into the fabric and lifted it to your knees to skip along with the girl. This dress was nothing like the one you had worn… Earlier? You shook the thought from your mind.

The two of you scampered over a log supplied by a fallen tree. You stood taller on it and could see two people, a man and a woman standing at the edge of a cliff. Both of them had hair that matched the girl’s golden strands. The two smiled and waved after catching sight of you, you waved back. They jumped from the cliff with an excited squeal after receiving your greeting. You ran to where they once stood and watched as they relaxed in the calm water. Something about them felt familiar to you.

“Hello, sunshine!” Greeted the man.

You grabbed onto a thin vine swinging down a tree and leaned over the cliff. “Hello!” You responded with one hand cupped over your mouth. The sound waves echoed down, rippling the still water.

He moved his arms up in a come hither motion. The woman sitting beside him copied his movements. “Jump!” They both called out. The little girl standing beside you headed their call and leaped down, subsequently splashing the two. They all laughed and showered her head with numerous kisses

You smiled fondly and placed a hand over your chest to still your excited heart. One of your feet teetered at the edge of the rock, knocking stray pebbles down into the ravine. If you took the plunge and removed any doubts lingering in your heart, you could be happy like them. Another foot scooted forward. It would be so easy to…

Jump…

The butterflies swirled around you, their wings stroked the tips of your ears. Each flap of their wings spoke to you.

Jump, princess…

All common sense fluttered away from your mind and left with the kind butterflies. You tipped your body forward, intent on joining the loving family.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Two men threw open the rickety door of their room and tripped over one another attempting to climb up a set of dampened stairs. Their hands slid off the wobbly, moist railing and fell onto the steps in front of them. Razzle barked from behind, staying trapped at the foot of the stairs.

Water sent from the sky and sea splashed over the deck–soaking it and themselves. The two could barely take a steady step before sliding over puddles of water.

“Princess!” They both called out. Their shouting was swallowed by the thunderous booms of the raging storm. Their necks ached and strained with each sharp turn. A pathetic sense of desperation ate at their gut as they tirelessly searched through the blinding storm.

Your carefree laughter mixed together with the clapping thunder. Lightening spreading throughout the clouds highlighted your silhouette. That laughter was picked up and carried to Vincent’s ears by the howling wind. His eyes grew wide and he gripped Alastor’s shirt to shove him in your direction.

“There!” He shouted, pointing his finger towards a body standing atop the ship’s railing. You were pushed forward and back as if you were dancing along with the storm’s tune.

Alastor gasped and ran towards your uneven standing. “Cher, stop!” He yelled out.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

“Cher, stop!”

Your serene expression dropped and your brows pinched together. You looked away from the loving family to find the voice. The cadence of it was recognizable, but it was difficult to discern from where.

Yes… Jump!

The kind man sitting in the ravine lifted his hands up to you like he was trying to catch you when you finally jumped. An orange glow not born from the sunset haze licked at his body and spread all over the water, evaporating whatever it touched. The woman and little girl did not scramble or shriek in protest. They disappeared with the surging flames.

You gasped-hands over your mouth-when the flames reached you and burned away the serene meadow of wildflowers behind you. An unsteady, crumbling tower is what held you up and kept you from falling into a sea of skull and flames

“JUMP, PRINCESS!” He yelled, staring up at you with glowing red eyes. Teeth protruded from his mouth and morphed into long fangs. The pair of hands that once kindly beckoned you into the ravine became sharpened claws. Pointed ears grew from the top of his head.

You yelped and leaned away from his invite. You looked to the butterflies for answers or help. The innocent insects were split open by what truly lied within them. Their faces grew grotesque, matching the creature’s at the bottom with pointy wings holding them up. The little monster’s clawed and tugged at the hem of your skirt to pull you down.

Tears filled your eyes as you shook your head and fruitlessly kicked at them. “No! No!” You yelled, pushing them away.

The creature cackled and grew in size to reach you. “Yeah! That’s right, babe! The Morningstar curse!” He howled, closing his claws into your body.

You struggled against his old with all your might as the devil’s faces filled your vision.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Vincent and Alastor worked in tandem, clenching their hands into your clothes and dragging you off from the ship’s railing. Their grip stayed iron-clad, even as you wriggled and shoved at their bodies. “No! No!” You grunted, the heel of your palm knocking Vincent’s glasses out of place.

“Princess!” Alastor cupped your face and softly pinched your cheeks.

“Princess, wake up!” Vincent commanded, shaking you at the waist.

Your eyes finally shot open with clenched teeth you panted heavily. Tears streaming down your face mixed with the unrelenting rain. “The… The Morningstar curse!” You sputtered, frantically turning your head in all directions. Your held onto their arms as your feet slipped against the soaked floor.

Vincent shook his head with furrowed brows. “What?” He probed.

“Cher, what are you talking about?” Alastor’s thumb softly stroked the apple of your cheek, soothing the red he blotched into your skin.

You whimpered and pushed yourself forward to hide your face in between their bodies. “I keep seeing faces… So many faces…” You cried, rubbing your face into their damp shirts.

Both of their wrapped over your back to keep your close. Their gazes met, a confused expression painting their features. Neither one could make up a reason for this additional strange occurrence. Their gaze down-turned back to you.

“I… It’s okay, doll.” Vincent comforted, rubbing your back.

Alastor nodded and stroked your hair. “You’re safe. It was only a nightmare.”

Lingering at the corner of his eyes, a mist stubbornly slithered at the railing you once stood on. Alastor’s neck snapped in hopes of catching a proper look at it, but it dissipated with the wind.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱