Work Text:
Amberlynne Pinkle stood on the street corner, pressing her back against a billboard featuring some demon–porn–star, and stared at the eternally burgundy sky. Somewhere overhead, clinging to a cornice, a sinner screamed–transformed into something midway between a lizard and an office clerk. Hell hadn't lived up to expectations, but it hadn't disappointed either–it was simply different, like a Chinese restaurant that serves sushi, or like a role–playing game with a neural network: everything seems to be in its place, but the soul is absent.
Amberlynne, however, hadn't lost her soul here–it had been taken from her much earlier. Perhaps at the moment she first watched an anime with a demon–lover. Or, possibly, when she wrote her first fanfiction, in which the main character–based on herself, but with pink hair and magical abilities–fell in love with a demon who killed her parents, and then her too, but it was romantic because he did it gently.
Now she was here. Real Hell. With real demons. And somewhere in this city, in a building with that stupid sign reading "I.M.P," worked him.
"Blitzy–kun," Amberlynne whispered, and her cat tail twitched excitedly. "I will find you. I will be by your side. Forever."
She didn't know that Blitzo was at that very moment sitting under his desk in his office, hands clamped over his mouth, praying to every god he didn't believe in that this crazy bitch wouldn't come back again.
***
Three weeks later, Amberlynne stood before V Tower. The tower of black glass and neon that rose above the Entertainment District like a tombstone on the grave of good taste. She hadn't come here because she'd given up on Blitzo–no, never, she would love him until the end of eternity and then a little bit more–but because Blitzo, as it turned out, was busy. And not just busy, but hiding. And not just hiding, but had hired some imps to patrol the perimeter and drive away "the blue cat with pink locks and a crazed look."
"This isn't a crazed look," Amberlynne explained to one of the imps as he tried to detach her from his leg. "This is passion. There's a special connection between us. He just hasn't realized it yet."
The imp wheezed something unintelligible and attempted to flee. Amberlynne watched him go with a long, lingering gaze, then switched her attention to a new target.
V Tower, she'd learned, was home to three powerful overlords–Vox, Velvette, and Valentino. The last interested her least: some moth, a porn empire, boring. But Velvette ran fashion shows, and Vox controlled every screen in the city. Which meant through them, she could show Blitzo just how wrong he was.
Sneaking into the tower ninja–style turned out to be surprisingly simple–no one paid any attention to a minor sinner, even when she rode the elevator up to what appeared to be the executive floor, ignoring the outraged protests of the demoness at the reception desk. The main thing–walk with an unruffled face.
"Hello?" Amberlynne approached the glass doors and knocked, though they appeared to be automatic. "I'm here to become a star!"
The door didn't answer. Behind it, in the dimness of the vestibule, something stirred–something tall, with wings folded like a cloak. Valentino emerged into the light slowly, and before him the door opened smoothly, as if in slow motion.
"Baby," he said, and his voice was like honey mixed with fiberglass. "Are you lost?"
"I've come to offer myself," Amberlynne said, adjusting her bangs. "I mean, to offer my services. I write fanfiction, I can dance, I can pretend to like what's happening. Well, I won't have to pretend. I love being used."
Valentino tilted his head. His heart–shaped glasses glinted in the neon light like the eyes of a shark that's spotted a wounded seal.
"Oh?" He stepped closer. His proportions were distorted, like everyone who'd sold their soul for power and good posture. "And who's going to use you, little kitty?"
"No one yet," Amberlynne admitted honestly. "But I'm working on it. My idol is Blitzo, but he doesn't seem ready to accept my love. Yet."
Valentino laughed.
"Blitzo? That clown from I.M.P?" He removed his glasses, and Amberlynne saw his eyes: red, without a hint of iris or pupil. "Baby, you have terrible taste."
"I know," she agreed cheerfully. "That's why I'm here. I want to improve."
Valentino studied her for a long time, appraisingly. Amberlynne held his gaze. She was a master of holding awkward pauses–seven years in internet fandoms was no joke.
"Come in," he finally said, stepping back. "I'll show you the studio."
***
Valentino's studio was like a labyrinth designed by a lustful Minotaur: corridors that smelled of perfume and sweat, doors with signs reading "Shooting," "Shooting," "Shooting," "Do Not Enter (But You Will, Everyone Does)." On the walls hung posters of half–naked demons whose faces expressed the deep, philosophical boredom unique to those who have sex on a schedule.
Amberlynne followed Valentino, observing everything with an almost childlike curiosity.
"Here we shoot hentai adaptations," Valentino said, gesturing from one door to another. "Here–BDSM scenes. Here–plot–driven porn, though what difference does it make. And this is my office."
The office was decorated with the tastelessness of a man who believes that red velvet and gold automatically signify "luxury." On the walls hung stills from films in which Valentino appeared alternately as a pimp, a priest, or a priest–pimp. On the desk sat an ashtray in the shape of a heart, crammed to the brim with cigarette butts.
"So," Valentino lounged back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. "What can you do, besides being a tiny annoying bitch?"
Amberlynne considered. It was a good question. What could she do? She could write fanfiction so fast her keyboard smoked. She could find symbolism where none existed and ignore it where it did. She could fall in love with unavailable men and turn rejection into a tragedy of cosmic proportions.
"I can do anything the plot requires," she answered finally. "If the plot requires me to be a victim, I'll be a victim. If it requires me to be a seductress–" she ran her tongue over her lips, "–I'll be that too. I'm flexible. In every sense."
Valentino smirked. He looked like a cat who'd just had a mouse jump into its mouth.
"You know how many of you come to me every week?" he asked.
"How many?"
"Many." He flicked ash onto the floor. "And they all break. Sooner or later. And when they break, I throw them out."
Amberlynne nodded as if he'd said something deeply inspiring.
"I won't break," she said. "You see, Valentino–san, I'm already broken. Broken so badly that the shards pretend to be whole. It's like in that anime, 'Broken Blade'–everyone thinks the sword is broken, but actually it's become even more dangerous."
Valentino removed his glasses again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Amberlynne noticed thin gold bracelets on his wrists–as if someone had tried to put handcuffs on him, but they'd turned into jewelry. Beautiful. He has such slender wrists.
"Alright," he said. "Let's test your flexibility. In every sense."
"Take off your clothes," he said. "Slowly."
Amberlynne smiled. This was just like her fanfiction. Except in the fanfiction, Valentino wouldn't be Valentino, but a tall mysterious demon with a dark past who didn't want her at first, but then... though he is a tall, mysterious demon, surely with a dark, tragically traumatic past, and once she uncovered it, she'd shatter his icy armor, and...
"Can I have music?" she asked, abruptly surfacing from her thoughts.
Valentino blinked.
"What?"
"You know, a striptease with music. It adds atmosphere. Do you have anything from the soundtrack to 'Akuma no Otto'? Episode five–six–nine, the scene where Satsuki seduces the demon emperor..."
"No," Valentino interrupted. "I don't have the soundtrack to a cartoon."
"Pity." Amberlynne sighed. "Then I'll just take it off."
She pulled her hoodie over her head. Underneath was a black lace top she'd bought while still alive at a Hot Topic sale. Valentino watched with the expression of a man who'd seen everything but was inexplicably still here.
"Continue," he said.
Amberlynne removed her skirt. She was left in stockings and the top.
"Continue."
She unclasped the top.
"That's enough," he said when Amberlynne reached for the waistband of her stockings. "Come here."
She approached. Valentino took her chin–his fingers were thin and cool, like a lizard's paws–and turned her face to the light.
"Cute," he said without particular interest. "But I have a hundred cute ones just like you. What makes you special, kitty?"
"I don't mind," Amberlynne said.
"Don't mind what?"
"Anything." She looked him directly in the eyes, and her gaze held neither fear nor pretense–only pure, almost religious adoration. "You can do anything you want with me. You can hit me, humiliate me, make me do things that make others cry. I'll love it. I was made for this. I want to be broken, but I won't break, because I'm already broken, and what's broken twice doesn't break again. It's like in fanfiction–when a hero goes through suffering, they only become stronger. And happier. Because suffering is a form of love."
Valentino was silent. Then he slowly smiled–not the practiced smile he gave everyone, but another, more dangerous one.
"You know," he said, "I've been in this industry for seventy years. And in all that time, I've never met anyone who was this ready."
"I'm special," Amberlynne agreed.
"You're fucking crazy," Valentino said affectionately. "But that's the charm of it."
He stepped back, walked to his desk, and pressed the intercom button.
"Velvette, come in. I have a project for you."
***
Velvette entered three minutes later, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She wore a pink suit that looked like it had been sewn from the hide of a unicorn killed and flayed between fashion shows. Her hairstyle–a perfect bob–didn't move even when she turned her head sharply to scrutinize Amberlynne from head to toe.
"What circus is this?" she asked, eyeing the half–naked cat–demon. "Did you decide to open a petting zoo?"
"This is Amberlynne," Valentino said, lighting a cigar. "She wants to be a star."
Velvette snorted:
"She wants to be a corpse. Have you seen her? She looks like a children's toy that got washed with the colored laundry."
"Exactly why she'll work." Valentino blew a smoke ring that hovered in the air like a crown. "Velvette, baby, you know our audience. They're sick of looking at the same perfect succubi with stage presence. They need something... different."
"Different?" Velvette approached Amberlynne and crouched before her, examining her like a shopper at a bird market. "She's small and ridiculous. Girls like her die within a week."
"I won't die," Amberlynne said. "I'm immortal. Well, almost. Probably. Shall we test it? I've already died once. It was so sexy. I'd do it again."
Velvette rolled her eyes:
"They all say that. Then they're crying in the corner when Vee forgets their name."
"Vee won't forget mine." Amberlynne smiled. "I'll make sure he can't. I'll be everywhere. In his office, in his bed, in his head. I'll become his obsession."
Valentino laughed. Velvette raised an eyebrow in surprise:
"She's got ambition. That's interesting."
"I've got a lot of things," Amberlynne said. "Like, for example, I can dance. Want to see?"
Without waiting for an answer, she began to move. It wasn't a dance you'd learn in a studio, or one you'd see in clubs–it was something between a striptease, convulsions, and a parody of some TikTok trend. She writhed like a snake in simultaneous pain and pleasure; she grabbed at imaginary poles, slid down invisible walls, and her cat tail traced patterns in the air like a mad calligrapher's brush.
Valentino watched. Velvette watched. Even the butts in the ashtray seemed to be watching.
"So?" Amberlynne asked, finishing in a pose that was technically the "crushed frog" but looked almost graceful.
"That's..." Velvette paused, searching for words. "That's like a highway accident. Disgusting, but you can't look away."
"Exactly!" Valentino clapped his hands. "People will watch. They'll spit, but they'll watch. And those who like it–and there will be such, believe me–will watch even more."
Velvette nodded slowly:
"There's something to this. She's like a cat that fell off a roof... under a truck. Though she's not even a cat. She's... I don't even know what she is."
"I'm a cat–demon," Amberlynne supplied. "I have ears, a tail, wings, and... a third eye. And horns!"
"Third eye?" Velvette squinted. "Oh, right. On your forehead. I thought it was a pimple."
"It's an eye! It sees... everything! Well, not everything, but a lot. For example, right now it sees that you're interested."
"Your third eye sees shit," Velvette said, but there was no longer contempt in her voice. Rather, a flicker of interest.
Valentino approached Amberlynne and placed a hand on her shoulder. His fingers closed like the talons of a bird of prey.
"Here's what we'll do... Velvette, you'll handle her wardrobe. We need not just 'cute,' we need 'cute to the point of nausea.' Pink, blue, kittens, hearts, bows. So the viewer watches and thinks: 'This girl needs to be protected.' And then–bam," he squeezed Amberlynne's shoulder sharply, "–she does something that makes protection far too late."
"I get the concept." Velvette pulled out her phone and began typing. "We'll make her into a living doll. Sweet on the outside, rotten on the inside. I have connections with suppliers who make fabric for royalty. And we'll add accessories. Lots of accessories."
Amberlynne clapped her hands:
"I love accessories! Especially collars. And handcuffs. And muzzles. And..."
"Slow down," Valentino interrupted. "Everything in its time. First–looks. Then–wardrobe. Then–training. And then–your debut."
"Can we also have a dressing–up montage?" Amberlynne asked. "You know, like in anime, when the heroine tries on a hundred outfits, each better than the last, and the hero watches and realizes he's fallen in love..."
"Fallen in love?" Valentino smirked. "Baby, I don't fall in love. I appropriate."
"That's almost the same thing," Amberlynne said.
Velvette snorted. Valentino blew another smoke ring, this time in the shape of a broken heart.
***
Vox entered the office without knocking–he always entered without knocking, as if every room in the tower belonged to him, which was, in fact, almost true.
"Val,” he began, “I just saw the quarterly report, and...”
He stopped, seeing Amberlynne.
“What is this?”
“Our new project,” Valentino said without turning around. “Amberlynne Pinkle. The future star of adult cinema.”
Vox shifted his gaze from Valentino to Amberlynne, then to Velvette, then back to Amberlynne. His screen flickered with static.
“Are you serious?” He stepped closer, and Amberlynne caught the smell of a working tube television. “She looks like that girl who sits in the back row drawing hearts in her notebook.”
“I am that girl,” Amberlynne confirmed.
“And?” Vox crossed his arms. “You decided we didn’t have enough teenage fantasies? We already have plenty of content for perverts.”
“This isn’t for perverts,” Valentino objected. “Well, for perverts too, but not only. It’s for everyone. She’s like... a pink piglet on a farm. Everyone wants to eat it, but first everyone wants to pet it.”
“I’m not a piglet,” Amberlynne said. “I’m a cat. Well, a cat–demon. With dragon elements. And possibly a bit of fox.”
“Shut up,” Vox said.
“As you wish, Vox–san.”
Vox winced:
“What did she just say?”
“It’s a Japanese honorific,” Amberlynne explained. “It expresses respect. Or intimacy. Or...”
“I don’t care.” Vox turned back to Valentino. “Vee, are you sure? We agreed all new projects would be discussed together.”
“We’re discussing it.” Valentino stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “Right now. You don’t like it?”
“I don’t like it when you make decisions without me.”
“And I don’t like it when you come in and ruin my mood.” Valentino stood and walked over to Vox. They stood so close their breath mingled. “But we manage somehow, don’t we?”
Ripples ran across Vox’s screen–whether from anger or something else.
“You’re impossible,” he said quietly.
“I know.” Valentino kissed him.
Amberlynne watched the kiss and nearly squealed out loud. Velvette rolled her eyes and jotted something on her phone. When the kiss ended, Vox looked slightly disarmed but still angry.
“I want to see what she’s capable of,” he said, pulling back. “If she fails, I’ll say ‘I told you so.’”
“I won’t fail,” Amberlynne said.
"We'll see."
***
The V Tower spa was on the minus fourth floor and was larger than a shopping mall. Velvette called it "my little factory of perfection"–with the same intonation a serial killer might use to describe their knife collection. When the elevator doors slid open, Amberlynne saw an endless marble hall flooded with pink neon light.
"This is paradise," she whispered, and her third eye dilated, taking in the scene.
"This is business," Velvette corrected, snapping her fingers. "Girls, to work."
From side doors, like cockroaches scattering toward light, poured demons and demonesses of various kinds. All wore identical pink robes with the V logo, and all looked at Amberlynne with that mixture of obsequiousness and exhaustion typical of staff accustomed to the whims of stars.
"Undress her," Velvette commanded, settling into a chair more akin to a throne.
Amberlynne raised her arms, allowing the remnants of her costume to be stripped off. First the lace top came off–carelessly, nearly tearing it, leaving her in just stockings and tiny kitten–print panties that Velvette had earlier dubbed "a nod to innocence."
"Leave the stockings?" one of the succubi asked.
"For now, yes," Velvette replied. "We'll remove them later."
Amberlynne stood in the center of the hall, half–naked, and felt the cool air lick her skin. She closed her eyes and imagined this wasn't a spa, but the secret lair of the demon emperor from her favorite anime. Somewhere beyond the wall, perhaps he was waiting–dark, winged, smelling of sulfur and shattered dreams. Well, not an emperor, but Blitzo. But the dreams were still shattered.
"You're smiling again," Velvette observed. "It's annoying."
"I remembered something pleasant," Amberlynne replied without opening her eyes. "An episode... where the heroine was captured and stripped before a ritual. It was so... atmospheric."
"Ritual?" Velvette snorted. "We have our own ritual here. It's called 'turn a homeless cat into a candy.'"
"I'm not homeless," Amberlynne objected. "I'm aesthetic."
"You're a project," Velvette cut her off. "And the project needs to be brought to marketable condition. Wash her, before everything here gets saturated with the smell of cheap coffee and a back–alley hostel."
Two demonesses took Amberlynne by the arms–as if doubting her ability to even walk on her own–and led her to a large marble basin filled with a murky pink liquid over which steam rose with the scent of jasmine and something alkaline. Amberlynne stepped into the bath without hesitation, and the liquid closed over her thighs like a hungry mouth.
"Hot," she exhaled.
"Hot is putting it mildly," one of the succubi checked the temperature with a long thermometer. "It's about to start stinging."
"Begin," Amberlynne leaned back against the rim.
The liquid did indeed begin to sting. First lightly, like tiny fish giving a peeling. Then stronger–as if acid had been poured into the bath. Amberlynne hissed–not from pain, but from pleasure. Her tail, dangling over the edge, twitched nervously.
"This is... just like in 'Akuma no Otto,' season two, the hot springs episode!" she moaned, covering her eyes. "The heroine was also bathed in healing water that burned but healed. And the demon emperor watched her from behind a bamboo screen. Watched and wanted her."
"We don't have a bamboo screen," Velvette noted dryly. "But we have me. And I'm also watching. And I want you to stop talking nonsense."
"I can't." Amberlynne smiled blissfully. "Nonsense is part of my charm."
The procedures proceeded in order. After the bath, Amberlynne was transferred to a massage table upholstered in heated latex. Four demonesses set to work: one massaged her shoulders, rubbing in oil that smelled of cherry and tobacco; another brushed her fur–the soft, downy fur that grew along her spine and forearms; a third worked on her claws, carefully trimming and polishing them to a shine; the fourth, the most silent, took on her tiny sharp hooves.
"Ow!" Amberlynne flinched when the file touched the sensitive base. "That hurts!"
"It's polishing," the demoness replied impassively.
Amberlynne immediately relaxed. The fur–brushing turned out to be unexpectedly intimate. The metal brush glided across her back, untangling mats, and each time the teeth caught on a knot, a shiver ran through her body. She purred like an overheated engine. She remembered how in her favorite harem anime, the heroine had ended up in the demon world, and every evening the maids brushed her in preparation for the lord's visit. That scene was so charged with erotic tension that Amberlynne had watched it on repeat, at full volume, until her parents started banging on the wall.
"Could you brush more slowly?" she asked. "And with breathy sighs?"
"I'm not an actress," the succuba grumbled. "I'm a master."
"Well, pretend," Amberlynne insisted. "Please! Imagine I'm the chosen one being prepared for sacrifice, and you can't help but admire my purity."
"I'd rather imagine you're a problem client I want to drown."
Amberlynne laughed. Velvette, observing from her chair, shook her head:
"You even drive the staff crazy."
"It's a gift," Amberlynne replied.
Claw trimming became an ordeal in itself. A tall demoness with fingers like spider legs worked with the concentration of someone cracking a safe. She clipped the overgrown tips, then shaped them into almond points with a file. Amberlynne watched the pieces of her claws fall to the floor and be immediately swept up by a small IMP, feeling a strange sense of loss–as if with them, a piece of her wildness had been clipped away.
"Don't worry," the demoness said, noticing her expression. "They'll grow back."
"Thank you," Amberlynne whispered. "That's... comforting."
Then came painting. The color choices were vast: from classic crimson to black with glitter. Amberlynne chose pink with a blue gradient.
Horn polishing proved the most painful. Amberlynne's horns were small, black, slightly curved, and sharp as two branches. The master used a rotating tool to remove the top layer, the vibration resonating in her skull like a dentist's drill.
"Ow–ow–ow!" Amberlynne gripped the edge of the table. "It's like having my brain drilled!"
"Almost," the master replied indifferently. "Don't move, or the horn will crack."
"And if it cracks, will it look sexy?" Amberlynne asked, trying to turn her head.
"It will look like a workplace injury."
"Boring."
She forced herself to freeze, imagining it wasn't a file but the tongue of the demon emperor licking her horns as a sign of ultimate trust. At this thought, warmth spread through her body, and the pain turned into background music.
Velvette stood and approached:
"Now the corset."
From a cabinet, they produced a construction of black latex, crisscrossed with multiple straps. It looked like a torture device mistakenly displayed in an adult store window.
"This should redistribute the fat deposits," Velvette explained, straightening the corset.
"I don't have fat!" Amberlynne protested. "I'm a slim cat!"
"You have fat where there should be ribs, and none where there should be hips." Velvette spoke with the same tone a designer uses to critique a novice's sketch. "We'll fix it."
Amberlynne obediently allowed the corset to be placed on her. Two demonesses began lacing, and with each tug, the air left her lungs with a wheeze. She felt her internal organs compress, like luggage in an overstuffed suitcase.
"More," she gasped, gripping her sides. "Pull tighter. I want it like... like a wasp!"
"You won't be able to breathe," Velvette warned.
"Breathing is overrated."
The lacing tightened to the limit. Amberlynne now resembled an hourglass someone was trying to strangle. Her chest lifted, her waist narrowed to unnatural proportions, and each breath was as short as a gunshot.
"Divine," she whispered, looking at herself in the mirror. "I look like a hentai heroine about to be kidnapped by an orc."
"We'll find you an orc," Velvette promised. "On the price list."
Amberlynne laughed, a sound like a consumptive's cough. She was still smiling as they led her to the final stage–fur trimming. It turned out her cat–fur, growing on her arms and legs, needed to be "leveled" to look well–groomed. The master with a dangerous razor shaved off the excess, leaving neat stripes that emphasized the shape of her limbs. It tickled, and Amberlynne giggled like a child being tickled.
"You react strangely to touch," the succuba holding her leg observed.
"How should I react?" Amberlynne twitched her fingers, which now gleamed with fresh polish.
"Usually people either moan in pain or endure in silence."
"I combine," she grinned. "I'm a multitasker."
At the end, when all procedures were complete, Amberlynne stood before a huge mirror in a gold frame. Her body gleamed with oils, her fur lay in perfect stripes, her claws shone like candy, her horns were polished to a mirror shine, and the corset transformed her figure into a work of erotic art. She didn't recognize herself–and that was wonderful.
"Well?" Velvette asked, approaching from behind.
"I look like a dream," Amberlynne replied. "Like a wet dream. Like... the girl from an anime who finally became what they wanted her to be."
"And what do you want to be?"
"I want to be what everyone wants." Amberlynne turned, and her third eye gleamed. "And especially–what Blitzo wants. But until he sees, let others want me."
Velvette smirked:
"You're incorrigible."
"I know." Amberlynne winked. "That's why you keep me."
She headed for the exit, swaying her hips, her tail trailing behind like a train. Beyond the door, Valentino and Vox were already waiting, and judging by their expressions, they'd witnessed the entire show through hidden cameras.
"We recorded everything," Vox announced, tapping his screen. "It'll make a great before/after transformation video. We'll just trim your anime monologues."
"Nooo!" Amberlynne stamped her foot. "Anime monologues are my thing!"
"That's your clinical picture," Valentino countered. "But, strangely enough, viewers like it. Fine, we'll leave a couple of phrases."
"A couple of phrases isn't enough," she pouted. "I can talk about 'Akuma no Otto' for hours!"
"Exactly why we'll leave just a couple," Vox cut in. "So we don't lose the audience."
Amberlynne rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She felt incredible: polished, oiled, laced into latex, ready for anything. Even a meeting with Blitzo, if he happened to show up.
***
The next several hours were devoted to makeup. Amberlynne sat before a mirror while makeup artists–three imps with brushes that looked like torture instruments–worked magic on her face. They applied shadows, liners, blushes, highlighters, layers of powder. They changed her eyelids from pink to blue to black to all three simultaneously under Velvette's watchful direction.
"Open your third eye," Velvette said.
"It's always open," Amberlynne confessed. "I just hide it behind my bangs."
"Show it."
Amberlynne pushed back her perfectly trimmed bangs. The third eye on her forehead blinked–it was blue, with a vertical pupil and pink sclera.
Velvette looked at it without particular surprise:
"Cute. We'll accentuate it. Add some rhinestones."
"I love rhinestones."
By the end of the procedure, the mirror showed not the girl from the suburbs who watched anime and wrote fanfiction. It showed... she searched for a word. Goddess. Toy. Work of art. All three fit.
"Now clothes," Velvette announced. "I've prepared forty outfits. You'll try them on until you drop."
"I won't drop," Amberlynne promised.
She dropped. On the thirty–seventh. But it was a good fall–to her knees, like in the scene from her favorite anime where the heroine realizes she's become something new. Velvette looked down at her and said:
"Fine. There's something to this."
Valentino came to see when Amberlynne was already in the second–to–last outfit–black lace lingerie with pink bows and stockings held up by garters. She stood before the large mirror in the dressing room, rehearsing poses.
"Well?" she asked without turning.
Valentino leaned against the doorframe.
"You look like a cat in heat," he said. "That's a compliment."
"I know."
She turned, and her tail lashed through the air. Valentino tracked the movement, then lifted his gaze to her face, to the third eye now framed with rhinestones like a precious gem.
"Velvette outdid herself," he said.
"Velvette is a genius," Amberlynne confirmed. "I'm already a fan. Well, after Blitzo, of course."
Valentino winced:
"Blitzo again. When will you forget that clown?"
"Never," Amberlynne said simply. "But that doesn't mean I can't be... open to new experiences."
She approached him and placed her palm on his stomach–she couldn't reach his chest with her height, even on tiptoe, and her wings turned out to be purely decorative, as it happened. Valentino didn't move, but his pupils dilated.
"You're playing with fire, kitty," he said.
"I am fire," she replied. "Just in a cute package."
Valentino chuckled and moved her hand away:
"Not so fast. First–the shoots. Show me what you can do. Then we'll see."
"And what if I don't only want to shoot?" Amberlynne tilted her head. "What if I want... more?"
"More?"
"Well, you're an overlord. A lord. You have power, money, connections. You can give me everything I want."
"And what do you want?"
Amberlynne smiled–that same smile that had made people nervous back when she was alive:
"I want you to pay attention to me. Completely. So you can't think of anyone but me. So Vox–" she paused, "–so Vox gets jealous. So Velvette gets envious. So all of Hell knows my name."
Valentino looked at her for a long moment. Then he laughed–that deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like thunder.
"Perra sinvergüenza," he said with admiration. "You don't just want a job. You want me."
"That's one way to put it."
"And Blitzo?"
"Blitzo is an ideal," Amberlynne said. "But ideals are unattainable. And you... you're here. And you're dangerous. And I love danger."
Valentino took her wrist. His fingers closed like handcuffs.
"Fine," he said. "You start tomorrow. And if you fail, I'll personally make sure your fuzzy ass never forgets the price of failure."
"I won't fail," Amberlynne repeated. "Because for me, this isn't work. This is–destiny."
***
The shooting pavilion was huge, like an airplane hangar, and smelled of sweat, sweet smoke, and heated plastic. Imps with cameras scurried about, along with lighting techs, makeup artists; someone shouted through a megaphone, someone cried in a corner. Amberlynne stood in the midst of this chaos, dressed in an "innocent schoolgirl" costume–white blouse, short skirt, knee socks–and read the script she'd just been handed.
"So," Velvette said, appearing beside her. "Your role is a 'virgin seeking protection from her older brother.' The older brother–" she nodded toward a muscular demon with a bull's head, "–will be played by this... actor."
"And the plot?" Amberlynne asked.
"You've already got a decent plot. The main thing is to look at the camera and moan so the viewer believes it."
"I know how to moan. I practiced in front of the mirror."
Velvette raised an eyebrow:
"Of course you did."
Valentino sat in the director's chair, sipping pink champagne from a tall glass. Vox stood beside him.
"Action!" Valentino shouted. "Amberlynne, bitch, show them what you've got."
Amberlynne stepped onto the set. Light hit her face like a slap. She blinked, then smiled–not the shy smile usually expected of an "innocent virgin," but another, wider one, baring all her sharp teeth.
"Rolling!" someone yelled.
The bull–demon approached and began delivering his lines. Amberlynne heard his voice as if through cotton wool. Her third eye tracked the camera, Valentino, Vox, Velvette. She saw Velvette tapping her foot, Valentino licking his lips, Vox frowning.
"...and now you're in my power," the bull–demon growled.
Amberlynne realized she'd missed most of the dialogue. She decided to improvise.
"No," she said, stepping back. "You're in my power."
The bull–demon blinked:
"What?"
"You think you're strong?" She stepped toward him, her voice dropping, becoming more dangerous. "You think you're the hunter? But you're actually the prey. I lured you here. I wanted you to come."
"Stick to the script!" Valentino screamed. "Stick to the script!"
But Amberlynne was already in the zone. She grabbed the bull by the horn, yanked his head down, and sank her teeth into his neck. The bull roared. The cameramen froze. Velvette's mouth fell open.
"Cut!" Valentino bellowed. "Cut, cut, cut!"
Amberlynne pulled back. Blood was on her lips–dark as wine. The bull–demon clutched his neck and stared at her in horror.
"What the hell was that?" Valentino rose. "I said 'innocent virgin,' not 'maniac killer'!"
"I improvised," Amberlynne replied, licking her lips. "I think it felt organic."
"Organic?" Valentino approached her, his wings spreading wide. "You bit my actor! He's got a wound now!"
"It'll heal. Probably."
Valentino stared at her. In his eyes, anger warred with something else–something like excitement.
"Fine," he said at last. "Cut. We'll edit what we have."
"But we only shot the opening..." someone began.
"Cut, I said!"
Amberlynne smiled. Valentino shook his head and returned to his chair. Vox approached him and whispered something, but Valentino waved him off.
"She's insufferable," Velvette said, approaching Amberlynne. "But there's something to it. Did you see the cameraman's face? He's still shaking."
"I tried my best," Amberlynne said modestly.
"You didn't try," Velvette smirked. "You lived it. That's different."
"She needs a rabies shot," Vox observed dryly.
***
After the shoot came the dance. Valentino insisted Amberlynne showcase her skills on the stage of one of his clubs. The club was called "The Blazing Butterfly" and was decorated in a "whorehouse meets contemporary art museum" style: red velvet, neon tubes, cages suspended from the ceiling.
Amberlynne took the stage in an outfit that Velvette's seamstresses had made in an hour before the performance, without much enthusiasm but with bordello chic–a gold bikini, a transparent peignoir, and platform boots so high she towered above the crowd. The music started–something heavy, with a beat that resonated in her chest like a second pulse.
She danced not like professional strippers–with perfect movements honed to automation. She danced as if she'd just discovered her body for the first time and didn't know what to do with it, but was ready for anything. Her movements were jagged, sharp, unpredictable; she would drop to her knees, then leap up, then writhe as if in a seizure, then freeze, staring at the audience with wide eyes.
The viewers couldn't look away. Someone threw a rose onto the stage. Someone else–a bottle. Amberlynne caught the bottle and smashed it against the pole, continuing to dance among the shards. Blood ran down her bare feet, but she paid no attention. The pain was part of the dance. Pain was part of her.
"She's fucking insane," Vox said, watching from the VIP booth.
"She's a genius," Valentino countered. "People don't forget this."
"People are afraid of this."
"Same thing."
After the performance, Amberlynne staggered offstage. Fans descended on her, but Valentino waved them off with a single look. He took her hand and led her backstage.
"Did you know you'd cut yourself?" he asked, looking at her feet.
"Yes," she replied. "But I couldn't stop. It was..." she paused, searching for the word, "beautiful."
Valentino smirked:
"You're dangerous, kitty. More dangerous than you look."
"I know."
He pulled her to him. His breath smelled of champagne and tobacco.
"Maybe we should... get to know each other better," he said.
"Maybe," she agreed. "But first–a shower. I'm covered in blood."
"That's actually arousing."
"I know," she repeated.
***
Valentino's personal penthouse occupied one of the top floors of V Tower and was decorated with the extravagance of a man who'd never heard the word "moderation": a bed the size of a swimming pool, mirrors on the ceiling, a heart–shaped jacuzzi separated from the bedroom by a glass partition polished to perfect transparency, a bar with drinks whose names Amberlynne couldn't read and whose prices she couldn't imagine.
"Impressive," she said, looking around.
"This is just a small part," Valentino replied, removing his white jacket. "Strip."
Amberlynne obeyed. She removed her costume, remaining in just her panties. Valentino watched as she slowly pulled them off, as if teasing.
"Are you dragging this out on purpose?" he asked.
"Of course. Anticipation is half the pleasure."
"Not for me. I don't like to wait."
"Then I'll teach you," she said with exaggerated languor. "Patience is a virtue. Well, not that it matters in Hell, but..."
Valentino grabbed her by the scruff and threw her onto the bed. Amberlynne fell onto the soft sheets, her cat ears flattening against her head.
"No patience," he growled, looming over her. "Only here and now."
"Yes," she exhaled. "Yes, yes, yes."
He began kissing her neck, shoulders, chest. His hands slid over her body like snakes. Amberlynne arched toward him, her third eye closing with pleasure. She moaned–not fake, like for the camera, but real, from deep in her throat.
"Do you like it?" Valentino asked.
"I hate it," she answered. "I mean yes. I mean... continue."
He laughed and continued. At some point, Amberlynne lost track of time. Everything blended into a single stream of sensation: his skin, his scent, his hands, all four of them. She was feverish–but the fever was sweet.
Then the door opened.
"Vee, I..." Vox stopped in the doorway.
Valentino didn't stop. He didn't even turn.
"Vox, darling," he said without pausing his movements. "Come in. Join us."
Amberlynne looked at Vox from under half–lidded eyes. His screen displayed a solid black screen with white letters: "NO SIGNAL."
"Are you serious?" Vox crossed his arms. "You're fucking this in our bed and inviting me to join?"
"Why not?" Valentino finally stopped. "You always said we needed variety."
"Variety means trying new positions. Not bringing a stray cat into the house."
"I am a stray cat," Amberlynne chimed in. "And I don't mind. I mean, if you don't mind. Or if you mind but still want to."
Vox looked at her with disgust. Then shifted his gaze to Valentino:
"Are you doing this on purpose?"
"On purpose what?"
"Pissing me off."
"I'm not pissing you off." Valentino stood and approached him. "I'm giving you a chance. You can stay with us. Or you can leave and pout in your office. Your choice."
Vox hesitated. Amberlynne saw his screen flicker, cycling through emotions: anger, jealousy, desire, anger again.
"Fine," he finally said, unbuttoning his shirt. "But only because I don't want to leave you alone with her."
"Jealous," Amberlynne sang. "That's so cute."
"Shut up."
"As you wish, Voxxx–san."
An hour later, they lay three of them on the enormous bed, and Amberlynne felt her body ache with exhaustion and pleasure. Valentino smoked, flicking ash onto her face and hair. Vox stared at the ceiling, at the mirror reflecting their tangled bodies.
"You're not as terrible as I thought," Vox admitted.
"Is that a compliment?" Amberlynne asked.
"It's a fact."
"I accept."
Valentino smirked:
"She knows how to surprise. Velvette was right."
"Speaking of Velvette," Amberlynne propped herself up on her elbow. "Won't she mind that you're here without her?"
"Velvette isn't interested in sex," Vox said. "Not the way we are. She's more about... control."
"Control is arousing too," Amberlynne mused. "For example, when she decided what I should wear, how to move, what to say... that was hot."
Valentino and Vox exchanged glances.
"Being bossed around by Velvette turns you on?" Valentino asked.
"I want to be bossed around by everyone," Amberlynne replied. "That's my dream. To be a doll. A toy. A beloved toy."
"You're sick," Vox said.
"I know."
***
The shooting set resembled an operating room where the surgeon had forgotten why he'd come and decided to make art–house instead. Red lamps cast long shadows on the walls, like tongues of flame. The air smelled of heated latex, sweat, and cheap champagne they called "the ambrosia of porn gods."
Amberlynne stood in the center of the stage, dressed in a costume Velvette had dubbed "innocent victim of circumstance": a white lace dress more like a straitjacket than clothing, stockings with garters, and shoes with such high platforms she balanced on the edge of falling. Her third eye was outlined in black, like an abyss, and looked at everyone at once.
"Script!" Valentino roared from the director's chair. He nervously smoked a cigar, and the smoke rose to the ceiling, forming a halo–like crown above his head. "You're supposed to look scared, not hungry! Scared, goddammit!"
"But I am scared," Amberlynne countered, licking her lips. Her cat ears twitched like a predator's scenting blood. "My fear just looks like anticipation. It's deeper. Psychological realism."
"¿¡Qué puto realismo!?" Valentino hurled the script to the floor. "You're supposed to tremble and cry, not smile like you're about to get fucked by Lucifer himself!"
"And is he coming?" Amberlynne perked up. "I'd like that. I hear he has very expressive wings."
Vox, sitting by the monitor, covered his screen with his hand and groaned quietly. Velvette, standing nearby with her tablet, pretended to take notes but was actually drawing tiny horned devils in the corner of the screen to avoid looking at the scene.
"Retake," Valentino hissed. "Scene thirteen, take forty–two. And if you mention Lucifer's wings again, I'll personally rip out your third eye and shove it up your ass."
"Oh, that would be fetishistic," Amberlynne tilted her head thoughtfully. "But let's finish the shoot first. I'll get into character. I promise."
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled something unintelligible. Then she snapped her eyes open, and her face wore an expression Valentino couldn't have described even under torture. It was a mixture of terror, ecstasy, religious trance, and mild annoyance that the shoot was dragging.
"Rolling!" the assistant yelled.
Amberlynne's partner–a massive demon with a shell like a rhinoceros beetle–approached, growling something about an "innocent lamb lost in the lair." Amberlynne looked up at him, and something in her gaze made the beetle–demon momentarily lose his lines. She didn't look scared. She looked like someone who'd just found a wounded deer in the woods and was debating whether to finish it off or use it first.
"You... you shouldn't look at me like that," the beetle–demon whispered, breaking character.
"Like what?" Amberlynne leaned toward him, her tail winding around his leg. "Show me. Teach me."
Valentino jumped from his chair:
"Cut! Cut! What the fuck?! You're breaking the scene again!"
"I'm not breaking it." Amberlynne pulled back from the beetle, who was now pressing himself against a decorative pillar as if seeking shelter. "I'm deepening it. In the original script, the victim is supposed to suffer passively. But my heroine isn't passive. She chooses to be a victim. That's her strength. You see?"
"I see only that you've fucking crazy!" Valentino roared, hurling his cigar into the ashtray so hard the ashes scattered across the set.
"I'm Not Fucking Crazy." Amberlynne smiled, her third eye gleaming like a shard of glass in sunlight. "I'm Fucking Inspired. They're different things. Though sometimes they intersect."
Vox rose and approached Valentino:
"Vee, let's just shoot what we have. The editors will stitch it together. People don't watch for the plot, they watch for her." He nodded toward Amberlynne, who'd already switched her attention back to the beetle–demon and was whispering something in his ear that made him break out in a sweat. "She brings views. Even when she talks nonsense."
"It's not about the nonsense," Valentino hissed. "It's about her not listening anymore. Yesterday she was just strange, today she thinks she's a director."
"Is that so bad?" Velvette looked up from her tablet. "Let her shoot herself. We'll save on scriptwriters."
Valentino shot her a withering look, but Velvette just shrugged:
"I'm serious. Give her a camera and freedom. Let her do what she wants. Let's see what happens."
"You're suggesting we give her full control?" Vox laughed. "That's like handing a child a lighter and a can of gasoline."
"A child with a can of gasoline is exactly our brand," Velvette observed. "We sell chaos. She's its embodiment."
Valentino was silent. He watched Amberlynne, now kneeling before the beetle–demon, saying something that made him start backing away. Then he glanced at the monitor, where the view counter for Amberlynne's previous improv video had crossed a million.
"Fine," he finally said. "We'll shoot it her way. But if she bites anyone to blood again, you're both responsible."
"I'd bite more than that," came from the stage. Amberlynne turned and winked at Valentino. "Like your pride, Valentino–san. It seems to be bleeding already."
Valentino clenched his fists but restrained himself. He sat back in his chair, lit a fresh cigar, and ground out through his teeth:
"Rolling. No stops. Fuck however you want. Literally."
Amberlynne smiled, rose, brushed off her dress, and approached the beetle–demon, who was now pressed against the wall. She ran a finger along his shell, and he made a sound like an unoiled door.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered, "I'll be gentle. As gentle as I know how."
The camera zoomed in. The beetle–demon closed his eyes and seemed to start praying. Amberlynne laughed–a laugh that sent a chill down Valentino's spine. This laughter had nothing to do with porn. It was the laughter of someone staring into the abyss and seeing their own reflection–and liking it.
An hour later, the shoot ended. The beetle–demon left the set on shaky legs, muttering something about "reconsidering life priorities." Amberlynne exited to the dressing room, humming the opening theme from "Akuma no Otto," and left behind a feeling as if not a person but a natural disaster had passed through the room.
Valentino, Vox, and Velvette remained in the empty pavilion.
"We sold our souls to the devil," Vox said quietly, staring at the empty stage, "and got a kamikaze cat as a bonus."
"Not to the devil," Velvette corrected, "but to the audience. And the audience, it seems, is very pleased."
"Fucking hell," Valentino muttered. "But top–tier fucking hell. That's what matters."
He stubbed out his cigar and headed for the exit. At the door he turned:
"Tomorrow she does a solo. No partners. Let her entertain herself. We'll see if the ratings survive."
"They'll survive," Velvette said confidently. "And possibly rise to the heavens."
"Or to the underworld," Vox added. "Which, in this case, is the same thing."
***
Two weeks passed. The name Amberlynne Pinkle thundered across Pentagram City. Her face stared down from billboards, her moans echoed from speakers, her videos garnered millions of views. She'd become a phenomenon–not because she was the prettiest or the most skilled, but because she was real. In her madness was something others lacked: sincerity.
Valentino, to his own surprise, couldn't tear himself away. He summoned her every night; sometimes Vox joined them, sometimes Velvette–who, as it turned out, really did love being in command. Amberlynne was happy. As happy as a girl can be who's simultaneously adored and used.
"You know viewers are following Val and calling you 'Little Crazy Bitch,' don't you?" Velvette asked, scrolling through comments.
"Cute," Amberlynne replied. "Anything about Blitzo?"
"No. And there won't be. Forget Blitzo."
"Never."
Velvette rolled her eyes. Valentino, lying beside her, chuckled:
"You still hope he'll come?"
"Of course he'll come." Amberlynne smiled. "When he sees what I've become, he'll realize he was wrong. And then..." she sighed dreamily, "then we'll have a wedding. Or at least a passionate kiss under a rain of blood. I haven't decided yet."
"You're incorrigible."
"I know."
Meanwhile, at the Hazbin Hotel, Angel Dust sat at the bar with a martini glass, staring into space. For the first time in a long while, no one was bothering him. No calls, no demands, no threats. Valentino seemed to have forgotten his existence.
"You okay?" Husk asked, polishing a glass.
"I'm in heaven, kitty," Angel replied. "I mean, Hell. But better than heaven. Not a single call from Valentino all week, just a couple of routine texts. You have no idea what a relief that is."
"Nope," Husk said honestly.
"And don't need to."
Angel sipped his martini and smiled. Somewhere in the city, in a tower of black glass, some crazy cat–demon was distracting all of Valentino's attention. And for that, Angel was ready to light a candle for her.
***
One day, Velvette entered Valentino's office carrying a box tied with a pink ribbon printed with cat faces.
"This is for you," she said, setting the box on the desk.
Amberlynne, sitting on the arm of Valentino's chair in only lace panties and sandals, leaned forward:
"For me? A gift?"
"Open it."
Amberlynne untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside lay a leather collar with a gold buckle and engraving: "Property of V Tower."
"Oh," she breathed. "This is... the best gift I've ever received!"
"Put it on," Velvette commanded.
Amberlynne put on the collar, tightening it snugly. The leather embraced her throat pleasantly, like an embrace.
"Now you're officially ours," Velvette said. "Wear it always. On shoots, at performances, in bed. Understood?"
"Yes," Amberlynne whispered. "Yes, yes, yes."
Valentino nodded approvingly:
"It suits you."
"I know." She stroked the collar. "I feel... completely yours."
"This is only the beginning." Velvette smiled–but it was a shark's smile. "Now let's discuss your schedule. You have a commercial shoot in an hour, then a photoshoot, then an autograph session, then a private party for select clients. And then–my apartment."
"And sleep?" Amberlynne asked.
"Energy drink commercial, kitten. You'll be bathing in it. Enough?"
"Ideal."
She stood, stretched like a cat, and headed for the door. At the threshold, she turned:
"Thank you. For everything. I didn't think Hell could be so... cozy."
"Hell is what you make of it," Velvette replied.
"Then I'm making it heaven." Amberlynne smiled and walked out, completely unembarrassed by her appearance.
Valentino looked at Velvette:
"Madre mía... She's genuinely happy, isn't she?"
"Seems so."
"That's strange."
"That's business." Velvette shrugged. "She's happy, the audience is happy. Everyone's happy."
"Except Blitzo."
"Ah, that one." Velvette waved her hand. "He doesn't know what's coming for him yet."
***
After a full workday, as promised, Valentino threw a private party in the penthouse, inviting select clients capable of paying for exclusivity. Among the guests were wealthy sinners, succubi with neon wings, and even a couple of Goetia.
Amberlynne was the star of the show. They dressed her in a costume Velvette called "The Devil's Depraved Bride": a white dress with slits to the thighs, a veil attached to her horns, and heels so high every step was a feat of balance.
"Tonight you're not just a star," Valentino instructed, adjusting her veil. "Tonight you're a commodity. They'll touch you, smell you, taste you. You should be sweet, but with a kick. Got it?"
"Got it." Amberlynne licked her lips. "Can I also taste someone?"
"Only with my permission."
"And if I ask nicely?"
Valentino sighed:
"We'll see how it goes."
The party began. Amberlynne entered the room, and every eye fixed on her. She walked slowly, swaying her hips, her tail tracing intricate patterns in the air. Someone reached out a hand–she stopped and allowed them to touch her shoulder. Someone else tried to lift her veil–she slapped their hand and laughed.
An hour later, the guests had forgotten propriety. Amberlynne sat on the lap of a fat sinner who was stuffing bills down her cleavage, whispering something in his ear that made him blush like a boiled lobster. Valentino watched from the bar, sipping whiskey. Vox stood beside him, frowning.
"She's too wild," Vox said. "Time to take her away."
"Let her have fun." Valentino shrugged. "The clients love it."
"The clients love that she bites them?" Vox nodded toward the scene: Amberlynne had just sunk her teeth into the fat sinner's ear, and he was howling–not in pain, but ecstasy, gripping her cleavage.
"Some do." Valentino smirked. "That's her charm. You never know what she'll do."
"That's exactly what scares me."
"Turns me on."
Two hours later, the party had become an orgy with circus elements. Amberlynne was the center of attention: she danced on tables, scattering glasses, then found herself in the arms of three demons at once, then staged an impromptu striptease, tearing off her dress so violently that the veil flew apart in pieces that were immediately passed around like souvenirs.
Velvette lazily twirled the collar–which had flown off Amberlynne's neck during the performance–on her finger, and didn't immediately notice how the cat–girl crawled toward her on her knees, arching her back and waggling her tail.
"What? Do you want your collar back?" she asked, her voice cold as ice in a cocktail. "Then show me what you're willing to do for it."
Amberlynne, without breaking eye contact with Velvette, slowly leaned forward and pressed her lips to the toe of her shoe. She kissed the patent leather, then ran her tongue up the heel, leaving a moist trail. The guests around them fell silent, watching with greedy curiosity.
"Continue," Velvette commanded.
Amberlynne rose to her knees and began unbuttoning Velvette's blouse, still kissing her stomach, her ribs, her chest. Velvette stood motionless as a statue, but her breathing quickened. When Amberlynne reached her skirt's waistband, Velvette grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back.
"You're mine," she whispered. "Not Valentino's, not Vox's. Mine."
Amberlynne nodded as much as the grip allowed. Velvette fastened the collar around her neck with a soft click, and Amberlynne thought she could hear the lid of a coffin closing. It was delicious.
Then Velvette leaned to her ear:
"Now entertain them. Show them what it means to be ours."
Amberlynne smiled, rose, and walked into the crowd. The guests fell on her like a pack of hungry dogs. She was passed from hand to hand, the remnants of her clothes torn off, groped, licked, taken in the most improbable positions. She moaned, screamed, laughed, scratched, and bit, and at some point it became impossible to tell where her pleasure ended and her pain began. Everything blended into one long, viscous ecstasy, like the filthiest fanfiction she'd ever written. And this time, she was the main character.
Valentino, Vox, and Velvette exchanged glances. They understood the situation was spiraling out of control, but stopping it would mean admitting defeat.
She didn't stop an hour later, nor two.
"Enough, baby." He grabbed her by the scruff like a kitten. "Time to wash up and sleep."
"I don't want sleep!" Amberlynne tried to break free. "I want more!"
"You'll get 'more' tomorrow. Now–to the bedroom. All three of us."
"Oh." Amberlynne froze, her eyes lighting up. "You want to continue upstairs? All three of you?"
"Four," Velvette corrected, approaching. "I also want to see what comes of this."
"Then let's go!" Amberlynne jumped up and ran to the elevator, dragging shreds of her dress behind her. Valentino, Vox, and Velvette followed, watched by envious glances from the guests.
In the penthouse, they arranged themselves on the enormous bed. Amberlynne immediately shed the remnants of her clothing and sprawled on the sheets like a contented cat.
"Well?" she asked. "Who's first?"
"Not so fast." Valentino removed his jacket and tossed it on the floor. "Tonight you'll obey. For real."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll punish you."
"Oh, yes." Amberlynne rolled her eyes. "Finally."
What followed was what Vox later privately called a "reverse collective exorcism session." Valentino was rough as always, but now there was an element of play to his actions: he made Amberlynne beg, plead, crawl. Vox, contrary to his usual restraint, joined with unexpected passion, recording the proceedings on his internal camera to "edit a training video later." Velvette took on the role of puppet master: she commanded, directed, punished, and Amberlynne obeyed with such rapture that Velvette's breath hitched.
At some point, Amberlynne was at the center, the V's around her. She was covered in sweat, bruises, with smeared makeup, but her face shone with absolute happiness.
"You three look like you've been run over by a train," she observed, giggling. "And I'm just warming up."
"Shut up," Vox groaned, collapsing into the pillows. "My battery's dying."
"Mine too," Velvette admitted, though she had no battery. "But it was worth it."
Valentino said nothing. He lay on his back, staring at the mirrored ceiling, realizing that for the first time in a long while, he wasn't in control. And, strangest of all, he liked it.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we'll do it again. But on camera."
"With pleasure," Amberlynne replied. "Just give me water. And maybe an adrenaline shot."
"Adrenaline is for the weak," Valentino snorted. "Your insanity is enough for you."
"It's infinite," she confirmed. "Like my love of pain. And for you. And for Blit–t–tzy."
Vox groaned:
"Don't start about Blitzo."
"I wasn't finishing," Amberlynne smiled. "But since you mentioned him..."
"No," all three said in unison.
Amberlynne laughed and curled up between Valentino and Velvette. Within a minute she was asleep, purring softly like a miniature tractor.
The V Trio exchanged glances.
"We've signed up for something more than just porn," Velvette said quietly.
"We've signed up for a natural disaster," Vox agreed.
"We've signed up for the most profitable project in Hell's history," Valentino concluded. "And as long as she's bringing in money, let her do what she wants."
"And if she burns down the tower one day?" Vox asked.
"Then we'll build a new one," Valentino replied. "From her bones, if necessary."
"Romantic," Velvette murmured.
"Practical," Vox corrected.
They fell silent, listening to Amberlynne mutter something in her sleep–from the fragments, something about a "demon emperor" and "blood–stained cherry petals." It was horrifying and adorable simultaneously.
***
Blitzo walked through the streets of Pentagram City, having a god–awful day: Moxxie was whining again, Loona was being rude and slamming doors, leaving cracks in the new plaster, and Stolas kept calling with some aristocratic bullshit problems. He needed a drink.
He stopped at a traffic light and automatically looked up. Above the intersection, on a massive digital billboard, an advertisement blazed. On the advertisement was her. Amberlynne Pinkle. His stalker. His most annoying prey. Now she was dressed in a revealing outfit, writhing on a pole, and staring directly into the camera with an expression that made Blitzo's stomach go cold.
The day had become even worse. He desperately needed to get drunk. Completely wasted. And burn that fucking billboard to hell.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
⋆. ˚ℰ𝓃℘ 𑄜ℱ 𝖘ᥱ𝒜S𝓸𝒩 𑄝𝓷ℰ˚ .⋆
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Season Two is already in production. Blitzo, if you're reading this–run ~ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
⎛⎝ ≽ > ⩊ < ≼ ⎠⎞
ℓo͟v͟ ყoυ .ᐟ