LYNNアデリン

Sand of time slips between his fingers whenever he’s around you. Everything flows so fast when it’s just you and him. Will time slow once more when it’s eventually time to leave?

Your head pops up from the whirlwind of feathers. A hand reaches out to pat the empty space, and a displeasure hum escapes as you chase the lingers of his warmth. Eventually, your hands end up finding one of his pillows, pulling it closer to your chest. Once more, your head retreats back into your bundle with closed eyes.

Alastor pulls the blanket up your shoulders when your snoring begins to shake the walls.

It’s him who’s in control. It’s Alastor who controls his body and his actions, and it’s not the other way around. Hmmm…maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to lose control for one, especially when you’re still searching the space he no longer occupies. Alastor should fall back into bed, trying but failing to blink away the heavy weight of sleep.

Instead, he runs his hands across the sheets, searching until he reaches your hand. The rings around your fingers clinks when he intertwines his fingers with yours.

You settle back into sleep—feathers on your head, four fingers attached to your hand, and currently holding the heart and hand of one of the most vicious Overlord in this realm.

There’s much to do today, but Alastor will hold your hand like this if it means this moment can last.

Eventually, Alastor releases your hand to go to your side of the bed. He smoothens some of the whirlwind of feathers that currently nest you. A hand snakes under your head as Alastor gently peels the blanket away from your shoulders. The hand supports your head as he sits you and hooks an arm underneath your knees.

You’re blinking awake as he carries you in his arms. Instead of complaining, it seems you’re just determined to sleep. So, your eyes close shut as he settles you in his arms.

It would be funny to drop you right now. Actually, it would be downright hilarious. Dropping you would certainly pull him out of this morning slump. Alastor wants to do it…but you’re settled into his arms…

Instead, he lands you gently on the vanity chair. You’re sitting up, trying to blink awake but still not fully out of the forest.

Groggily, Alastor grabs the brush from the table and runs the bristles between your feathers to preen it. Each pass of the brush serves to bring you deeper into a lull.

Your head nods off, even as Alastor preens your feathers. He has to gently pull on the ends to keep you from fully going back to sleep and falling over. A big and hearty yawn escapes you, and the absolute audacity of you to yawn when you should know that when you yawn, Alastor eventually yawns as well.

Alastor stifles a yawn, eyes half drooping as he brushes your feathers. “Now, now,” he says and despite his very best efforts, Alastor yawns. “What ever shall I do with you in this state?”

Your eyes flutter into a close, and Alastor has to tug you awake as you mumble out a small and sleepy. “Marry me?”

“I already did that.” Alastor’s eyes droop even lower, and he has to shake his head to bring himself out of the lull of the early morning.

A hum escapes you and you settle deeper into the chair. “Do it—yawn—again.”

“I also…,” Alastor begins, trying and failing to stifle another yawn, “…already did that as well.”

There’s a hum once more as you lean into the way Alastor brushes your feathers. Some of them puff up and expand as you sink into them like a comfortable bird. It looks quite soft to be buried underneath all those feathers.

It’s Alastor who is in control, not his body… but Alastor can also do whatever the hell he wants, and what he wants is to go back to sleep. And if he’s going back to sleep, well…he might as well take you back.

The brush gets discarded somewhere irrelevant to his mind, and Alastor carries you and him back on the bed. This time, he actually drops you, snickering as you bounce on the cushions. Apparently, you’re too sleepy and dazed to do anything about it.

Alastor crawls back under the blankets, and has enough sense to land his head on your chest. Every breath you take cranks his head up and down.

Finally, he allows his eyes to droop to a close.

You pat his head, half-heartedly trying to push him away. “…heavy… you’re heavy.”

“…rude…,” he mumbles and as punishment, Alastor presses deeper into you.

Quite the dangerous game he’s playing, indeed. Alastor’s gotten comfortable—too comfortable. As you draw circles on his back, Alastor can already predict how the rest of this morning will go. It was that easy to settle back into a routine with you.

He’ll have to re-brush all the feathers, and pick up the ones that scatters on the floor. After that, you’ll force him to brush his teeth and you’ll grab him by the ears if you have to. Once that certain battle is over, it’ll be time for breakfast. Alastor’s finally gotten you used to eating breakfast once more. So, skipping glossing over that habit won’t do.

Part of him wonders who will make sure you eat proper food once he returns to the hotel. And that thought plunges him into an even more dangerous game.

Because his mind wonders if he should get a car, and drive to the hotel everyday. Alastor can even drive you to work and drive you back. If he lives here, it will be like this every morning and every night and every afternoon and everything in-between.

The bed will hold two instead of one. All pillows will be used and scattered around the bed. The blanket will be spread wide instead of curled around a singular body that’s chasing a warmth that isn’t there.

What a cruel, cruel, dream for his mind to conjure up. Alastor really must be still asleep to be able to entertain such dreams.

You’re swatting his face, pulling him from the deep forest of sleep. “Al, get up,” you mumble, pulling his head closer to your body. The points of his antlers press into you. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Alastor wants to ask why not, instead he curls his hands around your shirt. “…okay…let’s wake up.”

“Come on, get off me.” Your arms lock themselves around his neck, smothering him as you curl closer “Alastor…we have to leave soon.”

The irony doesn’t escape him.

Eventually, the time comes where the day must begin. Sleep loses its hold on your bodies, and the lazy morning just turns into a morning. Despite that, Alastor still carries you to the vanity and brushes your feathers again.

Strands of feathers pass through his fingers. “They’re starting to look quite healthy again.”

“That’s because they’re being regularly preened,” you say, smiling at him from the reflection of the mirror. “It’s hard to reach the back on my own.”

Alastor hums, maybe he really should buy that car. “It’s getting longer.”

“It’s always been this long,” you tell him as feathers flutter when Alastor brushes over a particular sensitive spot. It has you sinking back into the puff. “I just tie them together to keep them from fluttering around everywhere.”

Alastor picks out a feather that sticks out of your scalp and plays with it a little. They tickle. “Does it need to be tied up today?”

There’s a small and shy smile on your face. “I’m not going to work today….So, no.”

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There are flowers in your hand.

Alastor watches you tend to them with gentle touches, his hand pressed on the small of your back as you both walk down the street. There’s a small smile on your lips as you observe the flowers, giving it an occasional sniff here and there.

Feathers flutter behind him as he walks with you. Alastor summons a voodoo-doll to trail behind and pick up and discard any feathers that fall off. He knows how cautious you get about the feathers.

You bring the bouquet to his face. “Do you like them?”

“Are they for me to like?” Alastor takes a sniff. These are real flowers with proper stems and petals, and not something easily acquired in Hell.

“Not particularly.”

Alastor presses on the small of your back, bringing you closer to him to avoid the puddle of blood. “They’re lovely—but why do you have flowers?”

“They’re for Miss Rosie!” you say, sighing. “Do you think she’ll like it? I hope she will.”

Alastor tilts his head. Miss? “I’m sure she would love them,” he says, and steps over a piss puddle when you tug on the sleeves of his coat. “How come I never received such gifts from you.”

A flash of a frown. It’s replaced by a proud huff. “I’ll give you flowers when you give flowers.”

“The ones from last week are currently sitting in our vase,” Alastor says, and he can’t help how his ears press flat with annoyance. “They’re quite healthy, if I might add, considering I just watered them this morning.”

You press a quick kiss on his cheek that has his ears straightening. “Well, I haven’t gotten any flowers from you this week.”

“There’s no use trying to win Miss Rosie’s favor when I’m right here, dearest!” Alastor says, rolling his eyes into a squint. “Her and I are the oldest and closest of pals, and it’s only natural that she would favor me more—flowers or no flowers. It’s cute of you to try, though.”

You scowl at him, giving a small huff as you bring the flowers closer. “Do you seriously think that?”

“I cannot wait to see the absolute devastation on your face when your efforts fail in vain.” Alastor boops your nose, and presses a kiss on the edge of your lips. “It’s just the thing to make my day. How absolutely thoughtful of you to do this for me, my love.”

“You’re quite welcome,” you say, snickering as you give him a little showman bow. “Thank you, by the way…for such romantic words. Any wife would definitely swoon when hearing such a thing.”

Alastor laughs and pulls you closer to him.

Piss and blood puddles disappear as you both enter the borders of Cannibal Town. There’s still quite some mess as Sinners chomp down on their friends or family…sometimes both friends and family, actually. Intestines and guts are hurled and shared between the far and wide.

You catch your reflection on a window shop, stopping to fix your appearance. A hand goes through your feathers to smoothen the ones that stick out. It’s vibrant once more, considering someone is there to make sure they’re preened. (Maybe Alastor really should buy that car.)

“How do I look?”

Alastor tucks some feathers behind your ears, and curls them around his finger. Each word he speaks brushes your feathers with his lips. “Absolutely beautiful.”

The doors to Rosie’s Emporium open with the sound of a bell. It’s quite empty today. Not many Sinners stalk the halls of her shop. Rosie’s head snaps when she hears the bell, smile widening when she spots you with Alastor.

You take a step forward and present the flowers to her with a small bow. “For you, Miss Rosie,” you say. “How I have absolutely missed you!”

Rosie snatches you into a hug, pulling you flush against her into the tightest of hugs. There’s a sly smile on Rosie as she turns her eyes towards him, and hugs you tighter.

Alastor’s eye twitch

 “Where has Alastor been keeping you cooped up?” Rosie pats the top of your feathers, stroking them gently. With each pat you snuggle deeper into her hold. “You hear that Alastor? She missed me!”

“Of course I have!” you tell her with a wide smile. “There’s not a single person in this city who can match your class.”

Alastor trails his claws across his microphone. “What do I have, then?”

Rosie still hasn’t pulled away from the hug, and it seems you’re not going to be the one who steps away first. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a wife?” you ask, not bothering to answer Alastor. “Such a woman like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Rosie laughs, finally breaking the hug to pat your shoulders. “Know a gal?”

“I think I might just do,” you say and bark out a laugh.

More laughter erupts and Rosie snakes her arm around yours, pulling you deeper into the emporium. Alastor follows along, feeling like a third-wheel. Three sets of cups and a whole tower of snacks are arranged on the table. Rosie pulls a seat out for you, and you take it with a bright smile.

Hmmm…Alastor’s chair is scooted quite far away from yours.

Rosie pours you some tea, chatting about everything and anything. You listen intently, laughing occasionally at whatever Rosie mentions.

Alastor takes the tong, placing some lemon looking brownie into a plate, and slides them towards you.The yellower the treat, the better.

You flash him a smile when you notice the small plate.

Alastor turns to Rosie with his own sly smile.

As you take a bite of your brownie, your hand wraps itself under the base of his chair. Alastor gives you a questioning look, but you’re staring straight into Rosie’s hollowed eyes with fluttering eyes  “….I told him that there’s no way he can take his brother out through this door.”

Rosie laughs, loud and hearty as she slaps the table. “And let me guess—“

“He jumped through the window!” The both of you exclaim, crying out tears of laughter.

“Now that’s quite the dedication,” you say. The legs of his chair scrap the floor when you pull him closer. Alastor sits up straight, blinking as he’s forced closer by the strength of your pull. “The nurses had to wheel the both of them up, and we gave them a room with no windows this time.”

Still, you’re pulling on his chair. The effort of bringing your chair closer doesn’t hinder your speech or the enjoyment of your tea and brownie.

Rosie grabs a second metallic dispenser and pours what appears to be coffee into a teacup and slides the thing in Alastor’s new spot. “One of my clients got caught with his boyfriend’s sister,” she says, and has to reach further into the table to set the coffee cup in front of him. “He’s totally fine with it, apparently. Just wishes he’d stop smooching his sister.”

“What does the sister think?” You reach for some cold cuts and place it on a plate. That too gets presented to him.

“She didn’t know that him and her brother were a thing,” she says. “And she did quite the number on the boyfriend when she found out he cheated on her brother. She wasn’t too happy about it. Quite the sibling bond.”

Alastor’s smile turns a fraction softer as he enjoys his coffee.

Gossip continues to spread and be passed around. Usually, Alastor will have his own scandalous stories, but his mind plagues him. It forces him to continually re-play the events that transpired a few seconds ago.

Alastor wasn’t going to make a fuss about his chair being too far away, and he was content on drinking tea even if his preferred beverage happens to be coffee.

And…fuck.

Now, his mind drifts back to the car as he takes another sip of coffee. Alastor can pay for the whole thing right away. There would be no need for any down payments or loans, not when he can secure suitcases of cash with a snap of his fingers.

The drive from you to the Hazbin Hotel shouldn’t take too long. Traffic shouldn’t be too bad. And he can make it to you in time for dinner if he breaks each and every speed limit. And there’s also the idea of picking you up from work. And Alastor can always wait in the car if your shifts lasted too long. And mornings would last longer if he drove you to work as well….And…

And…

And Alastor decides that your chair is still too far off.

Tendrils wrap around the legs of your chair, a secure grip around the wood.

“She’s just been writing people up for pettiest reasons,” you say, picking up your plate and teacup. “Just the other day, I heard that Maggie got scolded for having a blue pen in her pocket because we’re only supposed to use black ink. Maggie wasn’t even using the blue pen.”

Alastor used the tendril to pull your chair, stopping when only inches of space separate him from you. The plate and teacup are gently placed down on the table, and it finally makes sense why you picked them up in the first place.

Rosie refills his coffee. “Ayeesh, that would be annoying.”

You reach under the table, searching until Alastor catches your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours. The pads of your thumb go up and down the cool metal of his ring.

There’s a smudge of frosting on your lips that you don’t seem to notice.

Despite being closer, Rosie reaches across the table with a dashing smile as she slowly wipes the smudge off your lips.

Two sets of eyes turn to him with smug smiles.

Alastor takes one long sip of his coffee, and squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back, even as you bat your eyelashes at Rosie and thank her.

Alastor has to take another long sip of his coffee. What is he doing? Well, actually, he does know what he’s doing: He’s watching his best friend and his wife turn into putty at the sight of one another, and a low and defeated sigh escapes him.

(Should he just buy the fucking car?)

Alastor isn’t keen on losing. His best friend and his wife seem to enjoy each other’s affection even with him in the room. Now, whose attention should he focus on? Well…it’s obviously going to be his wife’s affection that he shouldn’t lose out on because there’s no way Alastor would lose you, even if that person happens to be one of his dearest friends.

As soon as your plate empties, Alastor snatches it faster than Rosie can. It was a close competition though, her fingers were right above your plate.

Alastor piles on more sugary treats on your plate before passing them back to you.

Rosie settles back into her chair, leaning on her palm. “Enough about other people,” she says. “How are you guys doing?”

Alastor’s smile widens as he puffs his chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Well,you know how it is,” you say instead. “Hard—especially being married to this one.”

Rosie gives you a look as the both of you seem to share a knowing glance that Alastor doesn’t understand. “Men.”

“Hard?” Alastor parrots, huffing a little with offense. “Our marriage isn’t hard wo—Excuse me I just need to attend to a little business.”

The table jerks from the way Alastor stood abruptly. Plates and glasses shake, and Rosie clutches the sides to steady the table. Eyes turn towards Alastor, but he’s already strutting out the door…

Except…uh…

Well, Alastor skids to a stop, turns right back to place a kiss on your forehead, and gives Rosie a pat on the shoulder and a smile before finally exiting the room.

You and Rosie bark out loud laughter, clutching your stomachs as you calm down.

Rosie wipes a tear from her hollowed eyes, and re-fills the teacups. “He’s been missing for several years,” she says. “I was beginning to think he bit the dust when news spread that he was back.”

There’s a sad smile on your face. “I understand the feeling,” you say. “But what’s seven years compared to the decades we’ve spent together and the decades we will spend together? That’s what I kept telling myself.”

“You’re happy he’s back?”

Thay sad smile morphs into a shu but definitely a happy one as you bring your fingers together. “It’s just nice to be able to be next to him once more.”

Rosie smiles at you. “Well, you certainly look happy.”

“I am…Oh…Oh!.” You stand up from the table as well, and Rosie has to clutch the sides. “I just…Give me…Um…Excuse me!”

Rosie shakes her head as you bolt out the door, waving you off as she takes another bite of her cupcake.

Two empty chairs, pressed against each other, stand before her. Has she just been abandoned?

Rosie is staring out the window when she spots you and Alastor.

With eager eyes, Rosie watches as the both of you walk up to each other, wide smiles painted on your lips. Laughter bounces around the room when she spots what’s hidden behind your backs. Well, that certainly explains why the both of you rushed out the room.

There are words Alastor says to you as he hides a bouquet of flowers behind his back. The window muffles his words. Alastor brings out the bouquet, presenting it to you with a boyish smile.

Even through the window, Rosie can clearly see your laughter as you bring out your own bouquet of flowers from behind your back. There’s a smile on your face when you present the flowers to Alastor.

Alastor runs a hand through his hair as he laughs.

You’re staring at everything and anything but Alastor with that same shy but happy smile.

Alastor tilts your chin with the tips of his fingers to force you to look at him as you exchange the flowers you bought for each other.

Two pairs of eyes notice Rosie staring out the window and she raises her teacup for a toast. She leans on her palms as she watches you and Alastor walk away, hand in hand with flowers around your arms.

Guess she’s the loser in today’s game.

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“You don’t have to notice anything,” she says, and that frown on her face deepens even further. “It’s fine.”

Theodore stares at Darla once again, humming a little. “You’re frowning.”

“No more frowning!” Darla smiles at him. “See?”

They continue their walk to their mothers. Their shops are a couple blocks away from the school anyway, and the both of them were trying to save some money.

Plus, Darla didn’t appreciate being cramped into a trolley with the other passengers, and Theodore doesn’t really care either way.

There’s something satisfying about the way he smiles to himself.

Mother would be proud of him.

You always did remind him to be mindful and caring when it came to the feelings of others. This was pretty mindful and caring. Heh . . . Hehehehe—

Theodore’s head snaps up. “Your hair!”

“Theo,” she says, frowning.

Theodore points at his lips, trying to mimic a smile he doesn’t really see a reason for, but does so anyway out of habit. “Darla,” he says, echoing it back. “Your hair wasn’t like that this morning.”

Darla flattens her hair a little. “It’s been the same as it’s always been.”

“Are you lying to me?” Theodore steps into her path, staring right at her.

“ . . . Probably,” she says. “Maybe . . . Yes.”

“Did someone mess with your hair?” Theodore takes a few strands of her hair into his palm. “If I remember correctly, you didn’t have your face covered today.”

Darla pulls a bit of her hair into her face. “Could you please not tell my mother about this?” she says, trying to hide the way she wipes at her tears. “I don’t want her to worry.”

Tears . . . Those aren’t good.

Tears are never good.

Theodore thinks for a moment, letting himself think and ponder as Darla shrinks before him. Perhaps, it would be mindful and caring if scums stopped breathing.

“Let’s go visit my mother . . . and father. We can go to the clinic before dropping by your mother’s shop,” he says instead, keeping a smile that wants to turn into a scowl. Theodore brushes a bit of her bangs to the side to see her face. “If you’re the one to ask Mother, maybe she’ll allow us to get some ice cream after. Sounds good, yeah?”

Darla probably wouldn’t like it if he messed with their schoolmates too much. Not to mention the absolute war path his saint of a mother would go on should Theodore do something.

“Your mother always did like me more.” Darla laughs a little to herself, but the tears are gone.

Theodore frowns at that.

That’s not true, or at least he thinks he does.

There were things he doesn’t understand, things he doesn’t know how to feel about.

A long, long time ago, back when he could still fit into the arms of his mother’s husband, that man would always whisper about how he was an exact copy of his mother, even if Thedore looked more and more like him by the day.

If he and his mother were the same . . . then perhaps, you don’t know how to ‘like’ as well. They were all just things anyway, all just stuff, all just.

And Mother definitely liked his best anyway.

Yeah.

Definitely.

This poor girl.

You didn’t think she’d be standing inside the clinic with Theodore, a glum expression on her face and disheveled hair. That son of yours still had that bored expression in his face, even as he asks you to help out his friend.

It’s simple to usher the girl inside, and sternly request Theodore to go make her a drink.

That’s how you find yourself brushing the knots out of her hair at that tiny living area above the clinic, away from the resting patrons. There was a time when Darla and Theodore used this room to take their naps, back when they were much younger.

It was quite a delight to see that boy become friends with the tailor’s daughter, their own shop right across the street.

Theodore didn’t care much for friends. There’s a part of you that thinks he liked that she didn’t ask too many questions or bother him too much.

If anything, you were worried that he was the one bothering you.

Alastor always did have a penchant for mischief, and it wouldn’t be surprising if some of it rubbed off on Theodore.

You easily tie the ribbon around Darla’s hair, ensuring that it’s tied away from her face. “Now that your hair is fixed,” you say, then point towards the bright smile on your face, “you’re just missing one of these now.”

Darla’s smile wobbles a bit, but it gets there anyway. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, my sweet girl.” You take the glasses on the table, and hand then to her. “Theo left his glasses again this morning. Could you hand it to him? I . . . I keep forgetting to remind him to wear it.”

The fact that your son inherited your forgetfulness makes you sight a little.

Darla nods at you, and takes the glasses with a small smile.

Theodore walks into the room with a tray of iced tea, handing one to you and the other to Darla. It’s nice to see him so considerate that you agree to pay for their afternoon snacks, handing them a few coins.

Theodore watches as Darla goes to gather her belongings, then glance at you a little expectantly. “You like me best, right?” he says, frowning. “I’m the one you like the best.”

“Of course,” you say, and it’s times like these that remind you that this little boy is still your little boy. “But I still expect you to behave and stay out of any trouble.”

Theodore’s smile brightens just a little more after that. “I’ll be good.”

It’s a laugh that spills out of you when he grabs Darla by the wrist, a look of excitement on him as they but whatever snacks they could afford.

There’s this look in his eyes that reminds you of Alastor, and a smile grows on you.

Darla doesn’t get to interact with Theodore’s father much.

He always arrives at the end of working hours to pick up his family. Apparently, they have a house outside the city. It’s different from the way Darla’s family lives above her mother’s tailoring shop.

It’s been years of this pattern, but she’s sad to see her only friend go each day anyway.

Theodore stays seated next to her on the bench, even as Mr. Alastor parks his car right in front of the clinic. It’s times like these where she really understands just how much Theodore resembles him.

They have that same curly brown hair that matches the brown in their eyes, but while Mr. Alastor had a shine in his, Theodore’s eyes always reminded her of a fish—a dead fish, specifically.

Mr. Alastor was much taller obviously, and the small lines around his eyes tell of his age. Darla bets that Theodore would look just like him when he gets to that age.

They both have the same glasses as well, and perhaps, that’s the reason why Theodore keeps ‘forgetting’ to wear them. But he’s being good right now, and dutifully keeps it on his face.

There’s a wide smile on Mr. Alastor’s face. It’s a little comforting to see someone smile so wide, for Darla knows he’s capable of a smirk even in the worst of times. It makes him look in control, and Darla could see herself easily trusting him.

Theodore never smiles like that.

Theodore never smiles, actually.

Mr. Alastor takes a moment to fix his hair, and straighten the glasses around his face. It’s a little weird, but he pulls on a perfectly fin bowtie until it’s crooked, but Mr. Alastor has always been a little eccentric.

Darla glances at Theodore. “Your dad is here.”

“Who?” Theodore tilts his head all the way to the side.

“Your mother’s husband is here.”

“Oh . . .,” he says. “Him.”

“I don’t understand why you insist on doing that,” Darla says, shaking her head a little. “Your parents always seem very kind.”

Darla watches as you step out of the clinic to greet Mr. Alastor with that small but happy smile. Now that is how Theodore smiles, but it’s a rare phenomenon to see him do such a thing.

Mr. Alastor leans low enough for you to reach his bowtie, straightening it for him.

Darla looks towards Theodore when Mr. Alastor takes a step closer to you, pulling you by the waist. A marriage like that wouldn’t be too bad. Just thinking about stepping out to greet . . .

Darla glances away from Theodore.

“I doubt he actually cares,” Theodore says. “It’s a fun game we play.”

“It’s hard to tell when you’re joking if you never express it.”

“I’m working on it,” he says, sulking a little. “Everyone’s just . . . too boring.” Theodore points at his father, a scowl on his face. “He’s not boring sure, ridiculous even, but he likes to bother me a little too much. Mother is never boring, and she doesn’t bother me.”

Huh. . . Theodore was scowling. It’s an expression so different from the blankness she usually sees.

Darla takes a moment to think. “Am I boring?”

“No.” Theodore flasher a grin at her. “Not at all.”

Theodore’s mother waves him over from across the street, and it looks like her time with her friend has come to an end.

Theodore stands from the bench, stretching his back a little.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. “Don’t forget your glassee.”

Theodore huffs at her, and he’s certainly being a little more expressive right now. “Fine.”

“Theo.”

“Darla.” He leans down at her with a grin.

“Do I bother you?”

Theodore flashes her that same toothy grin, and waves at her as he crosses the street. “I bother you, remember?”

Darla keeps her eyes on Theodore as he crosses the street to the clinic. Mr. Alastor sees him and places a gentle hand on his head, flattening the curls on top.

Theodore rolls his eyes all the way to the side at something his father said, but allows Mr. Alastor to keep that hand on his head as he rambles on with the personality he’s so known for.

It’s times like these that Darla understands why Mr. Alastor goes out of his way to bother his son so much.

Theodore becomes a little more expressive when he does, a little more like the child he’s supposed to be, a little more like a prickly and hissing kitten, but an expression is an expression.

. . . It’s a little cute to see him flare his arms, huffing and puffing at whatever Mr. Alastor said to annoy him this time.

Theodore knew he shouldn’t have punched that kid . . . Perhaps, he could convince his mother that he was doing it precisely because he was trying to be better at being mindful and caring.

That scum was messing with Darla’s hair again, and when Theodore stepped in to caringly ask the boy to stop, he was shoved away.

Not even his mother’s husband has ever touched him like that.

. . . So . . . Theodore may have gotten just a little pissed off, and shoved him back. The boy punched him, and Theodore simply punched him back, and made sure he wouldn’t be able to do so again.

That’s how he ended up in one of the empty classrooms, waiting as either one of his parents come get him. Darla wasn’t allowed to accompany him, and Theodore finds himself a little pissy at having to wait alone.

He’s just so bored right now.

The door opens with a soft click, and one of the teachers motions towards him—

Theodore kills the curse that threatens to slip out.

His father steps into the room, and shakes the teacher’s hand before Theodore is left alone with him.

It’s simple to ignore him, still silently resting his chin on the desk with that bored and simple expression he seems to be known for.

His father has always been tall, and Theodore has never felt so small as he looms above him. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll be as tall as that when he grows a little older.

The silence persists even as Theodore’s father kneels by the desk with that annoyingly wide smile of his. He’s low enough that Theodore could meet his eyes.  “Are you alright?” he says, voice a little soft. “I heard that boy hit you.”

. . . Theodore was expecting to be scolded, and not asked if he was feeling alright. “Yes,” Theodore says anyway, and it comes out simple. “I’m fine.”

“The principal explained what happened to me and that boy’s father,” he says, still kneeling by the desk. “I’d like to hear what happened from you.”

Theodore explains everything to his father, and it comes out easier than he expected. It wasn’t his fault, for Theodore was only trying to defend his friend.

That was a good thing, right?

Surely, Theodore did a good thing.

“You did good by defending your friend.” He rises with a jump, and annoyingly pats Theodore’s head like it was a button he was determined to mash, even if it ruffles all the curls on his head. “I’ll just talk to the boy’s father about an apology, and we can go.”

Theodore buries his face into his arms, hiding a grumpy but happy smile

Theodore slides into the car at the same time as his father.

There’s this moment that rises when the doors close and the events of what happened settle into some kind of silence, and the both of them just sit together inside the car.

His father stares at him, and there was a bruise forming on his eye that mirrors the one on Theodore’s cheek.

Theodore looks a head. “I’m never getting that apology, am I?”

“No,” he says, a little simple. “I don’t think you are.”

A beat passes, and then another beat, and then another, and then another one—

The laugh that explodes out of his father’s mouth echoes around. Theodore grumbles when his eyes drift off in two different directions. His father wipes away a bunch of fake tears. “You got into a fight!”

Theodore doesn’t really appreciate being laughed at.

“So did you!” He points a finger at him, grumbling even more. “You said you were going to talk to his father. Maybe I’m going deaf because I missed the part where you said you were going to start a fight with him.”

His father laughs even harder, and this time, tears actually do prickle his eyes. “Such a prickly attitude today,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to start a fight either.”

“. . . I didn’t start it.”

“And neither did I,” he says, sighing a little. “That boy and his father really are a piece of work, but I’m proud of you anyway.”

Theodore scowls at him. “That isn’t something you should be proud of!”

His father’s laugh gradually dies down until he’s pressing his head on the steering wheel, and his smile flattens as the most tired expression settles on his face. “Your mother is going to kill us.”

Theodore sticks his tongue out. “Us? There is no us,” he says, a smug expression on him. “Mother is going to kill you.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“. . .We don’t have to tell her anything.”

The smile on his father softens just a little more. “Does anything hurt?” he says. “It usually takes a while.”

“I don’t know.” Theodore simply shrugs, and that simpleness turns into a scowl when a finger taps at the bruise on his cheek. It’s automatic to allow that frustrated sound to escape. “Why would you even do that?”

“Now you know that that it hurts!” His father pauses for a moment, then happily says, “You look like your mother right now.”

Theodore crosses his arms with a deep frown, sulking into his seat.

Who even pokes at a bruise?

His father—that’s who.

Alastor presses the cloth into his bruised eye, but uses the other one to watch you and Theodore.

You’re seated on the side of the bed, brushing those brown curls away from his sleeping face before placing a soft kiss. There’s something about the way you pull the blanket just a little higher around Theodore’s shoulder, and it pulls a smile on Alastor’s lips.

It would be so amusing to talk to a version of himself that has yet to experience a wife and a son.

Alastor would probably tell him that there are things that will calm the all anger in his heart, and that younger version of him will dismiss him in a way that will remind him of how Theodore dismisses him.

But then that younger version of him will still know that there’s more to life, and he’ll have something so precious if he just waited a little.

You pull the curtains that separate each patient’s bed, and walk towards him with a scowl that was inherited by their son. It’s quite lucky that the clinic was empty right now.

Alastor tries not wince as you take the ice from him, and press it into his eye.

There’s a frown on your lips as you stand before him. It’s a little cute, and almost enough to make him wished he allowed that guy to get a couple more hits on him. “He’s going to bring me to my early death. You’re going to bring me to my early death,” you say. “I swear that boy—”

“Is absolutely wonderful.” Alastor takes your wrist, pulling it away from his face with a bright smile. “There’s no need for you to worry so much. In fact, I think you should be happy about the fight instead.”

You’re glare hardens at him. “And why should I be happy about your son punching another kid?”

“Well, dearest, a fight is a very normal thing! He’s already so much different than how we were when he was his age.” Alastor pulls you close enough to boop the flare of your nose. “Plus, Theodore was defending that little friend of his, and I can assure you that the other boy struck first.”

There’s this moment where you roll your eyes all the way to the side, and that small moment is enough for Alastor to be reminded of their son.

Theodore held so many pieces of you and him.

“Next you’re going to tell me that the boy’s father struck you first as well.”

Alastor shows you his most innocent smile. “Maybe not physically, but he definitely struck a nerve. Ha! Ha!

“Alastor!”

Alastor presses a finger to his lips, reminding you to be just a little quitter lest Theodore wakes up from his nap.

You roll your eyes at him again.

“I work with words for a living, my dear, and I merely taught that man that some words have their consequences,” Alastor says, and his eye twitches a little when he remembers the stuff that man said about his family. “Theodore is a brilliant boy who will become a brilliant man. It’ll be fine.”

You brush a bit of his hair away from his face, then trace the edges of his bruise. “Will it?”

“Yes,” he says, leaning into your hand. “You’ll just have to put a little more trust into our son.”

“You’re too soft on him.” You press a kiss ok his cheek.

“Am I?” Alastor says, tilting his head a little. “Well, it probably doesn’t help that he happens to be the best thing we’ve ever made together.”

That feeling when your idgaf attitude gets completely shattered because your dad likes to annoy you too much, thus giving you access to emotions and expression you didn't know you were capable of feeling. Someone save that poor boy from getting rage baited by his own dad.

The people of the hotel thoroughly believed that they knew Alastor. He was a scary and cruel Overlord who enjoyed sarcasm, but was a sweetheart underneath the “cold” behaviour. Little did they know that Alastor had quite the secret in the deep of his bayou.

Once Charlie declared war against Heaven, Alastor knew who he had to reach out to. The person who owned his soul, his powerful hidden secret. As painful as it was to admit to himself, he couldn’t protect the hotel by himself, he knew who he needed to ask, even though he knew she would understand and support his decision.

After the heavenly meeting, Charlie was stressed out. She was clueless and lost. Paying a visit to Cannibal Town and meeting Rosie did help, but there was still a lot of work to do. Alastor sat in Charlie’s room, while she and Vaggie spoke tactics.

“Using angelic weapons, and sticking together might be enough!” Vaggie said, but Charlie continued to jolt more ideas down onto the piece of paper in her hand.

“Also, we have all of the cannibals on our side, and they would do anything to stick their teeth into some angelic flesh.” Alastor attempted to ease Charlie’s mind.

“I know all that! And it does mean a lot, don’t get me wrong, but we need more. It wouldn’t be fair to risk the hotel without something more powerful on our side. I just have this feeling… We need something else. Adam and his army have been doing this for decades, they have their trained angels, and perfected weapons. What do we have that guarantees us a win? Dad will only interrupt when he must… Oh fuck!” Charlie transformed into her demonic form as she rambled, but Vaggie was quick to soothe her girlfriend and calm her down enough to go back to her proper form and let go a little.

“We still have a few days to figure it out. Maybe, we can get Carmilla Carmine to get us more angelic weapons and maybe lend us some soldiers. The exorcists don’t know that we intend to really fight back against them.” Vaggie spoke once again.

“Well, ladies, it has been a long day full of excitement. I, myself, am pretty exhausted and I believe tomorrow morning we will be smarter! So relax, and don’t let those bed bugs bite!” Alastor quickly said before disappearing within a shadow, not even waiting for Charlie’s and Vaggie’s response.

He went into his own room and disappeared into his bayou, no one would bother him there. He took the well known route to the little mansion within the soppy woods, he did do this trip every single night and morning. However, on the way, he tried to form what he was going to say to her, even though he knew she was going to agree and help her dearest husband out.

He arrived at the familiar front door and welcomed himself inside. He stepped into the living room and there she was, draped across the sofa in her silky robe with a martini in hand and jazz playing in the background. Her hair was spread out all around her and her eyes fluttered open at his arrival. Her lips curved into a smirk when she spotted him.

“Hello there, dearest.” She sat up and put her martini on the side table. He went up to her and kneeled before the sofa, right before kissing up her neck and leaving a long kiss on her lips. After that, he buried his face into her lap, and she welcomed him warmly, as always.

“What a foolishly long day I had, my darling.” He mumbled. He purred as she began caressing his hair and antlers. If anyone else would ever dare to touch him like she was in that moment, he would most likely tear off their arms and shove it down their throat. But she was his darling wife, his reason to wake up in the morning, to make himself more powerful. However, most would be surprised to know that she was more powerful than the Radio Demon. All the souls he owned, she owned too. But… she had one more soul in her possession, Alastor’s. He gave her his soul willingly. He didn’t want her to be his equal, he wanted her to be more powerful and stronger than him. He wanted to know that if trouble ever graced their door, she would have the upper hand, and have more of a chance to come out victorious in any situation.

They were married during their lifetime, and he was the one who died first. People found it strange when Alastor’s wife didn’t cry or break down the days after his death. Just days before the incident in the woods, they struck the deal with the certain demon in hell. She knew that the weak line between her and her darling husband was death. So, she tied up all the loose ends in life, and made herself a cocktail with stuffed olives and an extra amount of poison. Since she didn’t die the way Alastor did, she had no resemblance of a deer in the afterlife. Instead, her lips were stained a darkish red all the time, other than that, she looked nothing like a sinner. Her hair was already abnormally long in life, and her face was as pretty as it was in her time of living. It made more sense that she didn’t step into the spotlight in Hell like he did. Alastor didn’t want to share her with those filthy low-life sinners, and she enjoyed lounging around all day within their mansion, away from hell’s dangers. Her husband couldn’t care less how powerful she was, in his eyes, she would always remain his delicate and fragile little darling.

She gathered his worried face in her palms, and tutted at his helpless eyes. Only she could make him go all putty. “Tell me about your day, dearie.” She said softly, as if he would get spooked if she spoke too loud.

“The hotel is fucked. It’s not guaranteed, but it is a high possibility. Adam and his mindless creatures still hold the upper hand. And that…” His antlers and limbs grew as he himself grew more frustrated. His pupils formed into radio dials and his smile widened painfully. “Al—“ She furrowed her brows as he continued his fit, not even realizing that she spoke. His clawed fingers began making their way to his hair, a bad habit of his, pulling out chunks of his hair in anger. “That drives me crazy! I—“ Before he had the chance to harm himself, she loudly proclaimed in her “Overlord voice”.

“ALASTOR.” The walls quivered and for a second, dark red smoke travelled among them, only to wrap around her fingers and connect it to the smoke ring around his neck. “Enough.”

All of his anger calmed down and got replaced by pride (and some arousal) when he looked at her. Her eyes maroon, the stain on her lips getting darker and her hair floating around her.

“Stop behaving like a child. We are talking on behalf of the future of the hotel, there is no time for this.”

He chuckled loudly and held the smoke that connected them. “Oh, so right you are, darling!” As he began leaning towards her direction, she made the smoke go away and welcomed his lips on hers. He sat on the sofa and pulled her into his lap, while still kissing her. The kiss grew heavier with every passing moment, and soon, his tongue was exploring her mouth. He broke away from her to hum.

“Vesper?” She hummed in answer, with a heavy breathing. He looked to the side and took her martini glass in hand, a second later he tasted the sweet cocktail, which was followed by a low purr of satisfaction. “Lovely.” With a snap of his fingers, two ice cold vesper martinis appeared on the little table. However, his fingers still held the glass his bride drank from. His fingertips touched around the rim, where her lipstick adorned the glass. “My darling, everything you leave behind is a masterpiece. Your lipstick on the glass, the shape of your delectable body and warmth on our bedsheets, your delicious arousal on my tongue.” He said as his huge hands were palming at her hips, the plushy flesh that he adored.

She purred at his words and touches. “Oh, Alastor dear, your words turn useless things into art. And you make me sound like a masterpiece.” She giggled.

He joined in on her laugh and plopped his body on the backrest of the sofa, while maintaining the intense eye contact with her. His claws reached out to grip her chin gently and bring her lips down onto his. After a passionate kiss, he whispered on her lips.

“You are a masterpiece, my darling.”

With a smooth movement, she tore his shirt in half, so his chiseled torso was on display for her.

“Fuck Heaven, we’ll talk tactics later.”

With that, they pounced on each other like wild animals.

───୨ৎ──────୨ৎ──────୨ৎ───

The first time you sunk down onto your knees before Alastor, he stared down at you through a mask of unwavering confidence and indifference that almost deterred your nimble fingers from working away at his slacks — almost. But you were far too wet, brimming with excitement, anticipation, the unforgettable revelation he’d murmured against the shell of your ear that nobody had dared to venture to touch him between his legs fresh in your mind.

Alastor was a virgin.

So, when you asked him if you could pleasure him with your mouth after a rather drawn out affair of exchanging kisses, tongue, teeth and all, he withdrew from your swollen lips with a twinge of perturbation on his brow. After almost a year in your relationship, he was ready to engage with you intimately, but he never anticipated that you’d ask to pleasure him in a manner that he considered filthy — debauched, even. What happened to conventional sex? To missionary?

“It’ll feel so good, Al…” You leaned in, arms wrapped firmly around the broadness of his shoulders, and planted your tongue slack against his lips. “Like this — and you like when I do this.”

You painted the thin line that was his mouth with a slow, sensual stripe of saliva, and oh, his slacks tightened almost instantaneously. But when you lowered the swell of your ass onto his lap and jutted your hips forward, clothed cunt teasing the considerable tent he had with a meager wriggling, he turned away from you with a sigh that just oozed static and mock-contemplation. You were already familiar with his tendency to put on a cool facade in the face of temptation, though.

“I suppose you can,” He offered half-heartedly, but the way his clawed-hand patted your hip with a “Get going,” betrayed his true sentiments… including the drawled out “Attagirl.”

You rolled your eyes with a giggle, the bed softly creaking as you shimmied off of Alastor’s lap. You found yourself missing the sensation of his erection rubbing your clit through your panties, until you sunk down onto your knees and came face-to-face with the sight straining painfully before your eyes. God, was he big. He had to part his legs and jut his hips forwards, much like yours had earlier, except more slower, timider, to snap you out of your self-imposed trance.

And it worked, your stare palpitating with a stager in your movements as you leaned in and worked away at his slacks, nimble fingers trembling with a surge of anticipation. Besides the feeling of uncertainty and slight trepidation gnawing at him, an amused smile managed to find its way on his features. Your huffs and puffs of unsteady breaths mingled with the sound of his zipper being undone, and as it resonated throughout your shared bedroom, he managed to collect himself.

“Look at you, being so subservient to me,” Alastor hummed, the gratification behind his statement accentuated by the crackles and pops behind his radio filter. “You’re such a good girl.”

“Oh, let’s see if you’re still as confident as you’re making yourself out to be —” You dipped your hand into his slacks and groped the outline of his cock, “— when I do this.”

“Please, that’s nothing I can’t do with my own hand,” Alastor immediately scoffed, but you hadn’t missed the slight downwards twitch of his lip. “Now, are you going to —”

Your knees rubbed against the carpet fibers of your bedroom floor, but as you finally freed his aching cock from the constricting confines of his briefs, the head glistening with a thick layer of precum, you easily ignored that uncomfortable burning sensation threatening to spoil this moment. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek as you wrapped your hand around the base, the metallic taste of blood greeting his tastebuds at the tentative squeeze you gave it.

It was just so thick and heavy and everything your heart desired… but most considerably your mouth, warm and wet from your salivation, the perfect environment for that thick cock. The same one that only you would ever get the privilege to see, to hold, to suck, and to milk dry when you experienced your first rut together. But right now you had to suck him, you reminded yourself, especially as your cunt throbbed longingly between your shifting thighs.

“Sorry,” You batted your lashes at him innocently and rested the side of your head on his lap, tongue darting out of your mouth to lick at the underside of his cock, “For proving you wrong, I mean.”

Alastor scoffed at you yet again, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as he tore his heavy-lidded gaze from the filthy sight below him and stared ahead, and all while your tongue moved up, and up, and up the length of his cock, till it found the head, so red and weepy, and circled it slowly and sensually. His clawed-hands subtly gripped the silken sheets, but besides that, he refused to give into your ministrations, and to give into your need to prove yourself right.

“Why are you still speaking?”

He was confident, and he was also adamantly opposed to allowing you to feel as if you were in a position of power, your lips finally wrapping around his cock and swallowing whatever your mouth would allow you to take. Halfway — he mentally noted, your hand pumping the other length of his cock you couldn’t quite take without dissolving into a pitiful mess of flushed skin, teary eyes, and gags and sputters. You wanted to enjoy the process of pleasuring him for the first time.

You gave Alastor a little taste of what to expect by hollowing your cheeks and giving him a generous suck, hand squeezing and mouth leisurely moving up and down his cock. However, it was at that moment that he wished he had partaken in carnal pleasures in life. That mask of confidence and indifference fell as he dipped his head, his brows came together to form a deep crease in his ashen skin, and a small, shaky moan seeped past those razor-sharp teeth of his.

If you weren’t wet before, you surely were now, the cotton fabric of your panties bunching into your folds. To hear a man as powerful, as dangerous as Alastor produce such a sweet, innocent sound, that made you let out a moan of your own around his cock. And he felt the vibrations of your gratification, including the way the tip of your tongue worked in tandem with your mouth and caressed the vein on the length of his shaft. But he felt entirely opposed to you.

Alastor was mortified.

“Oh, fuck, that was…” You pulled back from his cock with a filthy ‘Pop!’, chest heaving at how breathless the sound left you. “God, you sounded so — and I mean so — fucking pretty.”

Out of all the noises that could have escaped his throat, a grunt, a groan, and perhaps even a meager ‘Fuck,’ it had to be a wretched little moan that made him sound so innocent, so inexperienced, like a teenager that had barely discovered sex. But when you said he sounded pretty, a statement he thought that he only he would tell you while making love to you, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt in deep, passionate thrusts, he decided he had had enough.

Yes, he was the virgin in the relationship, but he would not dissolve into a blushing bride on her wedding night, no matter how good it felt when you wrapped your lips around his cock again and bobbed your head up and down. As the room resonated with the sound of your relentless sucking, he dipped his head and carded a clawed-hand through your hair, scratching at your scalp rather affectionately. Like a pet — his pet — and while that irked you, you would not stop.

“And so do you, my dear,” Despite how close he was to finishing, he grasped your hair and encouraged you to take more of his cock in your mouth, making you choke. “Oh, now that’s pretty.”

But that wasn’t the only thing he had in store for you. His tendrils manifested from the ground in a series of wisps before slowly winding around your thighs, and they journeyed up north till they wriggled underneath your shorts. His mouth fell open with a staticky hum as a surprised sound, albeit gargled, emanated from your throat. Two tendrils found its way inside of your slick-drenched panties, one from the front of your waistband, the other from the seam of your thigh.

“Come now, you must continue to suck,” Alastor reminded you, his hips jutting upwards, the head of his cock kissing the back of your throat for a fleeting moment. “Fuck,” He added with a hiss.

A tendril curiously flicked at your swollen clit, while the other shimmied its way past your folds to get to your fluttering hole, slick with the pleasure you had derived from sucking off Alastor. Your eyes fell shut and your brows scrunched together as the thick, slimy appendage stretched your walls, whatever discomfort you would have felt assuaged by the other tendril working away at your clit, its movements ungraceful and yet pleasurable in its inexperience, flicks feeling similar to kitten-licks.

“Where is that confidence that you previously wore, hm?” Alastor asked you rather rudely, tugging your hair back and pulling you off of his cock before he could finish. “It’s gone.”

While he sounded so demeaning, you could see what he truly felt, even as your eyes remained shut, the tendril buried deep inside of your hole experimentally twisting and turning, grazing that spongey flesh within your walls that had your thighs shaking with an impending orgasm. His ears had fallen back at this point, and his skin was absolutely flushed — he just had an incredible amount of self-restraint in his favor. And you? Well, all you had was experience with sex.

“I can’t do what you’re doing — gah, fuck, right there!” You cried out in ecstasy, your other hand scrambling to grip his slender thigh. “Unlike you, I allow myself to feel — mm! — to feel good.”

“I am, you’re just being too… ” Alastor reintroduced your mouth to his cock, hoping to distract you, but it didn’t work. Not even as his tendrils began to properly fuck you. “ …smug.”

“You’re just the same, Al — uh, this is so weird,” You spoke every time you pulled away from his cock, prolonging the coming of his orgasm. “Never thought I’d get my pussy filled with ten —”

“Now, now, there’s no need for such crude language, my dear,” He scolded you, forcing your mouth down once more, no longer allowing you to speak. “It’s not becoming of a lady.”

But you were no lady, and you felt nowhere near like a lady as Alastor’s tendrils drove into your cunt and rubbed your clit at a feverish pace, the filthy squelching enveloping your bedroom instead of the usual mixture of soft jazz music and the ambience of the bayou just behind you. It simply amazed you that he was hesitant to sexually engage with you for a while, but the moment you finally did and you overpowered him, he did the least conventional thing imaginable.

“I don’t want you ruining my slacks more than you already have,” Alastor groaned as he felt a strong wave of pleasure wash over him, his hips stuttering and his length stiffening.

“I want you to swallow,” He added, but he had no idea that you were prepared to do that since you started. You wanted to taste the warmth and stickiness of his cum. “Have I made myself clear?”

Still, you nodded, your eyes flitting up to him and palpitating as heaps of cum painted the roof of your mouth, and all while your own walls began to clench around the tendrils working away at your cunt. Their movements were sporadic and hastier than ever, but the filthiness of it all to you was just enough to have you finishing right after him, a streak of cum cascading down the corner of your mouth as you pulled away from his cock and parted your lips with a long whine of ecstasy.

“My, my, look at you,” Alastor spoke almost adoringly, relinquishing your hair to hold your face in his palm so gingerly. “You look like an absolute mess, my dear — like a virgin, I daresay.”

“Ass… asshole,” You muttered, glassy eyes staring back into his heavy-lidded gaze, but they were fixated on the streak on your skin. “Just wait till I… till I peg you... then you’ll see what it’s like.”

His tendrils immediately vanished, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing. And while Alastor was unfamiliar with the term ‘pegging,’ he had a general idea of what you meant, an amused chuckle seeping past his teeth as he reached out and pressed his thumb against the corner of your mouth. Ha! He would never allow you to take his body in such a way that would force him to submit to you, he thought as he wiped the evidence of his pleasure from your flushed skin.

“Is that any way to talk to your partner?” Alastor tsked with a semblance of disapproval etched onto his features, his thumb prodding at your lower lip. “Today’s generation has no manners.”

“We do, we just don’t blindly follow that whole ‘Respect your elders’ bullshit,” You giggled as your tongue greedily darted past your lips. “Not unless they return it, of course.”

By they, you meant him, and Alastor narrowed his eyes at that. However, you weren’t put off by the look of obvious displeasure he loomed almost menacingly over you with, your tongue proceeding to swirl around his thumb, lapping up the remnants of cum that you had failed to swallow. In your defense, he knew what he had gotten himself into when he entered in a relationship with you… but you supposed your knack for all things history blinded him.

“You insolent little girl,” Alastor half-growled, and you would have laughed if he hadn’t retracted your thumb to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. “I shall do what your parents failed to do, then.”

You seized his face and craned your neck slightly, lips slotting against his so perfectly; and you stood up from your place on the ground, too, knees trembling and aching from the carpet fibers that had burned your skin. But at least he helped you up halfway into your pathetic ascent, a tendril manifesting around your waist and bringing you up onto his lap, soft cock grazing your clothed core as it relinquished you. You yelped, but he swallowed it with a gentle squeeze of your hips.

“Like my daddy?” You murmured sensually into the kiss, to tease him, to rile him up. He loathed when you called him that, and the rude strike he dealt to the swell of your ass showed it. “Hey!”

‘Don’t call me that,’ he told you with an authority that had your back arching and your chest pressing into his. His cock also stirred awake against you, but he could not go at it again — no, not when he wasn’t ready to. No matter how powerful, how confident, and how intimidating he could be even on the most normal of days, he was still a virgin. And if he hadn’t used his tendrils on you, you were certain that he would have given you more than just a breathy moan.

11:59 p.m.

Just one more minute.

Alastor can wait one more minute without making a ruckus, lest he accidentally wakes you up. It’s important that he stay silent. Your soft breaths fill the darkness of the bedroom as you’re sound asleep next to him.

Only the light from the moon illuminates the space, but it’s enough to see the softness in your expression as you burrow deeper into the pillow, blanket curled around you.

12:00 a.m.

That smile of his widens immediately.

Alastor stiffens his entire body, and promptly decides to roll around like some kid until he’s pressing his entire weight on you. The words are at the tip of his tongue—

“Happy birthday!” You press a kiss on his cheek, and then another, and then another, and then . . . well, another. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”

Alastor slumps on top of you, rolling his eyes all the way to the side. “You’re awake.”

“Of course, I am,” you say, laughing at him a little. “You do this every year. It’s nothing new. I get woken up but your heavy body. Get off me already.”

“It’s important that I’m the first one to greet you.”

“Important to who exactly?”

“Important to me.” Alastor opens his arms wider, enveloping you with his entire body. It reminds him of those koala things at the zoo. “You ruined my surprise.”

“You ruined your own surprise.”

“Happy birthday, anyway,” Alastor says. “You’re one year closer to being an old lady.”

You push him away after that.

Pentagram City, XXXX. One year after Alastor’s disappearances.

11:57 p.m.

You curl the blanket around yourself, trying to ignore the silence of the room.

11:58 p.m.

There’s a part of you that’s cursing Alastor right now, angry at everything and anyone, but most of all, angry at him.

You tell yourself there’s no point in the anger. He’s not here either way.

11:5.8 p.m.

 It doesn’t work.

The evidence of his absence is just too much.

12:00 a.m.

“Happy birthday.”

Pentagram City, XXXX. Three years after Alastor’s disappearances.

11:57 p.m.

11:58 p.m.

11:59 p.m.

12:00 a.m.

12:01 a.m

Hazbin Hotel, XXXX. Eight years after Alastor's dissaperance.

11:57 p.m.

Alastor glares at the time as if the heat in his gaze could speed up time already. He’s missed seven of your birthdays, seven of this little ritual between you and him. How many more rituals has Alastor missed out on just because he foolishly died before he could fulfill his end of the deal?

It’s important that Alastor doesn’t miss it for the eighth time.

This had to be perfect.

11:58 p.m.

It’s difficult to tell if you were awake or not, but Alastor doesn’t dare to make a sound or any harsh movement just in case you actually were asleep.

Alastor is many things, and a coward just so happens to be one of them. There were things he’s yet to talk to you about, things that you definitely needed to know, things that he needs to explain but hasn’t yet found the courage to do so.

. . . It’s difficult to explain the reason for his absence.

How lucky he is that you agreed to take him back, not only that but to move you into this ridiculous hotel when he’s built a perfectly good home with you.

11:59 p.m.

“Are you going to roll on top of me?” Your voice comes out soft, muffled further by the blanket around you. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

Alastor glances at the clock, then back at you. “I know.”

“You missed the year before that, and the year before that as well,” you say. “You missed quite a lot.”

“I know,” he says, a little weaker this time. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“. . . That’s not something you can make up for.” You turn to face him, searching for this hand until you take it. “I’m scared you’ve forgotten about it.”

Alastor squeezes your hand. “I could never.”

12:00 a.m.

It’s still the same.

Alastor rolls on top of you like some mischievous child.

You shriek and try to push him away.

And those two words get uttered.

“Happy birthday.”

Alastor still cannot describe what exactly the scent of you even smells like. It just seems to be the scent of laughter as acid rain pours down the street.

It also seems to be the s cent of a smile as dinner is eaten under a candle-light. It’s all of these things and none of these things at the same time. It’s not enough to capture the full essence of you.

All Alastor knows is that it’s you. He turns behind him, ignoring the doe, just in time to spot you rounding the corner.

The smile on your lips grows the moment your eyes land on him. Alastor knows when it does, because he watches your lips inch higher and higher as your pace quickens.

You tilt your head, looking straight behind him. Now what would cause your attention to shift from him?

Alastor gets his answer because he knows the exact moment your eyes land to the doe behind him, and he has to watch as that once bright smile quickly drops into a polite one.

The closer you walk, the stronger the scent becomes. All these sudden waves of you almost leaves him dumb. The only thing flashing through his brain are the images of how shy you would look when he traces a path up your legs, only using the very tip of his finger to inch them apart.

The doe’s ears flick a little as she smiles. “Are you a new resident?”

“I wish that were the case.” You reach a hand towards the doe. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introd—”

Alastor catches your wrist, pulling your hand away before he could fully understand what he’s done. All he knows is that he cannot have this thing leave its filthy traces on you.

He slides his hand up the skin of your wrist, catching your fingers in his hold, and presses a small kiss between them. It’s not his proudest moment, but Alastor makes sure the doe sees exactly what he’s doing. “My wife.”

Deciding he’s had enough, Alastor doesn’t wait for a response, and crashes you into him, pulling you into the shadows below with a laugh.

Alastor can feel the way your fingers tighten around him, pulling him closer as you travel within the shadows. He holds you closer, reveling in the feeling of holding you until he’s popped into the bedroom, and crashing you into the mattress with tangled limbs.

The scent is even stronger now that he’s buried his face straight into your neck. It’s pulling him deeper into his mind.

You run a hand through the back of his head, scratching the scalp with the tips of your claws. Those heavenly fingers of yours trail higher until you’re tracing the outline of his antlers, and circle around the tip.

The pressure you place relieves the itching. You trail even lower this time, massaging the base of his antlers. This sends radio waves straight down, and out of his skin.

Your hand retreats when static glitches around the air.

“Don’t stop,” Alastor says . . . practically begging . . . and pushes his erection straight against the plump of your thigh. “Keep going. Cher, keep going.”

He presses his antlers closer to you, opening his neck as your tongue swipes one, long trail up the skin. “Alastor,” you say, whispering his name straight into his ear. Soft breaths tickle his ears, causing them to twitch a little. “Alastor . . . Talk to me.”

Alastor trails a finger down your cheek, tracing the outline, moving lower until his fingers swipe through your lips. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“I received a phone call today,” you tell him, closing your eyes as you nibble on his fingers a little. “Apparently, you’ve been quite . . . disagreeable this past month. Someone finally had enough.”

Alastor watches you swirl your tongue around the tip, before taking it deeper into your mouth. The outline of his erection bulges against his pants, pitching a very, very obvious tent.

Alastor should send you away before his instincts take over. He knows this. It’s the rational thing to do, but rational isn’t what he would describe himself right now. Especially, when your fingers curl around the back of his hair, cranking his neck upwards.

Rut or no rut, it’s just nice to be underneath your fingers again.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen a doe in Hell,” you say, voice a bit softer than normal. The outline of your nose traces his neck, and the soft huffs of your breath warm his neck. “If . . . If you . . . I would understand.”

This annoys him more than it should.

Alastor presses his claw a little harder on the skin of your cheek, swiping down just to scratch at the surface. “How cruel of you, cher.” His eyes twitch, smile curling a little higher. “You would be so willing to let another bed me?”

“It’s biology.” Your fingers tighten around his hair, tugging on his head to look at you. “I would understand that.”

Alastor presses his lips against yours, nibbling on the bottom until your mouth gives way for his tongue. The taste of your mouth is even sweeter than how you smell.

It’s driving him . . . insane. Pure madness that’s sinking its claws into him, and drags him deeper into its clutches. The thing is . . .  Alastor doesn’t want it to let go.

Consume him until there’s nothing left but you.

“Who do you think I am? I made a vow, cher, and I made that vow to you.” Alastor traces your jaw with his lips, and each word brushes against your skin. “All this time I’ve had to stop myself from devouring you, and here I learn you’re allowing such ridiculous ideas to run through your head.”

“Me?”

It’s more than a bit offensive to hear the surprise in your voice.

Alastor captures your lips once more, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss. “Who else except you?”

The scent of your . . . everything . . . envelopes him, consuming him deeper into his mind. You tighten your arms around him, and there’s nothing Alastor can do except melt into you.

The tips of your fingers trace up his spine, and back through his hair. Just a minute – that’s all he needs. A minute to memorize the sweet taste of your mouth. A minute to memorize the warmth of your fingers. A minute to memorize the scent of your skin. 

In a minute, Alastor will send you away one more. “I want to feel you.”

“I’m right here.” You laugh against his mouth, pressing one last kiss. 

“It’s not enough,” Alastor tells you, tracing your lips with his finger. “I want to be inside you.”

“You can if you want.”

“I want to open you,” he says, sighing against your skin. “I want to crawl inside until I can feel every inch of you surrounding me until all I can feel is you, and only you.”

You push him off your chest, using your hip to flip him on his back.

Alastor’s head hits the headboard just as your legs swing around his torso, and you sink your core straight above his cock. The pressure you’re sending into his cock forces a small breath tumbling out his lips.

The base of your hips leans into his dick when you shift forward to steal a kiss from him. Alastor melts into the kiss, unraveling underneath you with a moan.

“Will you finally let me help?” You run a sharp claw down his shirt, scratching at the buttons keeping him clothed.

“You can’t —”

Ypi grip his antler, yanking him to face you. The noise that comes out of his mouth embarrasses him a little, but you’re licking your lips, and Alastor knows you like what you heard.

“Tell me to go and I will, but I want to hear it directly from your mouth.” You stare directly into his eyes with a look so intense that it’s almost . . . dangerous. It’s intoxicating. “No more dancing around, Alastor. If you want me to go, you’ll have to send me away.”

The grip on his antlers tightens, and the pressure you’re pushing into him feels so good that no words can escape his mouth.

“My buck,” you say, smiling down at him. The smile of yours . . . it causes him to buckle his hip straight up into your core. “Shall we descend together?”

There’s nothing really Alastor can do but nod.

Alastor watches as you reach for the first button of your blouse, eyes trapped as you slowly unbutton them to reveal nothing underneath. Oh . . . oh!

The friction from the cloth brushed against your nipple until it perked and hardened. He takes one end of your shirt, helping you pull your arms out. It’s all done with such agonizing slowness, but Alastor can feel your skin from the tips of his fingers.

You’re sitting on top of his erection, rocking your hips to keep it alive as you reach for his bowtie. Alastor allows you to unravel it from his neck, keeping silent when you throw it behind you. The buttons on his shirt don’t get treated with the same gentleness as your own. You rip his dress shirt apart, smiling as the buttons pop out to reveal the fluff on his chest.

Alastor decides that he’s lost.

You chase him into a kiss as all clothes melt into the shadows, leaving you bare on top of him. His erection springs free from its confines, allowing your bare cunt to press against it.

Alastor groans against your mouth as he feels your wetness from those already too sensitive nerves lining his dick.

Alastor leans away first, smiling up at you as he traces circles around your hips. He swipes his thumb across your cheek, pulling you closer to pepper your face with soft kisses. The giggle that comes out crinkles your eyes, and that . . . that is everything to him.

You press your face into his neck, collapsing straight into his arms. Alastor watches your head rise and fall with every breath he takes. You’re pulling on some of the strands of his fur, playing around with it. 

There’s a very pressing matter, like the way his dick presses against your stomach, but there’s just something so comfortable about being pressed up against you.

“I think I understand what you mean about wanting to be inside me. I could stay like this with you forever” You laugh into his neck, and blow into his ear. “I love you, always.”

Alastor presses his mouth against yours for a kiss. If he were to descend into this madness, he would rather do it with you pulling him in. Actually, Alastor can only descend with you.

“I will always lose when it comes to you,” he says. “That’s why I need you to be very, very good for me, cher. If I become too much, you need to tell me.”

You press another kiss, laughing. “When are you never too much?”

“I’m serious.”

You slide off his hips to glance at his cock. His erection is so hard that it’s pointed straight up. You press on his tip, barely touching it, but Alastor’s thigh tightens as the jolt of stimulation rushes down at him.

 You’re watching him now, looking at every reaction as you wrap your fingers around, testing him. Just a light squeeze, and Alastor pierces his claws around the bed sheets, arching his back to drive it into your tight hold. That felt good . . . more than a little good.

The pressure stays light, but you eventually tighten it around him when you pump your fist up and down and up and down until he comes right around your fist. Spurts of his seed trails down your fingers. It only took very little stimulation, but Alastor is already a moaning and cumming mess.

You keep pumping because his cock doesn’t get any softer. It’s still so painfully hard.

“That’s . . . interesting,” you say, licking your lips. “You’re still so hard, my dear. Is this because of the doe? Is her heat keeping you erect?”

“I haven’t . . . .” Alastor moans into the sheets when you quicken your pace. “Ah, mph . . . I . . . I haven’t . . . exactly stopped to check.”

Cruel! Oh, so very, cruel.

You’re torturing him, pumping your fists around his hard erection until he’s cumming from just your hand, spluttering out his seed in hot ropes.

It hits his nose all at once. A sweet scent that he’s more than familiar with. Through the blur of his tears, Alastor stares at you, traveling his eyes to see you rubbing your thighs together. The slick from your cunt spreads around its plumpness.

Alastor takes a deep inhale, memorizing the scent of your arousal.

It brings something out from deep within him. Alastor pulls you into a kiss, pushing you until your back hits the mattress. “This is your last chance.”

“Is that a threat?”

Alastor latches around your nipple, tracing the sensitive area with each lap of his tongue. His hands trace down the expanse of your stomach until he’s swirling his fingers around your folds. Alastor quickly finds your clit, rubbing circles around it until you’re moaning straight into his ears.

The sounds you’re making for him are greater than any music he could play.

You’re jolting and writhing underneath him, but you’re also pulling him closer, urging him on as you rock against his fingers. Alastor keeps going until he’s found that bundle of nerves. The more he presses on you, the more that sweet scent of your arousal fills his nose.

He wants . . . no . . . Alastor needs to know what your orgasm would smell like.

It’s the most helpful thing that doe would ever do for him. Bringing him to his rut earlier than planned meant that he would need to send you away much sooner. Her heat was heightening his senses, and that means he would be so heightened around you. Alastor wouldn’t refuse a gift such as this. It’s the least that doe could do for bothering him.

It doesn’t take long for you to unravel underneath him, and your essence flows around his fingers. It’s heaven. The scent of your orgasm is so heavenly sweet that Alastor cannot resist. If the scent is this good . . . Then . . . Then what would it taste like?

Alastor forgets to give you time to gather yourself, diving his mouth straight among your folds to stick his tongue out. He gives your cunt one, long swipe, tasting the mixture of your orgasm and your wetness. It’s sweeter than normal. Alastor keeps going, driven by the need to keep tasting you.

His fingers swirl around your entrance before pushing it straight inside. You moan when he does, tightening your legs around his legs.

Alastor laps his tongue around your clit before giving it a hard suck.  One hand trails up the expanse of your stomach until he reaches your nipple. Alastor traces around the sensitive bud, pinching it when you rock into his face.

His tongue can only go so far in this angle. It needs to go deeper. Alastor grabs your hips, lifting them higher into the air until you’re practically folded in half. You’re so close. He can taste it. Alastor doesn’t stop until you’re coming straight into his face.

It hits him like an ice-bucket. Gosh, what is he doing to you right now?

Alastor releases you, part of your orgasm dripping down his chin. Your chest heaves as you take time to breathe and calm down. Your legs are still draped around his shoulder with the muscles in your thigh twitching.

“We should stop here for today,” he says, pressing one last kiss on the inside of your thigh. “I don’t know what will happen if we go further.”

Alastor turns away from you before he could change his mind. It’s better this way. Safer.

Before he can get too far, you grab him by the tail.

The sudden jolt of pressure from the base of his back coaxes out such a pathetic whine from his throat. Alastor collapses into the bed, his ass sticking slightly up from where you’re grabbing his tail.

There’s an irritated look on your face. It takes a moment for you to find your voice. “What silly thoughts are running through your head now, cher?” you say, breast rising and falling with each breath you take. “Finish what you started.”

The pressure on his tail tightens. Alastor moans into the sheets, the hardest erection of his afterlife pressing against your thigh.

It’s an odd posture, but . . . well, Alastor loses control. His hips jerk against your thigh, and the feeling is so . . . It’s so . . . Alastor can’t stop sliding his cock against your thigh.

Pre-cum slides against your skin as Alastor humps against your thigh. That same pathetic whine tears through his throat when you massage the base of tail, running it through your fingers.

Alastor jerks his hips faster against you, chasing after his own release until he shoots cum on your thigh. He keeps rocking his cock against you, spreading his own release against your skin.

Despite all this, his cock still stands so erect.

You eventually release his tail, and you plop back into the bed, rubbing your thighs together. You spread your legs, circling a finger around your nipple before trailing down your stomach to insert a finger into your weeping cunt. Those fingers of yours try to massage your nerve, trying to find that sweet release that Alastor isn’t giving you.

“Alastor,” you mewl, frustration in your voice. “Alastor . . . Alastor.”

Alastor crawls back to you, hooking an arm around your hips to lift you enough to make room for himself underneath. Your back presses against his chest, face hidden into his neck.

Alastor spreads your legs even further, and inserts his own fingers along yours. The slow stretch of both your fingers has you gasping and moaning. He lays his hands on top of yours, and guides the motion of your fingers, massaging you in all the right ways.

Alastor takes your wrist when you cum, observing it with careful eyes before taking it into his mouth to lick it clean.

There’s an odd look on your face that tells him you’re nearing the cusps of overstimulation. That doesn’t stop him from flipping you over, and landing you to face him until you’re straddling his hips. His still very, very hard erection presses against you.

“One more. Give me one more,” he says, whispering against your lips. “I don’t know if I can stop myself. It needs to be you who sets the pace.”

You grip the base of his cock, swirling it around your folds before aligning yourself.

The arousal and cum dripping from your cunt lubricate him. Alastor’s head bangs into the headboard as you slowly sink into him. It coaxes a moan out his throat. The way your walls grip him . . . It’s so tight that he can barely think straight.

You start to rock your hips, keeping such a good rhythm. Alastor trails his hands around your hips then up your back. It’s all he can do to support your weight when you lean back, trying to reach that special bundle of nerves.

Alastor can’t keep his eyes off you. It’s all too beautiful. The way your breast bounces from the force of your rocking or the way your eyes are shut so tightly as you chase your own pleasure.

You’re consuming him . . . using him, and dragging him with you with every rock of your hip.

It’s hard to resist such a temptation. Alastor jerks his cock, meeting you halfway. The squelching of fluids fills the air. It’s such a sinful sound. Alastor can smell it – the mix of your scent combining with his. It fills his nose with such a heavenly scent that it forces him to come right then and there.

You tighten your grip on him when you feel his cum shoot straight into you, milking him for every drop. It makes him question who was actually currently in a rut.

With one last moan, you unravel above him and slow down the force of your hips.

The fog blurring his mind lifts a little now that he’s cummed inside you. Finally . . . finally. Oh, his darling wife. You were so good for him, taking everything he gave without a complaint. It brings hope into his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, he can spend his ruts with you. Alastor can finally hide you away for as long as it takes to end. It would just be him and you, and you and him.

You’re still seated inside him, breath rising and falling as you catch you—

“Alastor.” You whine straight into his chest, fingers tightening around his fur. The grip you have on him strengthens as you tremble within his arms. “Alastor . . . You tell me what is happening right now. What are you doing to me?”

Alastor places a hand on your shoulder, and . . . oh!  It’s getting tighter – you’re getting tighter.

His forehead collapses on your shoulder as he tries to breath through his nose. It’s too tight. You’re suddenly clamping down on him, walls getting tighter and tighter and tighter. It’s a little hard to think right now.

With your knees, you try to push yourself out of him. All it does is pull on his sensitive cock. Once more, you try to pull yourself out of him, but it’s simply not working. Every tug your make sends radio waves straight into him until static releases from his skin, and distorts the air around him.

Alastor pulls your flush around him, bringing his arms around you in a tight embrace. It’s all he could do to keep you still. “It’s . . . mph . . .It’s a knot. It should probably last for about an hour.”

“Probably?” you screech, and bite down on his shoulder with a moan when you shift above him. “There’s a possibility that you’ll be stuck inside me for more than an hour . . . “

“This has never happened before.”

Despite the absolute horror in your face, you swipe your tongue across your lips to lick it, and clench tighter around him. You collapse on his shoulder, face buried into his skin as you adjust to the stretching of your walls.

It takes a moment, but you eventually relax against him. Your eyes are dropping low despite being stuck and sweaty and covered with so much fluids he doesn’t even know which ones belong to who.

Alastor peppers your face with kisses, trying to keep you awake. “Don’t sleep,” he says, pressing his lips on your eyelids. “We don’t know what could happen to you if you do.”

You’re nodding off faster than he can wake you. Alastor isn’t even sure you processed what he said. “I’m tired, my sweet Al.”

“I know.” Alastor presses his lips on the tip of your nose. “But you can’t fall asleep, not yet.”

“No . . . I . . . miss you . . . and I’m tired of not being able to be with you. Tell me to stay . . . and I will do so,” you say, mumbling against the fur on his chest, giving it soft kisses. “Just . . . tell me to . . . stay.”

Alastor doesn’t have the heart to jostle you awake. So, he allows you to fall asleep, still completely buried inside him.

“How completely unfair of you, cher. How can I deny such a request when you have that look on your face.” Alastor whispers the words into your hair. “Stay here with me. I never should have allowed you to leave. You’re staying right where I can see you.”

Alastor will always lose when it comes to you – the only temptation in his world.

The dining room is suffocatingly elegant. The politician, a loud, portly man named Alderman DuPris, sits between the two of you, completely oblivious to the freezing tension in the room. He laughs boisterously, downing Alastor’s expensive bourbon and running his mouth about city corruption, treating the evening like a casual high-society social call.

"I tell you, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, waving a heavy hand in the air. "The radio is a fine tool, but you’ve got to give the people what they want. Grit! Blood! They don't want these poetic fables you spin every night."

Alastor sits at the head of the table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up with his usual precision. He smiles his perfect, public crescent smile, but his eyes keep flicking toward you. He is watching how you carry yourself. He is tense.

You sit opposite him, looking stunning in a dark velvet gown. You gracefully ladle the rich, dark soup into DuPris's bowl, the very soup you helped prepare in the kitchen the night before.

"I think Alastor’s listeners appreciate a bit of refinement, Alderman," you say smoothly, your voice carrying that exact, slow cadence you stole from him. You offer DuPris a dazzling, adoring smile, then slide your gaze across the table to lock onto Alastor. "Don't you agree, darling? Some stories require a very... meticulous hand to finish properly."

He handles his wine glass, but his fingers grip the crystal just a fraction too tightly. A subtle, cold sweat lines his jaw. He hears the double meaning in your voice. He knows you aren't just playing the girlfriend for the politician anymore, you are mocking him to his face, using his own rules of politeness to trap him.

"Indeed, ma belle," Alastor murmurs, his rich baritone sounding unusually strained behind his spectacles. He takes a slow sip of his wine, his unblinking eyes fixed on yours with a mix of intense skepticism and deep, defensive calculation. "Though one must be careful not to let the meticulousness turn into... overindulgence."

"Oh, there's no such thing as too much care," you whisper back, your smile sharp and entirely mocking as DuPris takes a massive, appreciative spoonful of the soup.

You pick up your own glass, tilting it toward Alastor in a silent, terrifying toast. You have completely dismantled his dominance. He wanted a pretty little secret to lock in a cage, but instead, he is sitting at his own dinner table, forced to smile and play nice with a monster he accidentally created.

Alderman DuPris takes another heavy gulp of his bourbon, his face flushed red under the chandelier light. He looks at you, his eyes traveling down the length of your dark velvet gown with a casual, bloated arrogance that immediately makes the air in the room freeze.

"You know, Hartfelt," DuPris says, his voice thick and slurred as he leans heavily onto the mahogany table, "you’re a lucky man. A girl like this... quiet, pretty, knows how to serve a proper meal. In my line of work, women usually have far too much to say for themselves. It’s refreshing to see one who knows her place is to look beautiful and keep her mouth shut."

He lets out a loud, mocking laugh, reaching over to patronizingly pat your hand where it rests on the table.

Alastor’s fork hovers an inch above his plate. He stops chewing. His entire body goes dead still, his glasses catching the candlelight as he instantly looks from the politician over to you. For a split second, Alastor isn't thinking about his code or his routine, he is watching to see how the new, terrifying version of you handles an insult.

You don't pull your hand away. Your fingers don't tremble.. instead, that sudden, intoxicating rush of pure adrenaline floods your veins, sharper and clearer than it has ever been. The utter disgust you feel for DuPris doesn't give you the ick anymore. It gives you a target.

You slowly tilt your head, looking DuPris dead in the eye, and let out a soft, melodic chuckle that sounds exactly like a blade sliding out of a velvet sheath.

"You are entirely right, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dripping with a smooth, hypnotic warmth that makes the portly man smile, completely oblivious to his danger. You gently slide your hand out from under his, your fingers casually brushing the edge of the heavy, silver steak knife sitting beside your plate. "A woman should always know her place. Just as a gentleman should always know when his presence has become... entirely unrefined."

You glance across the mahogany table at Alastor.

He is staring at you, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. The skepticism in his eyes has completely turned into a cold, defensive panic. He recognizes that look. It’s the exact same look he gives his victim before he lures them into the dark. He wanted to use you as a cover-up, but now he realizes he has brought a wolf into his parlor, and he has absolutely no idea how to stop you from taking a bite.

The air in the parlor turns completely to ice as the grandfather clock in the hall ticks down the final minutes of the meal. Alderman DuPris stands up, his bloated face flushed with Alastor’s expensive bourbon, entirely oblivious to the fact that he has just signed his own death warrant.

"A magnificent evening, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, grabbing his hat from the side table. "And a lovely companion you have here. Keep her sweet, my boy. A woman who knows when to hold her tongue is a rare treasure."

You stand beside Alastor at the front door, the emerald silk of your dress catching the dim light of the foyer. You tilt your head, giving the politician a final, dazzling smile that looks more like a row of bared teeth.

"Drive safely, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic cadence. "New Orleans roads can be remarkably treacherous... especially when one travels entirely alone."

The heavy oak door clicks shut, locking out the humid night. The silence that follows is suffocating.

You turn slowly to face Alastor. You don't ask for his permission. You don't wait for his instruction. Instead, your hand casually drifts down to the pocket of your gown, your fingers lightly tapping against the heavy silver steak knife you slipped from the table while DuPris was boasting. You lock your gaze onto Alastor, your eyes cool, unblinking, and entirely mocking.

His breath catches. For the first time since you woke up in this house, the elegant radio host loses his composure entirely. A cold sweat breaks out along his jawline, his fingers tightening against his waistcoat as a wave of defensive panic washes over his face. He looks at you, then at the locked door, realizing with absolute certainty that you are going to follow that man into the dark.

"No," Alastor whispers, his rich radio voice cracking into a desperate, hurried hiss. He steps directly into your path, trying to use his height to block the door, his hands raised in a rare, unrefined gesture of de-escalation. "Mon ange, control yourself. The police are already circling this house. Detective Miller is waiting for a single misstep. If you take a man like DuPris..a city alderman.. the state authorities will tear this entire parish apart looking for him."

He leans in closer, his spectacles reflecting the pale foyer light, his eyes wide with a frantic, terrified calculation.

"You said you wanted to survive," he pleads, his smooth baritone reduced to a panicked breath. "This isn't survival. This is recklessness. You are breaking the melody."

You step right into his space, completely unfazed by his proximity. You look up at the master of the house, your sharp smile widening into a terrifying crescent that completely mimics his own dark energy.

"Everything has changed, Alastor," you whisper back, your voice a freezing, confident purr as you gently brush past his shoulder, your fingers tracing the iron lines of the front door latch. "You taught me that those who lack manners do not deserve the breath in their lungs. Don't forget that."

The humid, oppressive rain poured down in heavy sheets, blurring the halos of the streetlamps into hazy yellow smudges. Alderman DuPris staggered down the slick cobblestone sidewalk, his umbrella tilted precariously, his boots splashing carelessly through the dark puddles. The alcohol had left his mind sluggish, his breathing loud and labored against the backdrop of the rumbling storm.

Suddenly, a shadow stepped out from the narrow alleyway directly into his path.

DuPris stopped short, blinking through the downpour. The streetlamp caught the deep emerald hue of a wet silk gown. It was you. You stood completely unprotected from the storm, the rain plastering your hair to your face, water droplets running down the sharp, cold lines of your jaw like ice.

"Well, well," DuPris chuckled, his voice thick and arrogant as he took a step forward, completely misreading the situation. "Lost your way, little lady? Did Hartfelt kick you out, or did you just miss my company that quickly?"

You didn't answer him. You simply stepped into the golden puddle of light beneath the lamp, letting him see your face. Your eyes were wide, completely unblinking, and locked onto his with a chilling, dead intensity. You slowly reached into the pocket of your wet gown and pulled out the heavy silver steak knife, letting the polished blade catch the streetlamp’s glare.

DuPris’s drunken smile froze. The smug arrogance drained from his bloated face, replaced by a sudden, primal spike of adrenaline. He took a clumsy step backward, his umbrella wobbling as his eyes darted from the knife up to your expressionless mask.

"What... what is this?" he stammered, his voice losing all of its boisterous political power. "You’ve lost your mind! Put that down!!"

You didn't lunge. You didn't raise the blade to strike. Instead, you slowly brought the knife up to your own face, tilting it so the flat of the cold steel rested gently against your bottom lip, a silent, mocking gesture for him to hold his tongue.

You let the silence stretch between you, the heavy thrumming of the rain the only sound on the empty street. You watched him shake, savoring the intoxicating, absolute power of his fear. The thrill of having this loud, powerful man entirely at your mercy, completely paralyzed by a girl he had dismissed an hour ago, washed over you like a drug. You had proven your point. You had mastered the hunt without ever needing to spill a single drop of blood.

Slowly, you lowered the knife, sliding it back into the folds of your dress. You offered him a sharp, beautiful crescent of a smile, the exact smile of a predator that has decided its prey isn't worth the mess.

"Goodnight, Alderman," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence cutting effortlessly through the sound of the storm.

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked back into the darkness toward Alastor’s house, leaving DuPris standing on the sidewalk, trembling and gasping for air in the pouring rain.

When you pushed the heavy oak front door open and stepped into the quiet foyer, Alastor was exactly where you left him. He stood paralyzed in the hallway, his knuckles white as he gripped his waistcoat and hair. He looked at your wet gown, his eyes tracking down to your empty, steady hands.

"You... you didn't do it," Alastor breathed, a massive wave of relief crashing over his face, though his spectacles still shook slightly as he looked at you.

"Of course I didn't," you whispered back, a slow, dark chuckle vibrating in your throat as you walked right past him, the wet silk of your dress trailing across the pristine hardwood. You stopped at the base of the stairs, looking back at him with absolute, chilling control. "A true conductor doesn't rush the melody, Alastor. And tomorrow night... we can decide together whose story we tell next."

The smoky air of the Absinthe House club on Bourbon Street is thick with the wail of a live saxophone and the heavy scent of illegal rye whiskey.

Alastor sits at a corner booth, looking every bit the affluent public celebrity. Across the crowded room, you lean against the mahogany bar in a shimmering silver dress, nursing a glass of champagne. Your eyes scan the room, completely calm. The disgust of this world has no power over you anymore. You are a part of the rhythm now.

At the center table, a loud, wealthy textile merchant is making a scene. He just knocked a tray out of a young waiter's hand, laughing boisterously as the glasses shattered, refusing to apologize. He is loud. He is arrogant. He is entirely unrefined.

Alastor catches your eye from across the room. He doesn't nod. He doesn't gesture. With slow, agonizing precision, he reaches into his waistcoat, pulls out his gold pocket watch, clicks the face open, and snaps it shut with a definitive, metallic clink.

The target has been selected!

You set your champagne glass down, a slow, predatory smile touching your lips. You glide through the crowd, stepping right into the merchant's path.

"My goodness," you say, your voice dropping into that smooth, cadence you perfected in the parlor. You look down at the mess on the floor, then up into his eyes, a mocking glint in your gaze. "A big man like you, throwing tantrums in a place like this? I thought the gentlemen of this city had a bit more steel in their spine."

The merchant's laughter cuts off. His ego, instantly bruised by a beautiful woman, flares up. He steps right into your space, puffing out his chest. "Listen here, sweetheart, I can handle anything in this city. You think I'm intimidated by a little spilled glass?"

You instantly shift the trap. Your sharp gaze softens into a wide, vulnerable look of sudden distress. You look toward the club doors, your shoulders dropping as you play the fragile damsel.

"Oh... I'm sorry," you whisper, leaning close enough for him to catch the scent of your expensive perfume. "I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm just... I'm entirely alone tonight, and the streets out there are so dark and frightening in the rain. I just wanted someone strong enough to walk me to my carriage."

The mix of the bruised ego and the sudden vulnerability is a drug he cannot resist. The merchant’s arrogance swells tenfold. He grins, grabbing his heavy wool coat. "Well, why didn't you just say so? Come on.. Let me show you how a real man takes care of a girl like you."

You let him take your arm, leaning into his side with a flawless look of adoring gratitude. As you guide him out the back exit of the club and into the pouring rain, you don't look back. You know Alastor has already slipped out the front door.

You lead the merchant into the mouth of a narrow, pitch-black alleyway between two brick buildings. The rain drums heavily against the iron fire escapes above.

"Hey, where's this carriage of yours?" the merchant asks, his voice suddenly faltering as the darkness of the alley swallows the sound of the jazz music from the club.

You stop walking. You slowly untangle your arm from his, stepping back into the shadow. Your adoring smile instantly vanishes, leaving your face completely cold, blank, and dead.

"There is no carriage," you whisper, your voice a freezing, confident purr.

Before the man can even process your words, a tall, immaculate shadow steps out from the darkness behind him. A heavy linen cloth, soaked in the sweet, sharp scent of chloroform, clamps violently over the merchant's mouth and nose. The man thrashes frantically, but the grip is ironclad.

Alastor holds the struggling man with clinical, unyielding strength, his spectacles catching the dim glare of the distant streetlamp. He looks over the merchant’s collapsing shoulder directly at you. The skepticism that used to haunt him is completely gone, replaced by a deep, intoxicating look of absolute respect.

Within seconds, the merchant goes limp, slumping uselessly into the dark mud.

Alastor smoothly lets the body drop, adjusting his cuffs with perfect grace. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a clean handkerchief, and offers it to you so you can wipe the rain from your face.

"A masterclass in phrasing, mon amour," he murmurs, his rich radio baritone vibrating effortlessly through the dark alleyway. He offers you a small, mockingly polite smile. "Shall we take our guest home and prepare the parlor?"

You take the handkerchief, looking down at the victim at your feet, then up into his eyes. You feel the adrenaline buzzing under your skin, a beautiful, addictive warmth.

"Let's," you whisper back, your sharp crescent smile matching his perfectly. "We mustn't keep the listeners waiting."

The years in New Orleans have a way of melting together under the thick, humid heat of the bayou, and over time, the performance became your absolute reality.

By the late 1920s, the entire city completely believes the beautiful lie. To the high society of the French Quarter, Alastor Hartfelt and his elegant, devoted wife are the golden couple of Louisiana radio.

No one questions why a gentleman of his standing stays tucked away in that grand house, because they always see you on his arm at the opera, at the charity galas, and dining at the finest restaurants. You are his perfect shield, and he is your perfect sanctuary.

But inside the locked doors of that house, something much deeper has evolved. The cold, skeptical distance between captor and prisoner was buried years ago. You have become genuinely fond of one another, bound by a twisted, profound intimacy that no other human soul could ever understand. You share a secret dialect, a matching rhythm, and a dark affection that has turned your beautiful cage into a true home.

The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed a quiet midnight, the deep brass tones vibrating through the warm, cedar-scented room. Outside, a gentle summer rain pattered against the heavy lace curtains, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with a comfortable, domestic peace.

Alastor sat at his grand mahogany desk, the amber glow of the lamp catching the gray streaks that had neatly touched his dark hair over the years. His spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed his final script for the week.

You walked into the room silently, wearing a flowing silk dressing gown. You weren't carrying a heavy silver tray out of fear anymore. You carried a single crystal glass of aged bourbon, setting it down gently near his right hand.

Instead of stepping away, you leaned against the edge of the desk, your hand resting casually on his shoulder. Your fingers lightly traced the pressed wool of his waistcoat, a gesture born from a genuine, deeply rooted fondness.

Alastor paused his fountain pen. He didn't tense. Instead, he leaned back into your touch, his hand rising to cover yours, his cool fingers squeezing yours with an unyielding, affectionate warmth.

"The final segment for tomorrow's broadcast is missing a bit of its usual poetry," he murmured, his rich radio baritone dropping into that private, velvet cadence meant only for you.

He tilted his head up, looking into your eyes with an unblinking devotion that had grown over years of shared secrets. "I find myself lacking your particular flair for the dramatic tonight, my dear."

You offered him a slow, soft crescent of a smile, a smile that no longer hid any disgust, but rather a shared, quiet amusement.

"Let me see," you whispered, leaning down closer so the scent of your lavender perfume mingled with his expensive tobacco. You picked up the silver pen from his hand, our fingers brushing intimately. "Perhaps the antagonist shouldn't meet his end in the swamp this time. Perhaps he should vanish right from his own parlor... leaving nothing behind but an empty glass and a polite apology."

He let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle that vibrated against your hand. He looked at you with a profound, terrifying respect, the look of a man who knew he had successfully found the only creature in the world who could truly share his shadow.

"Immaculate as always," he whispered, lifting your hand to his lips to gently kiss the thin, silver scar on your left wrist, the mark that had brought you to him so many years ago. "What a dreadfully lonely man I would be without my conductor."

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder as he returned to his writing. The city outside was sleeping, completely blind to the monsters in their midst, and you had never felt more safe, more alive, or more deeply loved.

The heavy cedar door of the house clicks shut, instantly locking out the humid New Orleans night and the distant, fading echo of jazz music from the French Quarter. The charity gala is over. The public performance is done.

But as you step into the dim, amber glow of the foyer, neither of you moves to break the pose.

Alastor stands directly behind you, his tall frame a steady, protective shadow in the candlelight. His hands rest firmly against the sides of your waist. For years, this exact touch was nothing more than a calculated prop, a rehearsed gesture to show Detective Miller and the rest of high society that you belonged to him.

Slowly, Alastor leans down, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck.

"You were breathtaking tonight, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, private register that sends a sudden, sharp thrill straight down your spine. "The way you looked at the Mayor... the absolute certainty in your smile. They are completely blind to us."

You don't pull away. You don't freeze. The old wave of disgust, the suffocating feeling you used to fight so hard to swallow, is completely gone, replaced by a deep, aching warmth that frightens you far more than his knives ever did. You tilt your head back against his chest, your eyes closing as his gloved fingers tighten against your hips, pulling you flush against him.

"I learned from the best, Alastor," you whisper, your voice a soft, breathless purr that mirrors his own slow cadence.

He pauses. Through the reflection of the grand foyer mirror, you watch him slowly remove his wire-rimmed glasses, setting them on the marble console table. Without the glass lenses hiding his face, his dark eyes are completely bare, and for the first time in years, they are entirely devoid of calculation. There is no skepticism. There is no clinical observation. There is only a raw, heavy, and deeply possessive hunger.

He turns you around in his arms with a agonizingly slow, deliberate grace.

When his mouth meets yours, it isn't the polite, gentlemanly peck he gives you in front of everyone else. It is deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined. His hands slide up your back, his fingers tangling into your styled hair, pulling you into a kiss that burns through the lingering pretense of the last few years.

You grip the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer, your heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his chest. In the quiet, suffocating isolation of the house, the terrifying truth finally clicks into place. You aren't acting anymore. You aren't lying to protect your skin, and he isn't playing a part to keep his secrets. The fake romance, the rehearsed touches, and the beautiful lies have twisted themselves so deeply into your souls that they have become your absolute, undeniable reality.

He pulls back just an inch, his chest heaving as he rests his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours as he speaks.

"I used to think you were a beautiful complication," he whispers, his hands trembling slightly as they frame your face, his fingers gently tracing the thin, silver scar on your left wrist. "An inconvenient little secret I had to keep under lock and key. But now... I cannot imagine a world where you aren't leading the melody."

You offer him a slow, dark, and genuinely adoring smile, the velvet trap of the house closing around you both in a perfect, unbreakable embrace.

"Then don't stop playing, darling," you whisper back, leaning up to press your lips to his once more. "The city is listening."

The candle on the mahogany vanity table flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy velvet drapes of Alastor’s master bedroom. The door to the hallway is closed, locking out the rest of the grand, silent house.

He steps up behind you as you sit in front of the vanity mirror. He moves with that slow, deliberate grace that used to terrify you, but tonight, your heart races for an entirely different reason.

Through the glass, your eyes meet his. He has already discarded his tuxedo jacket and his necktie, leaving the top buttons of his white linen shirt undone. Without his wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes are entirely bare, heavy with a quiet, unyielding intensity that makes the air in the room feel thick and heavy.

"Allow me, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, raspy whisper that vibrates straight against your skin.

He reaches out, his long, cool fingers gently brushing against the back of your neck. A sudden, sharp shiver ripples down your spine at the touch. With agonizing slowness, his hands find the delicate silver clasp of the heavy emerald necklace you wore to the gala. His knuckles graze your bare shoulder, his touch lingering, tracing the curve of your collarbone as the metal slides away and lands with a soft clink on the marble table.

You tilt your head back, your eyes closing as his hands slide up to your hair. One by one, he removes the silver pins holding your hair in place, letting the dark curls fall loose around your shoulders. He handles you with the same meticulous, flawless care he uses for everything in his life, but his fingers are trembling just a fraction, a rare, beautiful crack in his perfect gentleman’s mask.

"You've completely ruined my composure," he whispers against your ear, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. He pulls you up from the chair, turning you around to face him in the dim, golden candlelight. "For years, I believed I was the one pulling the strings in this house. But tonight... I am entirely at your mercy."

You reach up, your steady fingers sliding into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you. The sheer, suffocating proximity of him, the familiar scent of his lavender cologne and the dark, possessive warmth of his embrace, floods your senses.

You breathe against his lips once more, throwing his own words back at him with a sharp, adoring smile

Alastor lets out a low, ragged breath, all of his clinical control evaporating into the shadows of the room. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly as his mouth crashes down onto yours in a deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined kiss. It is a collision of years of hidden hunger, dangerous games, and a twisted affection that has completely consumed you both.

He carries you backward through the dim light, away from the vanity mirror and the candle, toward the deep shadows of the room where the line between the monster and the muse finally disappears entirely into the dark.

The thick, humid air of the bedroom breaks completely as you pull him down into the shadows. The lingering pretense of the last few years dissolves entirely, replaced by a sudden, violent rushing of the current.

It begins like a summer squall over the New Orleans bayou, slow, heavy, and charged with an intense, suffocating heat that makes every breath feel electric. When Alastor’s mouth meets yours, the polite gentlemanly restraint he prides himself on snaps like a dry branch in the wind. There is nothing clinical left in his touch. His hands find the zipper of your emerald gown, the sharp slide of metal giving way as the silk pool at your feet, leaving nothing between his skin and yours but the damp, rising warmth of the room.

He lifts you easily, the sheets of the grand mahogany bed swallowing you both as the dark canopy overhead locks out the rest of the world.

The metaphor of the hunt flips completely on its head. You aren't the victim freezing in the brush anymore, and he isn't the detached butcher weighing the cattle. You meet each other in the dark like two rivers crashing together at the mouth of the delta, a feverish, desperate tangle of limbs and breath that demands absolute surrender from both sides. Alastor pins your wrists above your head, his fingers wrapping around the thin silver scars of your past, but his grip isn't a cage. It is an anchor.

Every touch carries the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of a downpour against the windowpane, a relentless, driving force that pushes the tension in your veins to the absolute breaking point.

You arch into him, your fingers digging into the smooth muscles of his bare back, pulling him deeper into the storm. The suffocating disgust of his dark world has completely transformed into a consuming, addictive fire. You swallow his ragged gasps, matching his desperate, heavy tempo beat for beat, forcing the man who commands the entire city to completely lose his footing in the dark. You are drowning in the current of him, and he is entirely swept away by yours, the boundaries between your bodies blurring so completely that you are no longer sure whose heart is hammering against whose ribs.

When the tempest finally spends itself, the room plunges back into a heavy, breathless stillness. The frantic, pounding rhythm slows into a quiet, synchronized rise and fall of your chests in the dark.

He doesn't pull away, he stays tangled with you in the tangled linen sheets, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a slow, deeply affectionate kiss against your damp skin. The storm has completely washed away the lies, the acts, and the walls of the golden cage. As his long fingers gently trace the curve of your hip in the quiet shadows, you know the truth. You had walked into the woods looking for an ending, but in the heart of his darkness, you had finally found the only place you truly belonged.

The woods were just as thick and weird-looking as they had been months ago, but the air tonight didn't feel sharp or hostile. The damp New Orleans midnight heat hung low over the brush, thick with the heavy scent of the swamp, blooming jasmine, and wet mud.

Leaves crunched softly beneath two pairs of feet moving in perfect, synchronized rhythm through the darkness.

You walked with your arm looped securely through Alastor’s. You didn't need a flashlight, and you didn't need a map. The faint, dancing moonlight filtering through the cypress canopy was more than enough to guide you along the path.

The moment you heard the river..harsh, loud, and roaring against the muddy banks...you both stopped. It was the exact spot where you had once dropped to your knees, trembling and bleeding, praying for the complete darkness to take you away from the prying eyes of the world.

He turned to you in the shadows, removing his wire-rimmed spectacles to let you see his bare, dark brown eyes. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and gently wiped a stray drop of river mist from your cheek. His touch was slow, deliberate, and layered with that profound, terrifying fondness that had become your entire universe.

"The water is running remarkably high tonight, ma belle," Alastor murmured, his rich radio baritone vibrating softly against the sound of the roaring river. "A perfect night to let an unrefined memory wash away completely."

You offered him a slow, sharp crescent of a smile, a low chuckle vibrating in your throat. You reached up, your fingers cool and absolutely steady as you gently traced the line of his jaw before sliding your hand down to lock your fingers with his.

As you did, your thumb casually brushed against the thin, pale silver lines slicing across your left wrist.

You looked down at the healed scars, then out at the black, rushing water. A deep, intoxicating rush of adrenaline flooded your veins, accompanied by a profound, chilling sense of peace. You had finally gotten exactly what you wanted. You had escaped the world. You had vanished entirely from their sight, leaving the prying eyes behind forever.

You hadn't found your salvation in the grave. You had found it right here, in the clever hands of a monster who knew exactly how to make you feel alive.

"Let's go home, love," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence perfectly matching his tempo as you turned your back on the river.

He squeezed your hand, his unblinking eyes filled with absolute, adoring devotion as he guided you back into the shadows. The cage was locked, the melody was perfect, and you were finally safe in the dark.

John comes in to find you sprawled on the floor a foot from the entry and just knows.

"Done too much again, hm, sweetheart? Let's get you into bed." He carefully scoops you into his arms and cradles you against his chest, always so tender with you.

"I just wanted to get the mail." You sob, clutching the front of his shirt. It shouldn't have been 'too much.' You'd only wanted to complete a mundane task, but even that proved too much when you'd collapsed before you even reached the door. "It's not fair."

"I know. It's not fair." He agrees, smoothing a hand along the back of your head. "S'not fair at all."

The routine is painfully familiar by now: He tucks you under the weighted blanket, holds your water bottle while you drink, and then insists that you nap while he gets dinner in the oven. He eats with you in silence so as not to overwhelm your foggy brain.

John sometimes worries that you'll get bored with nothing to do all day but rest. He'll never ever interrupt your quiet time but when you're feeling up to it, he enjoys reading to you. There's never any pressure to keep up with the plot. Simply the sound of his voice is enough to bring you comfort, and some nights it's the only way you can get to sleep.

Kyle will get you settled in the bath, ensuring that the water isn't too hot or it will mess with your heart rate and blood pressure. Gaz is so gentle with you as he washes your hair. He's had you shower with him before so that he knows exactly how to take care of you when you aren't able to to do it yourself. No matter how particular you are about your hygiene, he's got it down to an art.

"This is so embarrassing." You sigh, words slurring while you try not to cry.

"Shh, it's not embarrassing, lovie. It's okay to need some help, and I'm always going to be here to take care of you."

After that he'll get you into a pair of his sweatpants, an oversized shirt, and tour compression socks before settling you in bed, where he does your hair up into a protective style—if needed. He'll lay with you for a bit, just thumbing away your tears tenderly when they fall. When he feels he's able to leave you, he'll shut off all the lights and ensure you've got everything you could need within reach. Once he's made you as comfortable as you can be, he's laying back down beside you to hold your hand.

"I'll help you through this, okay? Just rest up, now. We'll have you back on your feet again."

He knows you may not be able to answer him, and you know he doesn't expect a reply. When you're asleep (or at least relaxing with a mask over your eyes), he'll finally let himself cry. It's silent. Still. He never wants you to know how much it pains him to see you like this. He never wants you to feel guilty about that, but he just wishes there was more he could do for you.

Johnny tries his hardest to help you stay positive when things get bad.

"Poor, bonnie." He laments from by your side, keeping your legs elevated with a pillow on his lap. "My poor, wee, bon. So strong. Quite the fighter."

You scoff weakly. Nothing about your condition made you feel strong.

"I mean it." He continues. "Yer tougher than nails. Most people can't even fathom what ye live with each day. Ye ought to give yourself more credit for gettin' through it. And ye will get through it. Ye have before, you'll bounce back again."

He's a big fan of making you list three things that made you happy at the end of each day, hoping to remind you that not everything is terrible. That there are still glimmers of light in your world. If you can handle the screen and low volume of the TV, he'll snuggle up with you and whatever comforts you need to watch some funny videos. Johnny is a firm believer that laughter is one of the best medicines, and you have to admit that it does makes you feel a little lighter.

Salty snacks, electrolyte drinks, ear plugs and eye masks are always on hand. The first time you told him that your body required lots of sodium to help with water retention, he came back from the shops with an honest to god salt lick. For guinea pigs.

Ghost gets scared and shuts down whenever he finds you in a crash. He's so unsure of what to do; unsure if you want to be left alone or if he should help somehow. But how does he help without making it worse? Poor guy is terrified of doing something wrong and he refuses to talk to you about what you need. Instead he's scoured the internet forums and government health data bases for what works best in a flare up.

He'll swear up and down that he's not cut out for proper dating, but the way he takes care of you says otherwise. This man keeps a diary of all your symptoms: Water intake, diet, sleep, energy levels, everything. It's all going into his notebook so he can keep track of what you might need most urgently. Your mental health is a bit of a different story since he himself is emotinally unavailable, but he's read that changes of scenery will do you good. So when you're bedbound, there's always a vase of supermarket flowers on your dresser in an attempt to brighten your mood a bit.

Simon will have you on a strict pain med schedule. He's wordlessly refilling your water, bringing you salts, and keeping you under the heated blanket like it was his sworn duty. He takes your health so seriously it's almost comical. When your muscles get too weak and sore to move, he'll look up "how to give a massage" on youtube and follow along.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, seeing how distraught he gets. "I'm sorry you have to take care of me."

"M'not." Is all he says, but you can tell by the tone of his grunt that he means it. "Just keep lookin' at the flowers."

When I say that Nikolai takes care of everything, I mean everything. Cooking, cleaning, chores, everything. Your job is to rest. His is to look after his malenʹkij angel. No matter how limited your diet may be, he's always able to serve you food that tastes good and leaves you feeling full. He insists on feeding you himself, even when you do have the strength to bring the fork to your mouth. Why would you need to waste your precious energy when he's right there?

He'll keep you all cozy in his bed 24/7, having insisted you stay at his place during a health flare where he can keep an eye on you. He carries you to the bathroom whenever you need to go (he's not letting you try to walk on your own) and like Kyle, is content to help you bathe. Nikolai even brushes your teeth for you when your arms are too heavy to lift. He pinches your chin so delicately and makes certain to do a good, thorough job. As much as you're grateful for him, you hate that your illness makes you so dependant and he knows it.

He'll just hold you while you try not to cry, creating as much safety and love in your little world as he can.

"Hush now, hush... I have you, malen'kaya. Vse normalʹno. Ja vsegda budu zdesʹ. You're no burden, I will always take care of you."

Masterlist