Route To Evil

route • 20s • she/her • aspiring writer • ao3 • 18+ only

key: ongoing ✍🏻 spice/smut 🌶️ fluff 🌸 angst 🥀 complete ✅

divider credits: @steviebbboi

hazbin hotel fics

what's yours is mine | alastor x wife!reader/oc

main fic masterlist ✍🏻

what’s yours is mine oneshots | alastor x wife!reader/oc

gag order 🌸🌶️✅

mini series | alastor x wife!reader/oc

same time next year? 🌸🌶️🥀✍🏻

nsfw alphabet challenge | the radio demon

a: aftercare | rest your heart🌶️🌸✅ b: body part | mark your territory🌶️🌸✅ c: cum | eat your words🌶️✅ d: dirty secret | swallow your pride🌶️🌸✅ e: experience | feed your ego🌶️🌸✅. f: favorite position | take your pick🌶️🌸✅

human!alastor x fem!reader kissing prompt oneshots

smoke break

after hours

vox x fem!reader kissing prompt oneshots

human resources

corner office

safe space

strip tease

vincent whittman x fem!reader kissing prompt oneshots

drive in

radiostatic x fem!reader kissing prompt oneshots

modern art

requests still open!

requests are open

drive in | vincent whittman x fem!reader

prompt #26: kisses in between giggles

this is the seventh requested drabble based off of this kiss prompt list.

if you'd like to make a request for either alastor or vox (or both :)), simply give this list a read and send in an ask

kissing prompts list and rules | requests open!

masterlist.

ao3.

pairing: vincent whittman x fem!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: fem!reader, human!vox, young vincent whittman, soft!vox, drive in theater, flirting, making out, tickling

summary: She really should have been watching the movie. He’d paid for the tickets, had parked them in a prime spot to catch every colorful frame and wonderfully orchestrated detail of the film’s soundscapes. He’d even gone to the bother of stuffing his car’s trunk with blankets and pillows so that they could cuddle up within the little nest he’d forged.

But he had a face made for television. A face made to be seen by the masses and admired by the many.

And, just like the vast majority of audience members and sycophants alike, she too found her gaze magnetized to the shadowed face of her boyfriend.

wc: 2.1k

Vincent Whittman had a face carved from angelic marble, meticulously detailed with only the finest of silvery blades and precise stencils.

Perfect in the angular cut of his jaw. In the broad slant of his shoulders. In the crooked slope of his nose. In that charming, vivacious tonality of his.

Even in the unconventional pigmentation and flecks of color in the swirl of his irises.

A pair of stormy seas and windy fields.

Of sapphires and emeralds pierced and aglow by a backlight of sunbeams.

It was an urge she’d been battling for the past hour; to let her eyes drift from the projected splash of colors canvassing the large screen of moving pictures to her lover’s enraptured visage. To watch with blissful adoration as the corners of his eyes crinkled around a laugh at some scripted joke her ears had decided to filter out in favor of listening intently to the breathy chuckle that lifted his shoulders and made his chest rattle.

She really should have been watching the movie. He’d paid for the tickets, had parked them in a prime spot to catch every colorful frame and wonderfully orchestrated detail of the film’s soundscapes. He’d even gone to the bother of stuffing his car’s trunk with blankets and pillows so that they could cuddle up within the little nest he’d forged.

But he had a face made for television. A face made to be seen by the masses and admired by the many.

And, just like the vast majority of audience members and sycophants alike, she too found her gaze magnetized to the shadowed face of her boyfriend.

She sighed wistfully as her head lulled against his thigh, legs crossed and thrown over the side of his car’s open trunk, eyes eternally drawn to the amused countenance of Channel 6’s latest and greatest golden boy, like a sunflower was drawn to turn and twist and angle itself in a constant effort to seek the touch of the sun’s cascading rays.

“What are you lookin’ at?”

He hadn’t turned his head to question her, hadn’t let temptation seduce his eyes into relinquishing the captivation the film had on him to let his mismatched eyes flick down to find hers yet. Though the smirk that quirked the corners of his lips and narrowed his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was looking at. That he was just being his usual floaty, arrogant self and piercing the veil of quiet that had befallen the trunk only so that he could preen under the warm glow of her reluctantly admitted adoration.

She hummed, lips pursing around the fond tilt of her mouth, shrugging up at him in response to the goading inquiry that he already knew the answer to. “I’m just enjoying the show.”

He let out a huff of amusement through his nose. And she watched as those wonderfully idiosyncratic eyes of his glinted under the reflected, colorful light bouncing off of the drive-in theatre’s screen as he rolled them.

He hummed short, musing tune, tired gaze concluding its amused rotation by affixing itself to hers, the fingers he’d slotted over hers atop her stomach curling a little tighter. His thumb stroked gentle patterns over the bumps of her knuckles, brow arched as his head nodded towards the scenes rolling across the draped screen. “Show’s out there, sweetheart.”

“You’re so pretty, though,” she cooed impertinently, untangling her fingers from his mindless caress only so that she could reach up to pluck a loose strand of hair away from the pushed-back coif crowning his head. She twirled the strand gently around her ring finger, proffering a slight tug to his scalp as she added through a teasing murmur; “Outta my league.”

His head followed the downward urge of her tender pull, spine curling as his palms settled firmly over the uneven terrain of the assorted mass of cottony blankets and fluffed-up pillows. The cast shadow of his upper body canvassed the strewn form of his lover, grin glinting against the backdrop of a night sky and headlights as he leaned down over her to playfully correct her assertions; “I’m out five bucks ‘cause you won’t sit up and watch the fuckin’ movie.”

“You can tell me ‘bout it later,” she assured, waving him off with a limp bend of her wrist as she tossed her own gaze to the stars. “You love the sound of your own voice.”

He scoffed, tongue clicking against the back of his teeth as a disbelieving smile edged its way onto the enticing pink of his lips. “Everybody loves the sound of my voice.”

It was arrogant, and pompous, and ever so presumptuous. It made her long to drag his perfect face down, down, down to pepper his smirking visage with a flutter of chaste kisses. Until he was just as dazed and drawn to her lustrous expression as she was to his. Until his tongue weighed heavy in his mouth and his lips tingled with the phantom press of her lip gloss, to let her lips ghost over the plush flesh of his until he was whining and pliant beneath her.

She sighed through her nose, butting the inside of her cheeks to stifle a wanton grin. Because, prickling as the man’s boasted ego could be, she’d always been beatified to satiate it.

“So,” he chirped, interrupting her musings with all the attention-demanding charm she’d long since learned to embrace. He inched his face closer to hers, bending his knees just enough that her head was lifted and her nose bumped against his. “Try again.”

He finalized his demand for a redo by jabbing two of his fingers between her ribs, purposeful and unrelenting in his bid to elicit a very particular reaction from his lover.

Her bodily response was immediate. A sharp intake of breath that left her lungs in an ebullient bark of laughter, body contorting in a fitful effort to rid the ticklish touch of her boyfriend from her side.

It was loud and obnoxious and entirely unladylike. But Vincent found that he really didn’t care. Not so long as the sound sent pleasant tremors through his spine, not so long as the lines bracketing her involuntarily grinning mouth remained defined and ever-present. And not for the first time since he’d fallen to her whimsy, since he’d stumbled over his own heartstrings and followed her into a shared life of dichotomous violent ladder climbing and domestic bliss, Vincent felt something soft, enamored, and uniquely sentimental coil beneath the bones of his sternum.

Fondness etched itself into his smug expression when she finally escaped the ticklish dig of his fingertips, sitting up and slapping his hand away with a wobbly frown.

“Hey-!”

Her aghast exclamation was hindered and interrupted by the decry of a man’s voice calling for her to ‘shut up’. Both she and Vincent’s heads snapped to find the driver of the car parked next to them glaring over the shoulder of his girlfriend. Vincent threw a placating wave to the man, flashing that disarming smile of his their way, shoulders lifting with satisfied pride and replete when the lady in the man’s company gasped with recognition.

He lay back in the safe haven of his trunk before he was gifted with the sight of the incredulous expression that would undoubtedly play across the man’s visage when his date began to ramble and chastise him for snapping at somebody as locally eminent as Vincent Whitman.

But he didn’t care about them.

They didn’t matter to him.

They weren’t slumped in his car trunk and looking like they needed a breath-stealing caress of lips and tangle of tongues.

“Yeah, baby,” Vincent crooned, taking her hands in his and wordlessly urging his lover into his lap. She followed his guidance with learned habit and a flattened expression, settling with her legs astride his hips. Her faux annoyance only dulled darker when he settled his hands with intimate familiarity over her hips, teasing remark serving as the score to the gentle guidance; “Some people are trying to watch the movie.”

She sighed at him, lips quirking up at the corner, and shook her head at his relentless jesting.

His hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips linger at her jawline long enough that she had opportune time to tilt her cheek into his palm.

He swore he could practically feel the way his pupils dilated, the way his eyes zeroed in on her, and everything else faded away until the only thing his mindscape could conceive with unified clarity was the serene visage of his lover.

Instinct urged his face closer to hers, lips ghosting over the shining gloss adorning hers, eyes flitting between her lidded eyes and her parted lips, voice low and amorous; “Or do I have to shut you up myself?”

“It might help,” she admitted, slow and coy, taking her time to follow along the veins of his exposed arms, fingertips dragging along the bunched-up fabric of his shirt sleeves. Her fingers curled around the fold of his collar, though she didn’t need to pull him in.

Because Vincent was as insatiable for her touch as he was for the thrill of the kill and every subsequent step up on the corporate ladder.

A single bat of her lashes was all that he needed to close the space between them, hands roaming over familiar curves, fingers slipping under the waistline of her skirt and staying there, serving as a constant point of contact as he hooked his fingers and tugged her closer.

He pressed his mouth to hers in a smatter of short, chaste, fluttering kisses.

At one corner of her mouth, to her top lip, to her bottom lip, to the other corner.

Each kiss was broken by a burst of helpless giggles bubbling behind her lips as his hands renewed their efforts now that he had her in his lap.

And, it was only when she resisted his insatiable mouth, when she turned her head against his hand in a bid to avoid his mouth and express a breathy guffaw, cheeks aglow and eyes teary, that he relented.

He sat back against one of the pillows, lips tinted pink and glittering with the remnants of her lip gloss. He drew his knees up behind her, wordlessly proffering a backrest for her as he tilted his head and arched a nosey brow at her. “Done?”

“Vince.” She hissed his name through her teeth, helpless chuckles subsiding as she snarled around a reflexive burst of persisting giggles, hugging her arms around her torso protectively and leaning back against his thighs.

Vincent sighed, entirely exaggerated and dragging.

“Guess we better try again,” he shrugged, feigning enduring despondency despite his grin, sharp and gleaming, glinting with twinkling anticipation in the shines of his eyes as he leaned in, tipping his chin back to peer up at her with teasing delight sparking along the edge of his irises.

Large hands proffered an urging squeeze to her waist, fingers teasing a ticklish press over the cage of her ribs as her hands navigated familiar terrain and dragged along the broad slope of his shoulders, fingers interlacing at the back of his back as her head lulled back in time with an exasperated upward toss of her gaze. “Christ, you’re a loon.”

He admonished her breach of silence with a quick peck to the lips.

“I’m gonna keep going ‘til you’re quiet,” he mumbled against her mouth, certain and spoken with a promise, brow arching as a dangerous grin crept over his visage.

“What?” She pouted at him, head tilting as her brows pinched into an expression of faux woundedness. “You don’t love the sound of my voice?”

He punctuated the question with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, pulling away to nudge his nose against hers, murmuring cheekily into the air between their mouths; “I didn’t tell you to stop talking, did I?”

He kissed her again, preemptively silencing the snarky retort dancing along the tip of her tongue.

He did it again as soon as he’d pulled away and her brows had dipped into a downturned scowl, pouty lips parting with every intention of chastising him.

And again.

And again.

Until her attempts to castigate her lover spindled into nothing more than content sighs of resignation and reciprocal mewls for more. Until the chaste caress of mouths smoothed out into something soft and lasting, something both gentle and hungry.

His tongue parted the seam of her lips, and her fingers scratched through his hair, undoing every dragging effort he’d put in to perfecting the neat styling in little more than a few seconds of roaming hands.

Vincent found that he didn’t mind.

Not with her pulse thrumming under his fingertips.

Not with his eyes closed, head dazed, and lips tingling with the constant, intent press of her lip gloss.

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by commenting on this post, reblogging or liking my comment

kissing prompt list | requests open

masterlist.

ao3.

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always

thanks for reading

-route

after hours | human!alastor x fem!reader

prompt #25: kisses that travel from face and down the neck

this one oneshot is a sequel to ‘smoke break’, but can be read as a standalone

kissing prompt list and rules.

masterlist.

ao3

pairing: alastor x fem!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: alastor x fem!reader, mc is a lady of the night, friends to lovers, references to the disposition of a body, partners in crime, flirting, spicy, non-sex repulsed alastor, references to past violence against sex workers

summary: “That’s not really part of the job-“

“You’re not working right now,” he remarked, interrupting her eremitic repartee with a press of his lips to her open mouth. He felt her breath stutter against his lips, felt the way she shifted in his lap, and relished the wanton moan that rumbled in the back of her throat.

And when he finally pulled away, it wasn’t to ensure inches of distance between their faces. Instead, he closed the gap between his lips and her dazed expression again and again and again. He pressed a flurry of lasting, chaste kisses to every curve and angle and contour of her face, ghosting his lips over the tender skin of her cheekbone, a touch featherlight and just enough so that he could feel the radiating burn of her blush.

“So,” he chirped, quiet and knowing as he let his mouth descend down, down, down until he could feel the jump of her pulse against his lips, until he could feel the subtle bob of her throat as she swallowed another needle, little mewl. “Do you like this?”

wc: 2.5k

this is the fourth requested drabble based off of this kiss prompt list. if you'd like to make a request for a kiss prompt with either vox or alastor (or both :)), give that post a read and send in an ask

Alastor had exchanged the staticky buzz in his lungs from rich tobacco for the bitter fizzle of whiskey burn in the back of his throat.

His tongue swept across the plush flesh of his bottom lip, collecting residual alcohol on his taste buds. And, if he were a dishonest man, he would have assured himself that the sweet tingle echoing across his lips had been hithered by the alcoholic burn of Sazerac. That it most certainly wasn’t the lingering feeling of his best friend’s lips on his own, that his mouth wasn’t watering at the mere anticipatory thought of their lips reconnecting in a warm embrace.

Dark curls hung low and damp over his eyes, and the man sat with his back to the warm light of her bedside lamp, head tilted toward her windowpane. Layers of mud caked the knees of his pants, hardened and stiffened, and flaked with every movement as his long legs hung over the edge of her mattress. He watched with halfhearted intent as spattering, sky-born tears streamed in downward spirals across the glass in overlapping lines.

And, aside from the constant gentle patter of rainfall tapping against the front of her apartment building, the tiny living space was plunged into quiet when the sound of her shower halted midstream. Condensation fogged under the doorway, ethereal in the yellowish glow of the overhead light as feathery clouds spread and dissipated against the walls of her bedroom.

His ears perked at the distinct sound of quiet, muffled humming that pierced the comfortable veil of quiet. The corners of his lips quirked a little higher as her dancing shadow interrupted the ray of light pouring out from under the bathroom door as she gathered scented sprays and lacy garments, all with the intent of revitalizing the usual allure she carried around her like a starry orbit.

Alastor felt something stir inside the dark crevasse of his chest. Something soft, and fond, and entirely unique to his usual apathetic demeanor towards affairs of the heart twisted and writhed within him, punching him in the ribs and making his breath catch slightly as he downed the last few drops of the concoction of alcohol she’d provided to him on their rain-soaked arrival.

She’d claimed it was to proffer a distraction while she scrubbed evidence of their nightly violent whimsy from her skin, leaving him to ponder and reminisce on a tentative brush of lips, to overthink and agonize over the flurry of possibilities that had made themselves visible within the confines of his mindscape. To let his unpracticed brain scramble and run rampant with the unspoken promise of bodily unity that seemed to ruminate between them on the drive back to her small-time apartment. During the three ascending flights of stairs she’d led him up, when she’d let the side of her hand brush his before she’d sucked in a sharp intake of air and taken the plunge, linking her pinky with his and avoiding his curious eyes as her teeth sank into the painted flesh of her bottom lip.

And now, when he had nothing left to ease his lit nerve endings and ground his stumbling mind but the gentle, uninhibited clink of ice against glass and the terrifyingly wonderful feeling of the uneven terrain of her mattress dipping on either side of his hips, knees pressing close to his sides as arms that weren’t quite as strong as his wound tight around his midsection. Of hands that weren’t yet marred with battle-wrung scars and hardened calluses pulling him back into a warm chest. Of a face softer than his own nudging against the side of his neck, of hot breaths parting enticing lips and warming the exposed flesh of his throat.

“Hi,” she murmured into the side of his neck, a subtle shudder rattling his bones as the chill of her sultry, whispery tone vibrated against his pulse point.

Alastor put the glass down, situating it on the bedside locker, just shy of the original ring of condensation it had created.

Subconscious and newly instinctive, a little stiff and cautiously testing, Alastor leaned back into her embrace, reciprocating her quiet greeting with a softened one of his own; “Hi.”

He felt a small huff of air leave her nose, a reactionary expression of her quiet amusement at his strange timidity warming his jaw before she nuzzled the bridge of her nose into the shadow of his jawline.

Her hands offered his torso a comforting squeeze before one removed itself from the flat plain of his clothed stomach, reaching out past him to tilt the glass on its bottom edge. He felt her shift behind him, chest sliding against his back as the subtle lift off of her heels proffered a higher vantage point to inspect the emptied glass.

She hummed, letting the glass rattle back into its original position and reacquainting her hand with the tucked fabric of his shirt. “Tryna loosen yourself up?”

“I must confess, I don’t do this often…” he admitted quietly. And though his tonality remained steadfast in his usual beguiling wit and sardonic drawl, the edge of his thumb traced careful patterns over the bumps of her knuckles, eyes downcast and descending further as they followed the gravitational pull of raindrops on her windowpane.

She made a small noise of acknowledgment, something melodic and gentle. Something bidden by wisened kindness and knowing, practiced ease as she loosened her grip on his body only so that she could grasp one of his shoulders within her grip, using the hold she had on the broad slope of his shoulder to balance herself as she crawled into his lap.

Her fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, thumbs brushing the damp curls at his nape as she tilted her head at him with a coquettish smirk and lidded eyes. “Good thing I’m a professional then, huh?”

He let his gaze search the ceiling briefly, eyes tossed upward in an amused roll. The motion was accompanied by a dramatic lull of his head, a humored sigh narrating his wordless exasperation before his gaze reacquainted itself with her mirthful one, a jaunty grin tempting the edge of his lips all the while.

But then, she straightened in his lap, practically blooming in the silvery cast of moonlight haloing her outline, flourishing like a flower under his muted adoration. And it was that subtle straightening of her spine, the minute tilting of her head, that made the skin beneath her left eye catch in the golden glow of her lamp and snag his attention.

His grin collapsed, expression falling as his hand absentmindedly rose to cup her cheek against his palm.

‘I would never let them harm you.’

He’d said it because he meant it.

‘I know, Al.’

And so had she.

But somehow, she’d ended the night with the evidential commencement of a bruise beneath her eye.

“Is there anything in particular that you like?”

Her voice broke through the depths of ire he was drowning in, breaching the furious ringing in his ears as dark eyes zeroed in on the newly acquired trauma to her cheekbone.

He blinked, eyes darting back to find hers.

She arched an inquisitive brow at him, head tilting to the side.

He realized belatedly that her hands had traversed the slope of his shoulders, fingers skirting under the edge of his collar and urging his face closer to hers.

“I like you,” he blurted.

Her face lit up. And his ignited with burning, flustered distress.

Because it felt so, so incredibly stupid to say it aloud. To admit to being so besotted and lovesick that affection bled into every syllable against his will.

They hadn’t even spoken about the turn their historically platonic relationship was about to take.

They’d kissed for the first time less than an hour before.

She was going to ruin him.

And it was wonderfully terrifying to realize he didn’t mind.

“Most men tend to,” she mused with a shrug. “I’m used to it.”

Alastor knew her well enough to tell by the airy tone she’d adopted that she was attempting to divert his attention from the contusion. That she was trying to wrangle his focus away from her wounded expression, to coax his demeanor back into something familiar and easy, something lighthearted and banterful.

But instead, he let his thumb sweep over the curve of her cheekbone, over the slight blemish to her skin. The mark had been previously concealed by meticulously applied glittering powders, masked further by the smudge of mud she’d nudged into a faded smear with the back of her hand on her trek back to his car. But now, after layers of glittering dust, grime, and sweat had been scrubbed away and her face was left bare before him, the contours of her expression highlighted by the silvery glow of moonlight parting the night’s darkness, there was nothing to disguise the deep blue bruise hanging low under her left eye.

A short, disdainful noise caught in the back of his throat, brows slanting into a downward scowl as the edge of his thumb traced the blotchy outline of discoloration marring her skin. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks to quell the tilting urge to snarl in unspoken hostility towards the cretin responsible for the violently procured blemish.

His own probing inquiry came quiet and knowing, projecting a question he was already privy to the answer of; “And what else are you used to?”

The ire burning in the darkest crevices of his chest cavity was doused only by the knowledge that the creature that had backhanded the jarring mark onto her flesh was now buried, sunken, and rotting away six feet beneath swampy marshlands. That, and the affectionate little tilt her head gave, nudging her cheek into his palm.

“That’s-“

His thumb stilled in its repetitive track across the tender blemish when she winced, breath hitching and words halting, the eye under his scrutiny squinting slightly against the barely-there pressure his digit provided.

His thumb stilled in its repetitive track across the tender blemish when she winced, breath hitching and words halting, the eye under his scrutiny squinting slightly against the barely-there pressure his digit provided.

She opened her mouth to proffer an explanation, to alleviate the worry in his brow and shield his shoulders from the weight of her occupational hazards, but came up short. She tried again, lips parting around nothing before her tongue clicked dejectedly against the back of her teeth and she slumped slightly in his lap. “Perks of the job.”

He hummed dubiously, letting his gaze trail down to the older smatterings of blue desecrating the column of her throat.

“And those?”

“Men like to bite, I guess,” she shrugged, fingers absentmindedly pulling at the collar of her robe, dragging the fabric against her skin in a short-lived effort to conceal the evidence of her work’s tragic realities.

And the admission almost made him stall. Almost.

He snatched her wrist before she could hide away pains he was already intimately familiar with. He felt her pulse jump under his fingertips, felt her chest stutter against his as surprise hitched her breath into a muted gasp.

His thumb chased the veins in her wrist, following the jump in her heartbeat as his other hand snaked along the gentle slope of her shoulders until his fingers could intertwine with the short tresses of hair at the nape of her neck. “Do they ever ask what you like?”

“That’s not really part of the job-“

“You’re not working right now,” he remarked, interrupting her eremitic repartee with a press of his lips to her open mouth. He felt her breath stutter against his lips, felt the way she shifted in his lap, and relished the wanton moan that rumbled in the back of her throat.

And when he finally pulled away, it wasn’t to ensure inches of distance between their faces. Instead, he closed the gap between his lips and her dazed expression again and again and again. He pressed a flurry of lasting, chaste kisses to every curve and angle and contour of her face, ghosting his lips over the tender skin of her cheekbone, a touch featherlight and just enough so that he could feel the radiating burn of her blush.

“So,” he chirped, quiet and knowing as he let his mouth descend down, down, down until he could feel the jump of her pulse against his lips, until he could feel the subtle bob of her throat as she swallowed another needle, little mewl. “Do you like this?”

She hummed, speechlessly concurring as her eyes fluttered closed.

“Words, dear,” he crooned urgingly, nosing at the underside of her jaw and dragging his lips against the speckles of blues and reds tarnishing her flesh, pressing his mouth to each and every mark with a promise to compensate for every disappointing rendezvous she’d had to endure for the sake of financial survival.

She adhered to his gentle command almost instantly, whispering an airy yes into his ear, nudging her temple against his.

“That’s…” she breathed, mind searching hopelessly for a word to express her amorous gratitude. To tell him that, out of everyone she’d ever shared a bed with, he was the first to inquire about her own fulfillment. And suddenly, there was an uncomfortable prickling behind her eyes, a familiar tingle echoing along her waterline that she could do nothing to quell but blink it away and pray that tears didn’t track down her cheeks as she murmured into his hairline; “That feels nice, Al.”

“Good,” he hummed, low tonality echoing against her throat, sending welcomed, gentle tremors through her bones. His mouth pressed fluttering, affectionate kisses to the exposed column of her throat. He suckled a smattering of claiming, amorous marks across her collarbones, letting his lips linger on her pulse point.

“Right there,” she breathed, voice catching slightly as he scraped the sharpened tip of his teeth against the underside of her jawline. Her head tilted back under his careful ministrations, exposing her neck to a predator of the night with nothing more than an airy moan and the trust that he would never let the glint of his canines settle too deep in her arteries. Her hand roamed higher, combing through the damp mess of curls atop his head, urging a muffled groan against her perfumed skin when her fingers tightened in the dark tresses and wordlessly coaxed his mouth a little closer to her.

She let her other hand fall victim to a gravitational pull, fingertips tracing along the bunched-up fabric of his shirt sleeves until she could offer the toned solidity of his upper arm an appreciative squeeze. And with a content sigh, her grip on his hair tugged and urged his lips away from the jumping stutter of her pulse.

Alastor followed her wordless command, tilting his head back so that dark, shadowed eyes could meet lidded ones.

He offered the woman a wry grin, brow arching with an unspoken question of his amorous aptitude.

It made a breathy giggle bubble behind her teeth, lips stretching around a pleasantly exasperated grin as she let her mouth whisper against his own in a featherlight caress; “You’re a natural.”

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by commenting on this post or reblogging this post

kissing prompt list.

masterlist.

ao3

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always

thanks for reading

-route

strip tease | vox x fem!reader

prompt #44: shorter person tries to kiss the taller one but can’t reach so the taller person picks them up and holds them up by their thighs as they kiss

this is the sixth requested drabble based off of this kiss prompt list.

if you’d like to make a request for either alastor or vox (or both ;)), simply give this list a read and send in an ask

kissing prompts list and rules | requests open!

masterlist.

ao3

pairing: vox x assistant!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: fem!doe!reader, vox is in denial, boss/employee relationship, secret relationship, suggestive language, flirting, soft vox, size difference

summary: A deer, of all things plaguing the arena of Vox’s eternal damnation, was not scary.

A doe even less so, all soft edges and fluffy ears. No sharp tines to catch on and tear through skin, no innate aggression spindling through her veins.

And yet, somehow, the little pop-up at the corner of his screen, short, sweet, and requesting his presence in conference room C, had sent jolting panic through his circulatory system. It had made his heart stutter into a jackhammering pulsation against the bones of his sternum. Akin to instinctual panic. Warm and softened, accompanied by a reflexive need to hitch the next elevator and close the distance between him and his impromptu private rendezvous with his most prized assistant.

wc: 2.5k

this fic is technically a sequel to ‘safe space’, but can be read as a stand alone fic

A deer, of all things plaguing the arena of Vox’s eternal damnation, was not scary.

A doe even less so, all soft edges and fluffy ears. No sharp tines to catch on and tear through skin, no innate aggression spindling through her veins.

And yet, somehow, the little pop-up at the corner of his screen, short, sweet, and requesting his presence in conference room C, had sent jolting panic through his circulatory system. It had made his heart stutter into a jackhammering pulsation against the bones of his sternum. Akin to instinctual panic. Warm and softened, accompanied by a reflexive need to hitch the next elevator and close the distance between him and his impromptu private rendezvous with his most prized assistant.

He’d checked the cameras on the ride down, finding nothing more than an empty, winding hallway leading to his impending destination. And when his thumb had twitched against his palm, when the digitalized image of a soulless corridor should have changed to an equally ghostly conference room, he was met with pitch black haloing a singular dim light source.

It shouldn’t have scared him. The little tug at his heart when his gaze zeroed in on the only thing the low stream of light illuminated, when mismatched eyes absently traced along the facial features of a blissfully unaware doe demoness basking in the near angelic glow of her phone screen.

It shouldn’t have made his heart jump, knowing she was waiting for him. It shouldn’t have sent warmth and color to his screen, knowing she wanted him around as much as he wanted her. And it really shouldn’t have made his throat tighten around unspoken affection, the recollection of the night of the latest heaven-sent slaughter.

How she’d cried in his arms and let her walls crash down around them as she’d confessed the source of the little silvery scars lining her arm. How he’d pushed away every lustrous thought that had accumulated and stacked itself neatly in the recesses of his mind so that he could pull her into his lap and press chaste kisses to her face. How he’d quite happily settled under the sheets of his bed to spend the Extermination tangled up with the deer demoness, clothed and sexless, and entirely satisfied to bask in the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his.

It was disgusting, really. To be so enraptured by a sinner he should have considered to be lowly and unworthy of the time of an overlord like himself.

And it scared him, loath as he was to admit.

So he ignored it, rolling his shoulders back and creaking his neck as the doors to the elevator parted with a hiss and he stepped out into the actualized image of the same hallway his security camera had displayed to him. He eased a charming grin onto his face, all toothy and arrogant, as he approached the door with an emblazoned panel of silver, engraved with a C, and a dim emanating light distantly pouring out between the narrow gap between the door and the threshold to the room.

He didn’t waste time preening himself under the luminescent lights hanging high over his head, just cleared his throat and smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt before he flung the door open with a showmanly swing of his arm.

“You do realize we don’t have to save on elec…?”

Whatever humored arrogance that had imbued itself within the overlord’s greeting tonality was instantly battled and slain when he’d stepped into the shadowed realm, snapping his fingers and conjuring power to the overhead light as he pressed his back to the door with a resounding click.

The teasing remark died on his tongue, voice ebbing into a disconcerted quiet when, as if anticipation had built and liquified between her joints, the chair at the head of the table spun in a slow circle simultaneous to the downpour of light that erupted from one short flick of cyan claws. And like a manned spotlight, purposeful and precise, the haloing glow of luminescent lights cascaded down upon the doe demoness he’d been seeking as her coy expression came into view.

It served as a highlight to the long legs strewn across the chair’s arms, outlining the enticing curves and gentle slopes of her body as she stared up at him from beneath her lashes. Lidded eyes finding mismatched ones, a knowing, satisfied smirk edging the corners of her lips when he could only utter a stupid little; “Oh.”

It was all he could say.

His tongue weighed heavy in his mouth, and his mouth watered at the sight of her almost bare before him. Office attire folded neatly on the table behind her, Vox let his gaze roam across her bare legs, stilling when it met the ornate cotton garter wrapped around her upper thigh before it ventured just a little higher. To the deep, ocean blue lace of her panties, to the intricate patterns of matching lace stitched across her chest, brassiere enticing a tantalizing lift of her chest fluff.

He swallowed down a disbelieving huff of laughter, broken from his limb-locked stupor when his eyes twitched to follow the enticing shift of her figure. She rose from the chair and slinked towards him with all the purposeful allure and damning temptation required to make his knees weak, to make a ruminating whine hum in the back of his throat when her fingers skirted under the lapels of his jacket, curling into the fabric of the garment.

“Oh, wow,” he huffed, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He reached out towards her, hands stopping short of her hips, hovering over the gentle bend of her waist as if he were afraid that his larger hands would impinge on the enticing sight of lace hugging her hips. “What- what’s all this for?”

Her lips quirked a little higher at the uncharacteristic stutter in his voice, gazing up at him with a show of teeth that made his breath catch in the back of his throat.

“Well, I know I kinda ruined your Extermination plans with all my blubbering,” she remarked, rolling her eyes at the recollection of her own tearful breakdown, gaze falling to watch as the edge of her thumbs absentmindedly smoothed over the expensive fabric of his jacket. She stepped a little closer to him, pressing the voluminous plume of fluff adorning her sternum flat to the overlord’s broad chest, peering up at him through her lashes, and with a coquettish lilt to her voice; “So I figured I’d make it up to you.”

There was a beat of silence, interrupted only by the low whir of the small internal fans working a mile a minute at the back of Vox’s head.

Her grin faltered just a little at the confounding quiet, grip tightening on the front of her lover’s jacket.

“What do you think?”

She breached the quiet with an ebbing question, tilting her head to the side. She ignored the throbbing ache in her chest that threatened to manifest itself in burning tracks of tears if he were to deny her. She ignored the uncomfortable itch to hide her face and sequester her hopes for a complete obliteration of the remembrance of her vulnerability.

But she really did hope he wouldn’t bring it up again if she could just force him to push it aside and ignore the breach of their agreement. That emotions were to be left at the threshold of whatever room they’d dragged each other into. That there would be no gathering of romantic feelings or hopes that something that they both had wordlessly agreed would remain just physical could bloom into anything more than meaningless, fun, mind-blowing sex.

“Kiss and make up?”

“I mean, I’m wasn’t mad at you…” the overlord started, letting his gaze shamelessly traverse the captivating outline of her figure. Partly because he didn’t want to waste a second not admiring the way the enticing burst of fluff adorning her chest spilled over the lacy edge of her bralette. Mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye as he somewhat confessed to enjoying their night together, chaste as it may have been. That he didn’t mind taking care of her as her cheeks dried and breaths evened.

He shook his head, shoving thoughts of untoward domesticity before stealing a short step backward, reacquainting his eyes with his doe’s as a wide, toothy grin stretched the pixels that shaped his mouth. “But go on. Lay one on me.”

A breath of relief lifted her shoulders, chest rising against the soft fabric of her laced brassiere, before a small giggle bubbled in her throat at the outward throw of his arms as the playful demand punctuated an exaggerated gesture to the flat plain of his screen.

“Bend down,” she requested, hands curling around the silk of his tie and attempting to pull his face down to meet hers.

“Bend over,” he countered, resisting the urging tugs on his tie with a taunting grin.

“Don’t be a dick, Vox,” she chastised, a playful scowl pulling her brows downward and narrowing her eyes before she tugged insistently on the accessory again. “C’mere.”

Vox folded his arms behind his back, rocking back on his heels slightly, holding his gaze to the ceiling for a prolonged moment of dragging contemplation.

And after a few seconds, he hummed.

“Mm, no,” he drawled, eyes succumbing to gravity and falling back to find hers. One of his hands emerged from where he had it pressed to the base of his spine, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair out of her face and behind the fluff of her ears, absentmindedly letting the tip of his claw trace the fragile edge of her ear. It flicked under his touch, and the overlord felt something soft and warm twinge somewhere deep inside of him, an amused grin filling his mouth; “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work for it, dollface.”

“I’m trying to,” she whined, sliding her hands over the broad slope of his shoulders, trying futilely to drag his head down. She let out a low grumble when he remained steadfast, tall, and devastatingly out of reach.

He arched a brow down at her, cocking his head to the side. “Not hard enough, clearly.”

She pouted up at him, bottom lip jutting out as her brows dipped down into a scowling arch. And Vox had to fight the urge to lean down and take the delicate flesh between his teeth, to tug at her bottom lip with a teasing grin and a biting remark about her stature.

Her eyes narrowed up at him, lips pursed and nose scrunching. And for a moment, neither sinner said anything, just exchanged a flat scowl and an arrogant show of pointed teeth.

Her tongue poked at the inside of her cheek, a contemplative moue pulling at her lips.

“Then I’m putting my clothes back on,” she said finally, a faux irritated click of her tongue punctuating the playfully petulant declaration.

And with that, she turned on her heels, leaning over the glassy surface of the stretching conference table to hook her fingers in the formal garments of her usual professional attire and drag them towards her.

And for a few delayed seconds, seconds spent letting his roaming eyes admire the curve of her ass as she bent forward, letting his appreciation sweep over her back to follow the outline of her panties and trace towards the upturned fluff of her tail, Vox didn’t say anything.

That was until belated realization dawned upon him like a frigid blanket of snow.

“Wha-“ His eyes jolted upward as he scrambled towards her, large hands acquainting themselves with the curve of her waist right as she shirked her blouse up and over the gentle curve of her shoulders, denying him the sight of the intricate lace and intimately exposed fur canvassing her back. “Baby, no. Don’t be dramatic.”

He used his hold on her hips to guide her into a slow spin, turning her body until she could glare up at the overlord through her lashes, chest to chest until she leaned back just enough to begin the process of buttoning up her blouse.

“Well, if we can’t kiss and make up,” she groused, voice sickeningly sweet while her fingers made quick work of the lowest buttons. They halted only when Vox’s hands latched onto her wrists, wrenching her hands away from the garment and holding them apart. “Then what am I doing here?”

“I was kidding,” he emphasized, using the loose hold he had on her wrists to escort her palms to the familiar curve of his shoulders. And only when she gave his shoulders a tender squeeze, when he was satisfied that she’d keep them exactly where he’d placed them, did he unlatch his clawed fingers from around her forearms.

His larger hands ventured south in search of a new handhold, slipping under the hem of her shirt. Palms glided over familiar curves, and claws raked carefully disruptive lines in the fine furs of her body until he could cup his hands around the backs of her thighs. And, with an effortless heave that prompted a small sound of surprise from the doe demoness, he hefted her up into his arms, hands braced in the backs of her thighs as her fingers curled a little tighter around his shoulders.

She opened her mouth to admonish the sudden manhandling. But every chastising thought she could have verbalized was silenced by a quick, chaste press of synthetic lips to her own.

It was quick and sweet, and the overlord pulled away almost as soon as their mouths had met, teeth exposed in a satisfied grin. “See? Compromise.”

A small huff of amusement left her nose, the corners of her lips quirking upward, legs instinctively coiling tight around the overlord’s narrow waist.

“That’s what you do when you’re in a rela-“ He tried to continue, tried to maintain the airy flirtations that infiltrated their every conversation. But his mouth snapped shut around the unfinished word, teeth clattering and eyes widening at the near-fatal betrayal of his own tongue. “In business.”

He corrected himself quickly and simply prayed that she wouldn’t acknowledge it. Or, better yet, that she hadn’t even noticed.

“Business?” She scoffed, head lulling in time with a haughty roll of her eyes, ignoring his little faux pas, purposefully allowing for the slip of his tongue to go unacknowledged, hands gliding along the slope of his shoulders until her fingers could interlace behind his neck. “Now you wanna play professional?”

“I’m always professional,” he corrected, shifting with an aloof tilt of his head, relief flooding his veins instantly.

She hummed, unconvinced, arching a dubious brow at the assertion.

And Vox responded by leaving his face just a little closer to hers, letting his eyes flit about to admire the way the glow of his screen cast her own coy expression in deep, luminescent blues. “I just need to try a different angle with you.”

“And what kinda angle is that?” She urged, tilting her head down just enough so that she could find his eyes through her lashes, head tilting with a coquettish lilt of her voice.

Vox shrugged as he tightened his grip on her thighs, dragging his mouth over hers in a featherlight touch.

“This one works.”

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by commenting on this post, reblogging or liking my comment

you can request a drabble from the list below, just make sure to check the rules and give the post's introduction a read:)

kissing prompt list.

masterlist.

ao3

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated,

always thanks for reading

-route

kissing prompt requests

human!alastor x fem!reader ✅🌸🌶️

after hours | prompt #25: kisses that travel from face and down the neck, sequel to smoke break

human!alastor x fem!reader ✍🏻🌸🌶️

bon anniversaire | prompt #24: hands on hips, pulling the other into a soft kiss that turns heated

alastor x fem!reader ✍🏻🌸🌶️

warm up | prompt #41: passionate kisses as person A is stiding their hands under person B's shirt and pulling them closer

alastor x fem!reader ✍🏻🌸

giggle juice | prompt #30: moving while kissing and falling onto a bed/couch

vincent whittman x fem!reader ✍🏻🌸🌶️

drive in | prompt #26: kisses in between giggles

vox x assistant!reader ✅🌸🌶️

strip tease | prompt #44: shorter person tries to kiss the taller one but can't reach se the taller person picks them up and holds them up by their thighs as they kiss

kissing prompt requests still open

radiostatic x fem!reader

radio interference | TLDR: AU in which Al's wife misinterprets Vox's proposal for partnership, and he ends up in a throuple with his two best friends.

-Or-

Vox has a praise kink, and Alastor likes telling him what to do to get his wife off.

teaser

same time next year?

4 | Wine ‘N Dine

part one | part two | part three

this is part four of an nine part mini series, and can also be found on my ao3

pairing: alastor x wife!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

series content: fem!doe!reader, alastor is down bad and needy, male! masturbation, bickering, temporary angst, fast burn, courting, mating season, dom/sub dynamic and undertones, body worship, praise kink, biting, scent marking, knotting, soft-top!Alastor/power-bottom!reader, non-sex repulsed alastor, fluffy spice

summary: Alastor can feel his mating season approaching, creeping over his limbs like an unwelcome, burning frost. And it's all the fault of the immovable object to his unstoppable force.

His estranged wife. His better half. The only other deer demon that seemed to both illicit and satiate the sudden spike of hormones and arousal of his annual rut.

Unfortunately for him, she's as stubborn as he is, and is still pissed at him for disappearing without a word for the past seven years.

And for the first time in a long time, Alastor has to rely on his ability to woo her to convince her to spend the duration of his rut with him.

TLDR: actions speak louder than words, and Alastor attempts to seduce his estranged wife over the course of a week leading up to his impending rut.

wc: 4.8k

author's note: wow, the concept post for this fic blew up lol, ngithis is the first time l've actually felt the pressure to produce something great since it seems so many people like the concept, hopefully it's met expectations, and like always with me, this story kind of got away from me and it looks like it's going to be eight chapters of longing and horniness

plot notes: the mc is a doe demoness, she is also an established small-time overlord who specializes in theatre and is a semi-famous showgirl in hell, and while her appearance is mostly left ambiguous, she does wear a porcelain half mask over her right eye, her stay at the hotel occurs only because she knows alastor doesn't want her there, she's a petty woman and he loves it

also, oops, because this is another chapter that has to be split into two 🙃 at least the next part should out be out rather quickly lol

Angel

Sooo???

What he say?

You

I look ravenous, apparently.

Angel

Told ya.

He wants to eat ya ;)

You

…

I’m blocking you.

Angel

You don’t know how to do that.

Old.

With a slight shake of her head, the doe demoness tucked the blackening screen of her phone into the silky confines of her dress’ pockets, ears flicking as a heady sigh parted her freshly glossed lips. Her gaze flitted to the side in a quick, amused roll of her eyes, catching on the mirrors lining the walls of the restaurant’s bathroom, resigned to her fate of eternal torment at the hands of her closest arachnid companion.

It stalled there, collecting a few seconds of wordless inspection of her own visage before she turned to lean over the porcelain sink bowls and ran the edge of her thumb across the outline of her bottom lip. Lips pursed and lipstick inked. One exposed eye flitted across her pinched expression, a little more intense and nit-picky than her poor, dolled-up face was used to being subjected to.

She caught herself perhaps a little too late, having sought out and recognized the shallow lines beneath her exposed eye. An eternal reminder that she’d been forced to grow a little older than the man she had married, that her human physique has aged slightly in the seven years she’d had to endure after his uniquely unfair death. Her tongue clicked and echoed in the lonely bathroom, and she wordlessly chastised her self-inflicted critiques with an admonishing shake of her head.

She stood upright, shoulders rolled back and spine rigid. Her chin tilted up, and she breezed past the cacophonous reflections, ignoring the way her dress caught on the air of her departure as she slipped through to the entryway and back into the dimly lit hall of Ozzie’s dining area.

And again, her roaming gaze stilled from her vantage point, gaze piercing through zigzagging waiters and over the heads of sinners too absorbed in their dinner partners to pass any heed of the doe demoness stood stock still as she inspected the side profile of the man who had whisked her away from the hotel’s front porch in a flurry of careful shadows. Who had insisted she perch her hand in the crook of his elbow as he guided them past the security with a flash of golden, serrated teeth and a wielded silhouette, to allow him to be a gentleman as he led her to their table and began to chatter her ears off in that old, animated timbre about everything and nothing.

Who had been acting rather strange since he’d first found it within himself to seek her out and needle at her for attention.

She had to assume it was so that he could fill the quiet between her little hums of agreement and countering quips.

Just like he used to. Back when they were alive, and long after they’d both succumbed to the heartless hand of death.

And, if she were a little more dubious of his intentions, perhaps if she knew him a little less, she wouldn’t have assumed his incessant ramblings were those of a nervous man. That it seemed as though he was trying to make up for seven lonesome years of no words between them at all by rattling off every utterance and commentary his stumbling mind could comprise.

Or that maybe, just maybe, he was attempting to drag her attention away from the gratuitous displays of bodily unity and lustrous depravity that seemed to haunt every shadowed corner and spilled into each downpoured ray of a neon spotlight.

She’d been subtle about it. But she’d kept her eyes fixed on him ever since his skulking presence alone had been enough to encourage the line of sinners and hellborn alike to scramble away from the front of the queue outside. Waiting with bated breath and teeth in her bottom lip for the moment realization dawned upon him like an ice-cold sweat.

That he hadn’t acquired a table at the haunt of loving couples sharing conservative affections and conversations.

That, by his own chaste standards, he’d brought her to a glorified sex club.

And her wordless endeavor had proven to be fruitful. Because she’d spied the first twitch in his brow when he’d scoped out the skimpy attire of the waiting staff. She’d watched as his poised posture stiffened and straightened under the harsh glow of bright neon colors as they were chaperoned past tables occupied by lust-addled sinners. And she’d had to bite back a harsh laugh at the sudden collapse of his expression when the waiter had bid them a temporary farewell at their table with a sliding hand along the forearm of her husband and a small whispered flirtation she didn’t have the privilege of hearing. Just witnessing the paling reaction of her spouse was enough.

It was cute, she supposed. The little wrinkle in his nose, the slight squint to his eyes, his desperate attempts to hold her attention with his boisterous voice.

It had forced her to grapple with her visage to suppress an expression of circumspect fondness, the very edge of her lips warbling around an amused grin as she’d watched from over the edge of her menu as he fumbled to stifle a growl of annoyance as hearty groans emanated from the table beside them and interrupted his attempts at conversational distraction.

She’d realized it was a losing battle when his carmine eyes flitted upward as the itching creep of her scrutinous stare burrowed into his skin.

Her face had split into a wide, satisfied grin that could rival only his own when the steadfast hold he had on her eyes was broken by the obscene sounds emanating from the darkened table beside them, face paling and static screeching.

She’d had to excuse herself, chomping down on her bottom lip to impede the bubbling giggles ruminating in her chest before scurrying away from the table and hiding away in the women’s bathroom and leaving her husband to his disturbed devices.

And as she’d encroached on the table she’d abandoned to conceal her boisterous laughter at the buck’s distraught expense, her ears perked and twitched around the clinking of glasses and thrumming rhythmic music to catch it as her estranged spouse grumbled under his breath.

“Oh, dear,” Alastor grimaced, brows wobbling into an ill-concealed, downturned scowl as another duo of drunken sinners stumbled into each other as they slipped past him. The corners of his omnipresent grin twitched around an agitated frown when they, consequently, eyes closed, lips locked, and entirely unaware of their surroundings, fell into the table behind him. His ears collapsed against his skull in a vain attempt to block the obscene sounds pouring out between their open mouths. “How distasteful.”

“Where’d you hear about this place?”

The sudden reappearance of his wife’s voice made the demon jolt, and she had to fight off the urge to curl her fingers around the curve of his shoulders when they hiked up by his jawline in reactionary retaliation to her question.

Limbs stiff and throat tight, Alastor swallowed thickly around a keen of static when the distant touch of her fingertips brushed along the tightly drawn bow of his shoulders as she passed him.

Alastor coughed into his fist, flustered chagrin heating his cheeks, and air punched from his lungs as the floral aroma that seemed to orbit her arrival invaded his lungs on the sharp inhale. His claws bunched in the fabric of his pants leg, impeding on their instinct need to reach for her, to curl into the silky fabric of her dress, and to pull her down into his lap. To bunt his cheek against her own and inundate the flowery scent with his own musk. To mark her as his, and his alone. To keep keen eyes from roving over her figure, to prevent other wayward sinners from sullying her image with their lewd, wandering thoughts.

“Oh, you know. Through the grapevine,” he answered lazily, claws tracing the rim of an emptied champagne glass as he tilted his head to avoid her scrutinous gaze, waving down one of the waitstaff in a muted effort to proffer an alternative route of discussion. “Little birdie.”

She hummed, doubtful and skeptical and entirely enthralled by the falsehood of his nonchalance, nodding along slowly.

The sound was epilogued by a loud sound of impact, and both deer sinners’ heads turned sharply to locate the source. To the pair of sinners that had rolled off the edge of the table and onto the ground next to them.

Her eyes fluttered back to her husband to gauge his reaction.

Suddenly looking a little less sure of himself, a little more apprehensive, she watched as he let his newly doubtful eyes wander over the pair of sinners in their blissfully unaware exchange of saliva and lustrous touches with an air of distressed snootiness.

“What is this place?”

He’d said it under his breath, shining his claws against the lapels of his jacket, tilting his head just a little. Enough to look down his nose at the debaucherous scene playing out like a reveling performance of bare skin and public humiliation. It was quiet and to himself, a twinge of panic plucking at his horror-stricken heart when he settled the corner of his jaw on his thumb, fingers massaging careful circles over his temple.

She watched him from over the rim of her champagne glass, a cavalier smirk tempting the corners of her lips before she chirped at him, a little too peppy to be genuine; “Ask your birdie.”

“What-?”

“Because I actually looked into it a little,” she interrupted him, leaning back in her chair, elbow perched on the backrest as she twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Turns out this place has a whole franchise. Started in the Lust Ring, of all places. D’you know that?”

She cocked her head, brows pinching above narrowing eyes as she watched him with an air of immovable scrutiny.

He gulped around a small, panicked noise. Because he knew that tone, all sugary sweet and pointed. Because he had long since familiarized himself with that knowing drawl of hers when she was privy to a certain parcel of knowledge that he hadn’t yet procured for himself.

But he’d never been one to claim ignorance, too proud in his damnation to admit and concede and beg for enlightenment.

So instead, Alastor nodded stiffly, hands steepling and mouth pulled back in a tight-lipped smile, waving off her catechism with a haughty roll of his carmine eyes; “Of course.”

His voice was tight, clipped, and apprehensive, chin lifting slightly as he eyed her with a growing sense of dread towards the unknown.

She watched him for one long, dragging moment, the corner of her mouth twitching upward with every prolonged second, every nervous flick of his eyes, or restless drum of his fingers against the tabletop. She arched her brow at him, waiting, wordlessly insisting that he elaborate on his findings in his search for a dining experience as she took a short sip of champagne.

The veil of quiet was pierced and shattered by the emergence of a voice they’d grown accustomed to hearing over the course of the evening.

“You guys look thirsty. Can I get you off?” Almost as instantly as they’d purred the innuendo, the imp had slapped an open palm over their mouth in an exaggerated expression of silly me before they tried again; “I mean, get you refills?”

Alastor blanched, shoulders lifting once again as he glared up at the imp with a rigorous fury, blinding ire burning behind his monocle as the hellborn cleared their throat with a playfully nervous giggle as they corrected themself. His fingers tightened around the fabric of the tablecloth, claws ripping through the white linens in jagged, resentful lines.

“I’m sorry, could you give us a minute? He’s…” The doe’s apologetic gaze flitted between the waiter’s expectant, lidded gaze and the stiff, forcibly enforced grin stretching along the lips of her husband. The sudden widening of his eyes, bidden by uncharacteristically flagrant panic. The violent twitch of his neck as his antlers creaked and crackled in a reflexive burst of frustration induced growth, sharp little tines spiking along the branches of dark protruding bone. “New to all this.”

“Oh, of course,” the imp nodded slowly, as though realization were dawning upon them in time with the slow backward drag of their feet. They offered her a sheepish grin of faux understanding, tucking their hands behind their back as they stole short, tentative steps back before turning to another passing waiter. Unsubtle and boorish, they cupped a hand around the side of their mouth, capricious in their thumbed gesture towards the buck in question, and muttered an injudicious; “Virgin.”

The doe scoffed at the insulting display, upper lip curling just a little around stifled admonishing declarations as her glare met the ceiling briefly with an irritated grumble and a shake of her head. And, when her irked gaze fell victim to gravity once more and dropped to reacquaint itself with her husband, she was met with nothing but a deserted chair opposing her own.

Her head swiveled, ears twitching around the atmospheric sounds of slow crooning brass and the quiet scrape of utensils on dishes, flattening and twisting in a fruitless bid to trace the room for any signs of her husband.

And then, there was a sharp snap that echoed along her ear canals.

Like the bows of a tree’s spindling branches bending and breaking away to the demanding whims of the winds.

Brows pinching in an upturned arch of dawning confusion, she slowly slipped out of her chair and knelt before the cascading whites of the table’s cloth, following the sound down, down, down.

Ears twitching still, another sharp snap permeated the constant drone of outside chatter, needy cries for a reciprocating partner, and thrums of lyricless music. She reached out, fingers unfurling and furling again when they made careful contact with the cottony fabric’s bottom edge. She pulled the draped material up, forming a narrow entrance under which bright neons poured in and shadows crept, stretching along the cavern of stark darkness until the harsh glows highlighted the hunched figure of her husband.

“Al?”

She squinted at him, exposed eye twitching with an unmitigated flinch when she was answered with another snap of twig-like protrusions, followed by a grunt of muffled frustration imbued by spiking static bursts.

Or perhaps, to be a little more apt, the sound of delicate bones snapping under violent hands.

She crawled forward, letting the tablecloth fall to conceal them both in shared darkness as she settled on her knees before him, questioning him slow and gentle. She craned her neck, head tilting a little to catch his eye. She called his name, slow and scrupulous, uttering an old sobriquet she hadn’t pronounced since his abrupt disappearance from her everyday seven years prior; “Allie?”

“I’m going to kill him,” he growled, under his breath, punctuated by the salient snap of another newly formed extremity lining his antlers coming undone in his hands, more so to himself than as a response to her perturbed tone.

“Kill who? The waiter?” The doe felt her brow pinch, thumb reflexively gesturing over her shoulder as her head cocked with a baffled squint of her eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s their job to-”

“Angel Dust,” the overlord ground out, static popping like he wanted to take the spider’s agnomen and imbue its every syllable with the same vitriolic venom that bled from the side of his mouth when he was forced to endure any length of interaction with his television-headed counterpart. Like he wished to disappear in a whirl of shadows and enact a frenzied brutality upon the arachnid for tricking his desperately malleable mind. “He told me to take you here.”

“You-” Her words died on her tongue, surprise filtering across her masked visage as her hands fell limply into her lap at the biting accusatory tone. Her head cocked to the side, genuine bewilderment pulling at her features as she earnestly questioned his judgment with an air of emphasized bemusement, like it was the most obvious thing in hell; “Why would you listen to him?”

The overlord let out a short noise. Something akin to a sighed groan, like defeat was weighing heavy over his bones as he dragged his hands down over a resigned expression.

He didn’t say anything to counter her bafflement.

And she refused to fill the air with meaningless syllables if he was unwilling to grant her a response.

She settled back on her heels, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the newly exposed furs of her thighs when the fabric of her dress shifted slightly, sliding against the muscle of her thigh to reveal the hip-high slit bisecting the skirt of her garment. Watching. Waiting.

More patient than he probably deserved, if he was truly honest with himself.

Which was why, after another long moment, untarnished by unnecessary words and apologies, Alastor let out another breath. A sigh, a resounding sound of resignation.

“He’s occupied more of your time since you first arrived at the hotel than I have in the past seven years,” he admitted quietly, like he was ashamed, brow tilting downward into a scowl, smile tight and forced. As though the radio demon, of all people, feared the verbal retaliation of his wife if he uttered his failings as a husband into the hellscape of their eternity. “I assumed you’d spoken about places you wanted to go. Things you wanted to do.”

“Oh…”

It was all she could say.

Pleasant surprise painted her expression in place of a spoken response.

The sound of static warbling around them refocused her eyes on the man emanating the distressed signals. And her gaze zeroed in on his shadowed face, on the downward trajectory of his stare. On the subtle wobble at the corner of his mouth, as though he were fighting the instinctive urge to frown at his foibles. In the slight waver in his voice when it came again; “You must think me a fool.”

She hummed in wordless agreement, eyes softening and lips tilting into a tentatively encouraged smile. All the while, something worn, wary, and undeniably soft throbbed inside of her, beneath the slope of her sternum, protectively caged behind bone and muscle and years of painstakingly built fortifications.

All crumbling down around the delicate, fragile echo of her heart in a matter of melting seconds.

And after a long, drawn-out moment of quiet. After a prolonged, dragging moment of watching her husband curl in on himself until he somehow managed to make his tall, imposing self look a little small, did she decide to have a little mercy on him.

“I’ve known you were an idiot for decades,” she shrugged with an aloof twitch of her brow, lips edging upward as she sat in shadowed viewing as her husband stiffened under the drawling, humored affront.

Something akin to amused pity twinged at the threads of her soul when his fingers tightened their hold on his hair, a short, muffled whine rumbling in the back of his throat serving as the sole flustered response to her teasing.

Maybe, if he had been anybody else, she would have reveled in the inward curl of his body in weakened retaliation to her words. She would have cackled at the mere thought of hell’s most powerful overlord withering under her tickled gaze.

But he wasn’t, so she didn’t.

“But, no,” she mused slowly, a small hum parting the veil of dolorous quiet that had fallen upon them as her hands reached out to his buried face. She didn’t pry, didn’t tug at the tresses of scarlet hair peeking out from between his white-knuckled grip. Instead, she imprudently plucked an incongruous fallen piece of brittle, broken-off antler from the fluff of his hair, letting it clatter to the ground between them as she scooted a little closer to him. “I think it’s sweet.”

And, only when the light brush of her fingertips disturbed the tuft of his fringe, as all the practiced and sharpened edges framing her tonality softened into something old and fond and so uniquely enamored, did Alastor’s head lift from the cradling hold of his cupped hands.

It felt as though she’d doused the feverish burn ruminating under his skin, like she’d simultaneously reignited the fiery desire of his loins with just a careful brush of her fingertips.

His lips parted in wordless astonishment, hands grasping at the air as he instinctively nuzzled his head forward and into her gentle caress. And she huffed a small laugh through her nose, bemused delight sparkling in her exposed gaze as her head cocked and her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I think we should get out from under here though,” she murmured, ducking her head so that she could meet the lowered cast of his gaze, instinct puppeteering her joints as the edge of her thumb grazed above his brow bone. The corners of her painted lips quirked at the hazy look that haloed his dilated pupils, at the fleeting bonelessness that seeped into his joints before his slow-to-rouse mind seemed to register her whispered suggestions, eyes twitching up to find hers in the darkened canopy of their table. “They’re gonna start thinkin’ we’re doin’ something other than talkin’.”

He blinked at her, jaw working slowly around a grasping utterance of a quiet; “Oh.”

She swore she could feel the flood of heat that rushed to the buck’s face, fleeting as the feeling was when he scrambled to emerge from beneath the tablecloth. The doe demoness let out a huff of puzzled amusement, brows pinching as a bemused grin broke out across her visage, and she mirrored the hurried retreat of her spouse, crawling backwards and out from under the cascading purple tablecloth.

By the time she’d fully surfaced, the porcelain curve of her half-mask glinting under thrown neon glows, her cheeks were aglow with a warmth that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar and yet, somehow, felt garishly brand new and uniquely girlish.

Alastor kept his gaze downcast and hardened, cheeks alight with flustered chagrin as his fingers fiddled idly with the silvery twists of his fork handle. And when she couldn’t help but huff an amused little laugh through her nose, lips tilting into a sanguine simper as her head tilted and she watched his awkward shuffling of hands and stiff throws of his gaze in her direction, his shoulders hiked up by his jawline. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

She hummed, jerking her head to just one example of their company’s distracted, lust-driven depravity before whispering with a conspiratorial reassurance; “I don’t think anybody noticed.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked to the side, lids lifting enough for her to notice his quiet and gradual reprieve, surprise filtering across his visage as his fingers slowed in their fidgeting.

“Yes, I suppose they are a little…” He shuddered and grimaced, voice trailing off as his gaze trailed over her shoulder to the gratuitous displays playing out behind her. The fluff of his ears fell back and along the curve of his scalp, pitching static warbling through the surrounding air before the overlord concluded with a troubled mumble; “Preoccupied.”

The doe made a short noise of agreement, eyeing her spouse, gaze scurrying over tensed shoulders and folded ears. And when her roaming gaze snagged on something hidden in shadows and smoke, something heinous and deliciously scandalous, her lips curled around a knowing smirk.

“You know…” She started, swiping a matching pair of bubbling champagne glasses from a passing waiter’s tray and offering one to her husband.

Alastor accepted the offer with careful claws, ensuring that his larger hand didn’t overlap with hers. He wasn’t sure how he’d survive a brush of her skin against his if she refused to let him near her once their night was over, if she realized and decided he wasn’t worth the wait of seven years.

He downed the beverage in one fell swig.

“That guy’s married. Brings the missus to my theater every month,” she confided putatively, flicking her eyes to the side with a purposeful intensity. “And that’s not his wife.”

Alastor’s eyes darted to follow the sharp trajectory of her own, lids lifting in surprise at the shameless display of infidelity.

“Yep,” she nodded in confirmation, answering an unspoken question when his ears stood tall to invite the whispers of gossip. The doe felt an amused grin creep along the painted flesh of her lips at his renewed enthusiasm, felt as something old, worn, and slowly reconstructing twinged deep within the cage of her ribs when the deer scooted his chair a little closer to the table, subtle as anything as he rested his elbows on the table and cradled the angle of his jaw in his hands.

She felt her own spirits lift a little under his rapt attention, tentative bashfulness blooming across her cheeks as his gaze resigned itself to remain fixed upon her expression. She had to smother the urge to mirror his lax posture, to let her limbs abide by ancient habit and a longing to inch closer. She found her tongue lay heavily in her mouth, momentarily useless in her endeavor to alleviate her husband’s unusually uneasy countenance when she found her eyes locked onto his.

What she found was nothing short of spellbound awe, admiration twinkling in his lidded gaze under the low lights flashing throughout the dining area in time with the rhythmic pulse of music. And it only made every working impulse inside of her halt any imprudent efforts to demand that she close the distance between them and coax the old flame embering dimly between them into a blazing burst of light and warmth.

Her breath caught as she cleared her throat, forcing her eyes away from her buck so that she could scope out the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. Her grin stretched around glinting teeth when her probing eyes encountered yet another family face among a sea of seduction and revelry.

“And that lady?”

Alastor’s eyes twitched to follow the curt nod of his wife’s head, roaming over the enticing slope of her neck and shoulder until his squinted gaze landed on the sight of a female sinner seated just a few tables away. To her tossed-back head and wandering hands as they skittered along the broad shoulders of the two taller sinners ravishing her neck and lips with open-mouthed kisses and bites.

He felt the origins of a disturbed grimace begin to tempt the very corners of his grin as his brows dipped over wide eyes when the captivating allure of his wife’s whispered tonality demanded his attention in its scandalized utterance.

“She runs a women’s club way down south for practicing celibates.”

She leaned into him so that he’d hear it. And the overlord leaned into her because it was the most subtle opportunity to invade her close orbit.

His ears perked instantly, teeth showing in a dangerous expression of delight at the mere idea of such a scandal, glancing back at the display of hypocritical debauchery with a newfound appreciation for the ignominy. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” she guffawed, nodding earnestly, mirroring her husband’s instinctive lean, resting her elbows on the edge of the table and letting her chin sit atop the flexible stage her entwined fingers provided as she angled her upper body a little closer to him. “She asked me to join a couple of years ago.”

Alastor made a small noise. Akin to a hum, closer to a grunt before he asked her slowly; “Did you accept?”

She blinked at him. And the quiet almost killed him.

He felt his ears twitch with the urge to sheepishly press flat to the curve of his scalp. Felt the impending dread of a sudden and gentle rejection born from his too-eager inquiry.

But then, gentle and sudden, a little tentative and a little probing, almost as though she were testing the waters just as much as he was; “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

He tilted his head, avoiding her steadfast gaze. And though he approached the suggestive finality of her riposte with cautious exhilaration, he felt the familiar swish of the fluff of his tail strumming against the base of his spine as his ears caught the softened tone she’d adopted; “And that means…?”

She hummed, head tilting against her fist as she eyed him from the very corner of her vision, the edges of her painted lips quirking upward.

It made something twist and writhe with unexcised desire inside of him. The enticing lift of her cheek as her lips sharpened into a coquettish smirk, perfectly kept brows arching over the slight crinkle at the corner of her exposed eye. All serving anew as a wordless reminder of just how attractive he found that arrogance looked on her.

His claws twitched against the tablecloth with an inhibited urge to entwine his fingers with her own.

And then, something else, like a warm chill skittering along his spine, a rattling shiver through his bones, echoed along his nerve endings when he felt something foreign and all too familiar all at once. The tentative brush of a hoof against the hem of his pants leg, skirting just under the shadows of his slacks so that she could caress the side of her hoof against his shin with a purposeful, coy look playing on her expression.

Carmine eyes met lidded ones, and his pattering heart jumped in time with the careful thrum of her own as she grinned up at him and proffered a glinting show of teeth that made his breath catch slightly in the back of his throat.

“Depends on how you behave.”

notes: So? Whattya think? I'm trying to work out my writers block by working on this mini series, but I'm not a hundred percent on my prose at the minute, so any feedback is appreciated.

Surprise, surprise. The word count for this chapter got away from me again, so it’s been spilt into two lol.

My initial word count goal for this entire fic was about 20k. But alas here we are; 20k and not even halfway done. Hope you guys don’t mind the longer chapters lol.

Let me know what you think please. I really appreciate and love reading all of your lovely comments. Feeds my ego 😈

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist

next part coming soon…

pairing: alastor x reader x crt!vox

setting: 1950s

TLDR: AU in which Al’s wife misinterprets Vox’s proposal for partnership, and he ends up in a throuple with his two best friends.

-or-

Vox has a praise kink, and Alastor likes telling him what to do to get his wife off.

Vox craves perfection. He chases it like an unattainable star, just out of reach but still within its orbit.

He wants to earn it, and he needs his efforts to be recognized.

By the doe demoness in his lap whispering his praises in coy, breathy moans of his name. By the buck her hand was entwined with as she rode the media overlord into a lust-driven hysterical need to be perfect.

For her. For Alastor. For his own stumbling heart’s sake.

“Grab her tail.”

A warble of static wound tight around the even command, and Vox’s mismatched eyes fluttered from where he and the doe were connected at the hips to find Alastor’s expectant face, brow preemptively arched as he ran the edge of his thumb over the curve of his wife’s knuckles.

Vox blinked. “Wha- What?”

“Don’t be a selfish lover, Vincent,” the buck chastised, a playful lilt to his cavalier tonality, cocking his head with a low click of his tongue. His hand curled deftly around Vox’s wrist, and the media overlord felt a spindling strike of desire bolt through his veins. And when the radio demon wordlessly demanded that he relinquish his hold on the doe’s waist, Vox could only watch with parted lips and a stuttering heart as his hand was guided behind the demoness’ back. And then, again, a little firmer and a little closer; “Grab her tail.”

just gonna leave this here for now

i’ll probably write a full fic for this eventually when i’m all caught up on my other fics

safe space | vox x fem!reader

prompt #28: kissing someone's scars

prompt #29: wiping away someone's tears before kissing their cheeks and then their lips

kissing prompts list and rules | requests open!

masterlist.

ao3

pairing: vox x assistant!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: fem!doe!reader, hurt/comfort, slight angst, vox point-of-view, vox is in denial, extermination, scars, mention of previous near-fatal injuries, boss/employee relationship, suggestive language, flirting, soft vox, size difference

summary: Bemused, staggering intuition drew his eyes back to her face.

Vox felt something uneasy and hot coil deep down in the darkest parts of him when she refused to meet his gaze for anything more than a fleeting upward twitch of her eyes.

He didn’t care. That’s what he told himself.

Which was why each conscious stem of thought within him had internally snarled, thrashed, and revolted against every instinct that made him open his big mouth and blurt out a blunt and trenchant; “You’re shaking.”

wc: 2.9k

this one’s a little longer than usual because it’s two prompts in one, but hopefully it meets your expectations anon

To Vox, it meant absolutely nothing. Truly.

Because her feelings were as inconsequential to him as those of any other prosaic soul wandering the burning terrain of damnation.

He’d ignored the nagging feeling toiling away in the darkest pits of his stomach when he’d first broached the subject of Extermination. Because he didn’t care that his offhand mentioning of the event had made her hand instinctively clutch a protective hold around her forearm. He didn’t care that she’d stumbled over her words as though her tongue weighed heavy in her mouth when she’d agreed to spend the day with him. Alone, together, in his penthouse suite.

It meant nothing to him when she’d arrived at his penthouse looking a little paler than usual. He didn’t care that the airy unprofessionalism she usually carried in his close proximity had all but vanished, replaced by a macabre version of itself that sat tense and bristly on the edge of his bed. He didn’t care that she hadn’t so much as touched the iced Bordeaux he’d nudged into her listless hands before he’d sauntered across the room to draw the curtains closed and obscure the dreary vision of reinforced metal armory shielding Vee Tower from the imminent shower of heavenly decimation.

So he’d breezed past it all. He pretended as though he hadn’t noticed the way her brow had pinched when he’d declared that their evening was; “Gonna be great.”

He pretended that he hadn’t noticed the way she’d inhaled sharply before returning whatever flirtations he’d proffered with a sultry grin of her own.

He pretended until he could no longer deny it.

Vox felt his lidded expression drift south, down to the enticing plume of fluff spilling over the neckline of her blouse. Down further to find wandering fingers walking along the lean muscle of his thigh, smoothing over the fabric of his pants leg until her fingertips brushed against the silvery cold of his belt buckle.

He liked to watch her work. It was why his mismatched eyes fixated on the concerted efforts of her hands. The sight wasn’t one that was entirely new to him anymore.

The sight of unusually clumsy and fumblesome hands was.

The Overlord felt his digitized brows tilt slightly, a bothersome frown edging the corners of his mouth as his gaze zeroed in on the maladroit undoing of his belt buckle. On the subtle tremors that racked her inelegant fingers, on the slight shake of her wrist, on the subsequent tremble of her arm.

Bemused, staggering intuition drew his eyes back to her face.

He felt something uneasy and hot coil deep down in the darkest parts of him when she refused to meet his gaze for anything more than a fleeting upward twitch of her eyes.

He didn’t care. That’s what he told himself.

Which was why each conscious stem of thought within him had internally snarled, thrashed, and revolted against every instinct that made him open his big mouth and blurt out a blunt and trenchant; “You’re shaking.”

“No, I’m…” Her voice trailed off, quiet in a way he’d never been privy to in their months of furtive liaisons and clandestine meetings. She frowned, brows dipping low over stormy eyes as her lips twisted around words that failed her.

Her scowl deepened, shadows etching between her eyebrows before her neck swiveled with a dismissive shake of her head.

It tugged at something worn down and weak inside of him.

“Ignore it,” she urged through gritted teeth, inching closer to him and clambering into his lap before he could rebuke her insistence.

Vox’s hands instinctively fell to the slight curve of her waist, cyan claws twitching against the waistline of her pants, eyes widening when she’d crossed her arms over her midsection and hauled her blouse up and over her head in one fell motion. And when he’d parted his lips to question the sudden revolution of her demeanor, she disrupted his imminent interrogation by pressing her mouth to his.

Instinctively, he reciprocated the sweet caress of her lips, grip tightening ever so slightly on her waist, a sharp inhale harmonizing the soft sound she let out as she pressed a little closer. She smoothed her hands over his chest, adding enough pressure to urge him onto his back so that she could lean over his prone form.

He let her, falling back against the uneven terrain of his mattress only after he’d glided one of his hands up her body and tangled his claws in the messy tresses of her hair. And she’d almost managed to wordlessly convince him to drop it. If only she hadn’t moved the object of his apprehension and tried to drag his hand to grope at her chest fluff with a much smaller, trembling hand.

The tremor rattled his own wrist, and it made him pull away with an open, breathless glare. “Don’t try and distract me with your weird deer boobs.”

“Excuse you-”

Whatever offended expletive the doe could have proffered was interrupted and silenced by the ringing sound of a distant siren, a loud, resonating, and familiar screech that made both sinner’s heads snap to eye the curtained windows. The noise echoed in a rumbling roar, rattling glass and concrete and signaling the commencement of a heavenly slaughter.

It made her eyes widen in time with a panicked hitch of her breath, hands curling around the collar of his shirt until the sounding blare faded into muffled screams of terror and battle cries.

She breathed.

He breathed.

They both slackened, just a little.

“I-I just…” She said it after a moment, a heavy frown weighing on her brow as she trepidatiously forced her eyes away from the curtains. And when her gaze reunited with Vox’s, so earnest and exposed, he felt the gentle thrum of his heartstrings being plucked and pulled in every direction except for his desired apathy and detached stoicism. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He arched a pixelated brow at her. “What?”

The doe demoness threw her arms out either side of her, gesturing wide and exasperated to the barricaded windows and the carnage decimating the streets of hell that the added armor was defending them from. “Everything about this?”

The overlord pushed himself up until he could lean his weight on his elbows, grumbling petulantly under his breath; “I was looking forward to it actually.”

“No, that’s- not this,” she cinched, dragging an indignant hand down an irritated expression. “Extermination. People getting slaughtered right on your doorstep.”

“Well, it bothers me if they’re bleeding all over said doorstep,” Vox quipped, edging the bungling attempt at humor with a breathy laugh. “I pay good money to keep that thing squeaky clean.”

“Vince…” she sighed, shoulders drooping. She dragged the point of her canine over the curve of her bottom lip, gaze thrown to the side as she ventured back and sought the words required to question her boss with a whispery disposition; “Have you ever even been caught out in one?”

“‘Course not,” Vox scoffed, disbelief brightening his features, laughing off the inquest as if his answer sufficed as something to placate her. The response was instant, arrogant in a way only the most affluent of sinners could afford. “What kinda idiot goes…?”

A pompous upward toss of his eyes was impeded only by the sight of his doe curling in on herself, smaller hand reacquainting itself with her forearm, fingers wrapping deftly and protectively around her wrist. Then, as relaxation dawned upon him like a cold, wet blanket, Vox felt his lids lift slightly, voice quiet and probing; “Have you?”

Her thumb traced a familiar line over the made of her wrist.

And then, a reluctant offering.

“The first one,” she murmured, eyes a little distant when they flicked up to find Vox’s briefly. She blinked once, twice, enough to banish the wall of tears blurring her vision, even if just temporarily. “I’m fine. But it’s still…”

Vox wanted to pretend that the thought of her anywhere but safe and guarded behind his fortress of metal and security didn’t send aching waves of quaking dread to his extremities. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.

“Sorry, I’m being-” Uncertain eyes fell to glare at her hands, at where she was fiddling idly with her boss’s fingers, wilting into herself like a fragile, rainless, withering flower under the scrutinous glare of the sun. The corner of her mouth wobbled and shook until she sank her teeth into the flesh inside of her cheek, an old habitual bid to save face and stubbornly subdue any subsequent trembles in her expression.

It failed. Because, reluctant as he was to admit it, Vox knew her a little too well for his own sake.

“Ugh,” she groaned, burying her face in her palms to stifle the onslaught of stubbornly quelled tears threatening to pour over the edge of her waterline. It was a meager attempt to hide her melancholic, crumbling expression. One betrayed by her close proximity to the demon she was attempting to shield from her sorrow. “You can- you can ignore me.”

Vox should have barked a mean laugh at her. He should have teased her for the teary eyes and wobbling mouth. It’s what he would have done had she been anybody else. It’s what he would have done if he knew what was good for him.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Not when her nose twitched as a little sniffle broke the quiet that had fallen upon them as she nudged a closed fist under her eyes, catching tears before they could drip from her chin and dampen his clothes. Not when she looked so uniquely pitiful and dejected, a slight squint to her downcast eyes, as though she was preparing for the verbal blow of a disappointed dismissal. Trying to force on a brave face, as though she half expected him to adhere to her somber suggestion.

He really should have.

But instead…

“Well,” he breathed, chest heaving as he sighed through the word as he pushed himself into a seating position. His hands moved of their own accord, fingers twitching against the instinctive need to touch her as his palms cupped under her jaw with a gentleness he often forgot himself to be capable of.

Something old, warm, and weak flickered inside of him when her eyes fluttered shut and she tilted her face into the palm of one of his larger hands with a wobbly purse of her lips. He watched as unshed tears finally spilled over the fragile precipice of her waterline, thumbs gliding slowly over the curve of her cheek until his thumbs instinctually bid to catch them. The edge of his thumbs swept careful lines over her cheekbones, like a lover’s caress.

Like it meant something.

It didn’t.

He shook the notion off with a teasing lilt, leaning into her proximity and admiring the oceanic glow that filtered across her visage. Razored teeth exposed and glinting, the media overlord’s mouth stretched around a seductive grin as he inched a little closer to the doe demoness, cradling the angle of her jaw in his much larger hands.

“You should know I’m physically incapable of doing that by now.”

He said it like a joke, like it was something easy and normal. Like his pulse hadn’t jumped and stuttered when her voice, always so self-assured and frustratingly right, had warbled around waning words. Like he hadn’t been holding his breath ever since he’d first acknowledged the tremors rattling her bones.

And then, like a lovesick fool, he’d used the careful hold he had on her face to tilt her head. To the left, so he could nudge a chaste press of synthetic lips to her cheek. To the right, so that he could hover his mouth over her cheekbone, letting his lips linger on the residual glittering track of tears before he pulled away just enough that he could press the upper parts of his screen to her forehead.

He felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom across his screen, bearing witness to the brightening glow of cyan that painted her speechless, awestruck expression.

He wanted to kiss it until speechless morphed into senseless.

He banished the thought with a short shake of his head, opting instead to ghost his grinning mouth over the enticingly glossy flesh of hers and proffer a teasing epithet; “Sexy bitch.”

He punctuated the playful sobriquet with a chaste press of his lips to hers.

And the wordless affection made a watery smile interrupt the doe’s downturned expression, a tentatively amused laugh bubbling up as her brows pinched slightly in capricious beguilement. She swallowed the weighty lump in her throat, wetting her lips before she barbed back at him with a petulant whisper; “Even with my weird deer boobs?”

“Ha!” Vox barked a laugh, tilting his head back so that the sound didn’t bellow in her face. He recovered just as quickly as the victorious sound had breached his lips, hands sliding over the gentle curve of her shoulders, across her collarbones, until he could rake his cyan claws through the voluminous burst of fluff adorning her sternum.

One hand’s journey ended buried in the soft tresses of her chest fluff, the other following a familiar route to the bend of her waist. Each gave a possessive squeeze to the tempting curves of his doe’s anatomy, each enticing a hitch of breath and a stifled and ruminating squeak in the back of her throat. “‘Specially with your weird deer boobs.”

A quiet giggle bubbled in her chest, light and airy and so unlike the doe’s prior sullenness. The sound echoed in Vox’s mindscape, captured and stowed away in the farthest corners of his internal hardware for safekeeping.

Like it was something precious and rare that needed to be immortalized.

It was sickening. How domestic it all felt.

How he longed to act and play pretend, to make it feel as though her feelings meant nothing to him. To convince his own foolish mind that everything between them was nothing more than a transactional relationship fueled by mutual attraction and insatiable hungering.

And if he wanted to play that part, he had only two feasible options.

He could ensure that they fulfilled their initial agreement for the event. He could pull her in and drag her down, under the bedsheets, and fuck her through the dragging duration of heaven’s decimation.

Or he could scoff at her newfound vulnerability. He could kick her to the curb and beckon Valentino in her place.

His mouth opted to blurt a third before his addled mind could reach an ego-saving conclusion; “You wanna watch a movie?”

The inquiry caught both sinners off guard. It made hands tense one familiar bodies, made eyes widen a fraction as they darted to meet the other’s.

“I thought-”

“I’m not really feelin’ it anymore,” he shrugged, waving off her interrupted surprise with a limp bend of his wrist and an aloof lift of his shoulders. He couldn’t swallow his words and act as though they’d never been uttered. So feigned indifference was all he had now. “All the genocide and stuff kinda ruins the mood, dontcha think?”

He could pretend he didn’t care as much as he liked. So long as the doe maintained her ignorance of the contradicting truth.

It caught in the dimmed glow of his drowsy expression.

Long after teary eyes had dried and fluttered shut, Vox was left with a boneless doe slumbering peacefully and strewn across his larger form, stomach to stomach, legs tangled under his duvet.

At some point during the movie’s climactic clash of swords and battlements, she’d slotted her fingers over his own. It was a tentative, barely-there phantom of a touch. But Vox had noticed it. It had nabbed his attention the moment her fingertips had ghosted over his knuckles, drawing his gaze away from the wall-sized television screen.

And then, a little later, after the projection of shifting colors had darkened into credits, when he’d realized that the slow and steady rise and fall of her bare chest against his meant that she’d succumbed to exhaustion did her fingers twitch agaisnt his. Subtle at first, but then they’d curled, weaving their way between his longer digits until their hands were as entwined as their legs.

He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away since.

She nudged her face a little closer to his throat, nosing at the underside of his screen with a bodily sigh.

And Vox had stolen the opportune connection of their hands to let his gaze rove over their intertwined fingers. He felt an uncharacteristically soft smile edge the corner of his mouth, felt something warm and blooming beckon him to inspect the smaller hand wrapped up in his.

Running a clawed thumb over the bumps of her knuckles, unwitting instinct insisted that he bring her motionless hand to his mouth. It told him to dot a flutter of chaste kissing to her curled fingers, to turn her hand over so that he could touch a litany of affections to her palm.

That’s when the scar had caught in the dimmed glow of his drowsy expression.

The narrow, silvery mark sliced a subtle disruption in the patterns of fur along the inside of her forearm. It stemmed from her wrist, the line broken in places and overlapping in others. Like it had been drawn by more than one blow.

He cursed himself for not noticing earlier.

The sight made his breath seize, it made his heart hammer and beat against his sternum with a rekindled fury.

Then, he lifted her hand a little higher and pressed a flurry of slow, careful, adoring kisses to the silvery line marking the day he’d almost lost her before he’d even known having her was a possibility.

His mouth lingered over her pulse, eyes fluttering shut when the steady thrum of her heart echoed against his lips.

And Vox pretended it meant absolutely nothing.

ladies and gentlemen, he’s in denial

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by commenting on this post, reblogging or liking my comment

you can request a drabble from the list below, just make sure to check the rules and give the post's introduction a read :)

kissing prompt list.

masterlist.

ao3

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated,

always thanks for reading

- route

Genuinely been smiling so hard at this for the last hour in work. So many super talented Alastor writers out there, and I’m your favorite? I’m flattered!

smoke break | human!alastor x fem!reader

prompt #31: lips brushing against each other’s briefly, unsure of whether or not to kiss, before someone finally connects in a deep kiss

kissing prompts list and rules | requests open!

masterlist.

ao3

pairing: human!alastor x fem!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: alastor x fem!reader, mc is a lady of the night, disposing of a body, partners in crime, smoking, flirting, spicy, non-sex repulsed alastor

summary: distraction was going to be his undoing.

and the lady of the night he’d befriended years ago that was trudging back to his car, all muddied, breathless and stunningly cast in a silvery glow of moonlight was going to be the death of him.

wc: 2k

Distraction was going to be his undoing.

And the lady of the night he’d befriended years ago that was trudging back to his car, all muddied, breathless, and stunningly cast in a silvery glow of moonlight, was going to be the death of him.

She emerged from a thicket of trees, shadows, and swampland, shovel in hand and cheeks aglow with the evidential gathering of heat prompted by her lonesome excursion. She dragged her knuckles against her cheekbones, smudging a smear of blood that didn’t belong to her into a faded stain.

modern art | radiostatic x reader

this is the third requested drabble based off of this kiss prompt list.

if you'd like to make a request for a kiss prompt with either vox or alastor (or both ;)), give that post a read and send in an ask

kissing prompt list and rules.

masterlist.

prompt #8: neck kisses

pairing: vox x reader x alastor, radiostatic x reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

content: fem!doe!reader, size difference, both are simps for mc, soft vox and alastor, alastor and vox’s rivalry, competitive affection, eye contact, neck biting, neck kissing, idek what to call their relationship, banter, suggestive language, suggestive ending

summary: Alastor reached out, fingers catching her chin between her thumb and forefinger. He let out a thoughtful hum, tilting her head to the side, to the other back, up, down. Inspecting every blossoming mark decorating her neck with all the contemplativeness of an art critic.

“I suppose there are some improvements to be made to his methods,” he mused finally, letting his thumb sweep across her bottom lip, smudging the ruby gloss framing her mouth slightly.

Vox growled behind her; “Improve what, old man?”

“Well, if you’d listen to feedback,” Alastor gibed slowly, edging a letting closer to the doe demoness with every taunting syllable. He nosed at the underside of her jaw, tilting her head up as he inhaled the gentle scent of flora and vanilla. “You’re rough. You’re sloppy,”

Vox stiffened slightly, more than a little tossed off kilter by the uniquely public display of affection from Alastor, of all people, he was being presented with. He watched with rapt, wordless stupefaction as Alastor’s lidded gaze traversed the discolored terrain of her throat.

“And you don’t appreciate your canvas.”

wc: 1.9k

i’m acc really proud of this one, hopefully is as good as you expected anon, thanks for the request

It could probably be defined as scandalous.

At least, it would if she truly cared to define whatever chain of events had led her into a private booth at the back of an old-fashioned dive bar. Accompanied by two of Hell’s most prolific overlords, in the lap of one while the other nursed an iced glass of whiskey.

She’d known them both for decades. So she supposed it was her own detrimental fault for assuming they wouldn’t have allowed their bickering to follow them into the shadows of their booth.

“God,” Vox groaned, hands curling a little tighter in her disarrayed strands of hair, urging her neck away from his relentless mouth. He only relinquished the catch his teeth had on her throat so that he could sit back and admire the speckled, blooming, darkened marks he’d littered the column of her neck with. “I’m an artist.”

3 | Sweet ‘N Sour

this is part three of an nine part mini series, and can also be found on my ao3

part one | part two

pairing: alastor x wife!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

series content: fem!doe!reader, alastor is down bad and needy, male! masturbation, bickering, temporary angst, fast burn, courting, mating season, dom/sub dynamic and undertones, body worship, cunnilingus, praise kink, biting, scent marking, knotting, soft-top!Alastor/power-bottom!reader, non-sex repulsed alastor, fluffy spice

summary: Alastor can feel his mating season approaching, creeping over his limbs like an unwelcome, burning frost. And it's all the fault of the immovable object to his unstoppable force.

His estranged wife. His better half. The only other deer demon that seemed to both illicit and satiate the sudden spike of hormones and arousal of his annual rut.

Unfortunately for him, she's as stubborn as he is, and is still pissed at him for disappearing without a word for the past seven years.

And for the first time in a long time, Alastor has to rely on his ability to woo her to convince her to spend the duration of his rut with him.

TLDR: actions speak louder than words, and Alastor attempts to seduce his estranged wife over the course of a week leading up to his impending rut.

wc: 5k

author's note: wow, the concept post for this fic blew up lol, ng this is the first time I've actually felt the pressure to produce something great since it seems so many people like the concept, hopefully it's met expectations, and like always with me, this story kind of got away from me and it looks like it's going to be eight chapters of longing and horniness

plot notes: the mc is a doe demoness, she is also an established small-time overlord who specializes in theatre and is a semi-famous showgirl in hell, and while her appearance is mostly left ambiguous, she does wear a porcelain half mask over her right eye, her stay at the hotel occurs only because she knows alastor doesn't want her there, she's a petty woman and he loves it, she will be featured more prominently in all of the other parts, we just need alastor being stubborn and horny alone first

The sweet aroma of sweat and sweet vanilla perfume echoed throughout the backstage hallway of his wife’s theater.

Alastor followed the lingering aroma of flora, hand tucked behind his back as he slipped between stage workers and shadows, down the winding labyrinth beyond the curtain, until his carmine gaze located the familiar sight of a golden plaque engraved with his favorite careful scrawl. With his favorite name and the little love heart she always signed off with.

He lingered in the open doorway, cast in the warm glow of her dressing room as he tilted his torso to lean against the wooden doorframe.

A softened edge tempted the corner of his ever-present grin, blinking slowly as he watched her gather powders and garments, collecting every article of clothing set out for her on a clothing rack and inspecting the detailing with a meticulous eye. She seemed to settle on a deep red one-piece, emblazoned with thousands of tiny sparkling rubies, glittering under the yellowed glow of her room.

It left his mouth dry, and loath as he was to admit it, he wasn’t sure if he could control himself if he stayed long enough to watch her don the piece. If he could resist the urge to close the distance between them and bury his face in the crook of her neck. If he could deter his eager hands from wandering over every sequin and glittering jewel, over every generously exposed piece of silky fur.

“I’m afraid I don’t do meet-and-greets.”

It made him jerk, the breach of quiet making his eyes instantly jolt to find her eyes in the reflected image provided by her wall-length mirror. She arched a bemused brow at him, lips twisted into an inquisitive pout, fingers clasping a golden earring along the edge of her ear.

He opened his mouth to respond but found his tongue leaded and weighed down, mouth dry as words failed him.

But then, she ducked her head, chin tucked against the voluminous plume of fluff adorning her sternum as her teeth pulled at her bottom lip to stifle an unwitting grin.

He felt something inside of him loosen at the sight. Like the bolt that had been screwed tight and forcing his limbs to lock in place had been undone, and he was newly free to move. To step into the inviting glow of her dressing room and let its warmth ease every tensed nerve within him.

A few long strides were all it took for him to come hoof to hoof with her, breath hitting in his throat and words briefly catching on his tongue when she peered up at him through her lashes.

“I do believe we’ve already met.”

She hummed, eyes flitting downward as her mouth succumbed to the small smile that tempted the edge of her freshly painted lips. And, when she finally did look up again, when she finally let her twinkling gaze rove over his expression, eye twitching to every anchor point of his face, a tiny little frown tilted her brows.

He looked… tired. A little disarrayed, light grey circles hanging low under his eyes, though his grin never faltered. The fluff of his hair was unusually unkempt and messy, sticking out in all directions like he’d been witlessly dragging his claws through it all morning.

“You look awful,” she stated, tilting her head to squint her eyes up at him, porcelain mask glinting in the warm glow of her dressing room.

It was forceful habit that drew her hand up. That tempted her to even attempt to ruffle The Radio Demon’s hair into a neat, fluffed-up do. A habit she really should vanquish from her repertoire.

It was desperation and longing that prompted the sinner in question to tilt his head down just a little. Just enough to let her run her hands through the mess of hair sitting atop his head.

And it was such desperation that almost made Alastor let out a low groan of frustration when she hesitated. Right before her fingertips could brush against his burning forehead. Right before she could touch him. Innocent and finally, but it would have been enough to satiate him, even if just for a short while.

He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, letting his eyes slip shut as a shudder ran through him at the loss of something he didn’t even have.

But he shook it off before she could question his slackened disappointment.

“And you, my dear,” he chirped, forcing a broadened grin to stretch his mouth wide around his effusive declaration. “Look absolutely radiant.”

As if to punctuate the complimentary attestation, his hand emerged from where he had kept it hidden against his spine, presenting a proffered bundle of roses held together by a scarlet ribbon and his own tightened fist. He pushed the bouquet close to the underside of her nose, more than playful in his ebullient presentation of the offering.

Her small hands tentatively wrapped around the thornless stems, fingers brushing the edge of her husband's as she tilted her head to meet his gaze around the bouquet. “Flowers?”

“As you requested,” he reminded.

There was a beat of momentarily stunned silence as the sweet aroma of delicate petals emanated between them.

Then, she huffed a small laugh through her nose.

It eased something inside of the buck, and he felt his own omnipresent simper soften just a little.

“Nice try,” she crowed, smirking up at him as her fingertips traced the fragile edge of rose petals and leaves. “But these aren’t my favorite.”

“I wasn’t going for favorites,” he shrugged. “It’s a statement piece.”

She hummed, thumbing at the discolored dips in the stems where thorns had been plucked and vanished. “And what’s the statement?”

“Isn’t theatre full of metaphors?” He crooned, hands clasping behind his back before he dipped slightly at the waist so that his eyes were in line with her own. “I’m sure you can figure it out, darling.”

“Easy on the sugar cubes, babes,” Angel warned lightly, only halfhearted in his effort to slide the bowl of sugar away from his current drinking buddy, across the unmanned bartop, and out of her habitual reach. “You’re a deer, not a horse.”

“Shut up,” she groaned, ears perking from behind the bar at the telltale sound of ceramic scraping across wood as her fingertips danced across the array of alcohol Husk had neatly assorted so kindly and so unknowingly for them under the countertop. Finding the bottle of liquor she’d been seeking, she dragged it out and bounced up from behind the bar, leveling the spider with a belated glare. “I need the energy.”

“Why?” He probed, tilting his head down so that he could blink coquettishly up at her, feigning innocence as he shimmied his shoulders with a surreptitious and teasing undertone; “Alasta keepin’ you up all night?”

She choked on a drink she hadn’t yet concocted, sputtering for a response as her eye widened and her masses glinted dangerously under the low lights of the bar. “What?”

“He ain’t exactly subtle, toots.” Angel jerked his head towards the staircase with an aloof lift of his shoulders. To the swirling metal balcony that overlooked the hotel’s lobby. To the looming demon already staring at her from his overt vantage point.

Alastor straightened just a little when her sweeping gaze met his, lifting his jaw from where he had it cradled on his palm. His other hand, hanging boneless over the edge of the balcony, curled a little tighter around the parchment clasped in his fist. The very edge of his omnipresent grin wobbled just a little, just enough for her to notice despite the vertical distance between them.

“Been makin’ goo-goo eyes at ya all evenin’.” Angel’s certain proclamation pulled her attention from her estranged spouse, a warmth she hadn’t noticed creeping across her cheekbones under her husband’s watchful gaze blooming a little hotter at the assertion. He chomped at the air with a grin. “Looks like he wants to eat ya.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes, collecting a pair of glasses and placing them between her and her friend. “He’s a cannibal.”

“Not like that,” he scoffed, waving off her attempted deflection with a limp bend of his wrist. And instead of allowing her the relief of moving on from the subject, he framed his smirking mouth with his middle and pointer fingers, tongue poking between the digits briefly. “The right way.”

“Angel!”

She all but screeched, almost jumping over the bartop to pry his hand away from his face, mortification reigniting the heat under her cheeks as he cackled and stepped away from her grabbing hands. She grumbled and glowered, and then…

And then.

Imbued by static and bursting with energy, the ebullient greeting of her husband sounded from behind her.

“My darling!”

Sudden and loud, it made her jolt in her place behind the bar. And, reflexively letting out an unholy squeak, she spun on her heel and hurled the bowl of shaped sweetness at his head.

Alastor caught the ceramic with a detached tentacle of lightlessness, tilting his head just slightly to avoid having his cheek become a mess of splintered pottery and blood.

“You said you wished to be wined and dined,” he prattled on, as if she hadn’t almost lobbed his head off. As if he hadn’t settled one large hand on the small of her back, halting her surprised wobble with a familiarity she really ought to extinguish.

Instead, she could only stumble into him when his other hand acquainted itself with the bones of her wrist, lifting her arm over her head and leading her into a twirl, stopping only when they were chest to chest. He kept his hand fixed to her spine but relinquished the careful hold he had on her wrist so that he could flap a glossy sheet of paper and present it to her as a sort of peace offering. “Which is why I have spent the entire afternoon acquiring a private table for us both at this fine new establishment at the center of Pride.”

Her brows twitched, pinching inwards as she craned her neck to gawk up at him, the hands she’d instinctively latched onto the fabric adorning his shoulders curling and furling into the material. “It- You took that seriously?!”

The buck only shrugged, blinking down at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I was being sarcastic,” she said slowly.

Alastor shook his head. “No, you weren’t.”

“I was shoving you out the door as I said it.”

She pushed herself away from him on the emphasis.

And he let her. His hand reluctantly fell from the base of her spine before he could trace the edge of his thumb along the top of her tail. Before he could squeeze her waist and make it foolishly clear that the placement of his hands was anything but familiarized purposeness.

Instead, he swung his elbow and retorted with a jovial declaration; “And giving me the encouraging push I needed in the right direction towards our reunification.”

She crossed her arms, hip jutting as one of her booted hooves began an incessant rhythmic tap against the floorboards. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

The deer demon inched a little closer, nudging at her cheekbone with the edge of his knuckles. “And I don’t appreciate your stubborn refusal to make peace.”

“Aw, you’s two are adorable,” Angel cooed, elbows perched on the bartop, chin resting on his palms as he grinned impishly up at them.

The reemergence of his voice hurled both deer demons from their personalized verbal jousting, a screech of static intermingling with the restive air surrounding them. The spider demon remained undeterred by the matching halfhearted glares he was sent, wiggling his brows at them playfully, gesturing between the pair; “Bickerin’ like an old married couple.”

“Thank you!” Alastor beamed.

“Angel…” his wife warned.

The arachnid sinner sent her a wry grin, ignoring the obvious edge to her tone as he tilted forward in his stool, eyes searching until they found the corners of the flyer perched between her husband’s claws. “Watcha got there, Al?”

The doe rolled her eyes at her friend’s deflection.

“Dinner reservations!”

Alastor answered jubilantly, holding the parchment over the lower half of his face, eyes twinkling pridefully.

Angel’s grin broadened, his own mismatched eyes glittered when they twitched back to the demoness, something a little more mirthful and amused dancing across the colors of his irises.

“Divorce papers,” she amended with a childish cock of her head and a flattened drawl.

“Don’t be so sour, darling,” Alastor cooed, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. And, almost absentminded, like his joints were being puppeteered by an ancient habitual need to hold, his thumb ran along the bottom edge of her lip.

The ruby gloss glittering across her bottom lip smudged against the edge of his thumb, and he watched with rapt curiosity as her eye widened slightly, just enough to let the light catch in the glow of her iris and evince the sudden dilation of her pupil. He made a short noise, something akin to a hum of satisfaction, when her breath hitched on the hot exhale that flowed over his knuckle.

With that, and a snap of his unoccupied fingers, he reproduced the sugar bowl and procured a cube of glittering sweetness between his claws. He cocked his head with an amused tilt of his lips when she opened her mouth to admonish his unearned familiarity with her face.

But every biting retort she could have uttered and snapped was interrupted when the buck before her popped the sugar cube between her parted lips, letting his finger drag over her bottom lip as it retreated from her mouth. He nudged gently at the underside of her chin with the backs of knuckles, manually urging her mouth closed before he playfully patted her on the cheek. “You look like you’re sucking on a lemon.”

Alastor disappeared in a shroud of shadows, darkness inking over his smiling visage as he stepped away from her, hands perched on the microphone of his cane. He left her to grapple with the hot flush pooling beneath her skin, burning along her cheekbones and making the short flyaway hairs along the back of her neck stand on end.

Sugar dissolved on the flat of her tongue, sweetness bleeding into her taste buds as she stared openly at the dissipating wisps of darkness marking where her husband had stood just seconds before.

“Oh, honey,” Angel purred after a moment of watching her jaw work around words that refused to leave her lips. He clambered up and turned around to sit fully on the stool, spine pressed to the edge of the counter, and let his back lounge over the bar top lazily, growling playfully at her through a sly grin. “You’ll be suckin’ on somethin’ else if he keeps that shit up.”

“You shush,” she hissed finally, shoulders bunching by her jaw as her spine tensed under his teasing. Her hands fisted by her sides, the small sound of paper crumpling in her grip drawing her attention down to the flyer Alastor had bestowed upon her. She unfurled the sheet, thumbs smoothing out the newly formed creases as similar lines appeared between her downturned brows, pulling the material taut to gawk at the printed illustration. “Where did he even hear about a place like Ozzie’s?”

She allowed her bemused gaze to float back to Angel Dust, waiting for an answer as he readjusted his positioning on the stool, knees dipping into the leather of the seat as he planted his elbows on the countertop and perched his chin on interlaced fingers.

“Dunno.” The spider proffered none, shoulders shrugging with a dismissive wave of his hand. He craned his neck, head tilting to peer up at her with a sanguine smile and a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. “You married a total whacko.”

She hummed, a defeated nod of her head accompanying the press of her lips and fluttering roll of her eyes. When her gaze returned to its previous downward trajectory, her brows pinched slightly, teeth tugging at the flesh of her bottom lip.

She hummed, a defeated nod of her head accompanying the press of her lips and fluttering roll of her eyes. When her gaze returned to its previous downward trajectory, her brows pinched slightly, teeth tugging at the flesh of her bottom lip.

Angel watched her, sly grin slipping just a little as he eyed the physicality of her hesitance. He felt a small teasing remark die on his tongue at the sight, and the hands that were working to unscrew the jeweled cap of a bottle of vodka hurried their efforts.

“Hey,” he called, offering the demoness a wry smile and a gliding glass of ‘Sex On The Beach’ across the flat plain of the countertop. She caught it with a deftness that eased the worry in his brow, even if just temporarily enough for him to edge a tentative inquiry; “Ya gonna go, right?”

She swigged the proffered beverage in one fell gulp, slamming the glass down on the counter with a pop of her glossed lips and a jump of her brow; “Nope.”

“What?!”

Angel’s shrill outburst made her limbs jolt, knuckles whitening around the stem of her glass as she gawped at the arachnid sinner. She watched under an arched brow as the spider grasped at the air for one astonished moment before he ragged his gloved fingers through the fluff atop his head.

He stumbled over his emphasis, reaching across the bar to pluck the flyer from between her fingers and shake it in her face. “But- The guy got you a table at Ozzie’s.”

“So? You take it.” She bumped a hip against the edge of the counter, tilting at the waist and gesturing towards the porn star with the glinting edge of her glass, swilling the remnants of ice and alcohol in a methodical swing. A knowing smirk tempted the edge of her scowl, wiggling her brows at him as she leaned over the bartop to whisper conspiratorial nothings in his ear. “Bring Husk.”

Angel interrupted his stupefied bewilderment to scowl at her teasing, glowering up at her over the rim of his own glass as she cackled her way around the bar and situated herself on the stool next to him. He shook his head in a meandering attempt to relieve his cheeks of the blooming heat pooling under his fur and looped the toe of his boot under her stool’s footrest.

“Baby, I love you,” he announced, dragging her seat into his proximity before standing and planting his palms on her bunched shoulders, outstretched arms hindering her view of anything outside of his confounded expression. “But you are so incredibly stupid if you’re gonna turn down an invitation to one of the fanciest-schmanciest digs in hell just ‘cause your man’s in the doghouse.”

The doe demoness responded with a hefty upward toss of her gaze, hands batting at the spider’s wrist as he jostled her with every emphasized syllable.

“Well, when he crawls out of the doghouse and grovels,” she quipped, overly sweet and sardonically drawled, a sharp grin forced upon painted lips. She turned away from him, toying with the ridged bend of her unused straw. “Then he can take me to dinner.”

“Well, maybe this is his way of grovelin’,” he offered slowly, leaning over the bartop to source the creased flyer she’d put down in her bid to down her beverage in one quick swallow. “Besides, if ya wanna stay pissed at him, stay pissed at him.”

She watched from under an arched brow and through the corner of her eye as Angel smoothed the glossy sheet on the counter. Gloved palms flattened out the remnants of wrinkled lines through the typography before he pushed the paper along the wood until it stared up at his friend’s dubious expression.

“But just imagine the look on his face when he realizes what kinda joint he took ya to,” he purred, draping one of his long arms across the doe demoness’ shoulders. He propped his chin upon the curve of her shoulder and stared up at her with lidded eyes that twinkled with unrealized amusement, golden tooth glinting dangerously under the low lights of the hotel’s foyer.

He watched her for a moment, watched as a flurry of thoughts manifested themselves in pinched brows and pursed lips. As humored petulance dances across her facial features. As something a little softer and a little forlorn filtered over her visage for a second before she smothered the expression with an arrogant smirk. She let out a quiet hum, leaning into his hold and letting her temple rest against the mess of hair atop his head.

Angel felt his own grin broaden at the change of expression, perking up where he sat as he nudged the slice of paper under her fingers with a conspiratorial murmur; “Temptin’, ain’t it?”

It was tempting.

Just not in the vindictive, petulantly vengeful way the spider demon was suggesting. But in a quieter, more longing, and barely-there hopeful way. One that reminded her of when she was just a teenager and the prospect of the boy she loved returning her devotion set her heart alight and made her lovesick mind spiral.

She was older now, obviously. A little more jaded, a lot less girlish in her aspirations for romance. Though she supposed that was mostly down to her willing heart being caged between the fingers of the man who’d let her live a lie that only came to light after a bullet had splintered through his skull. And then, the demon who’d disappeared on her without a word, leaving her to her own lonesome devices for seven long years before he’d cropped back up as the hotelier of a rehabilitation program for plagued and sinful souls.

To say she was remiss to know that he’d returned and hadn’t sought her out would have been a lie. A dolled-up macabre version of reality that prompted her arrival at the Hazbin Hotel with the sole intention of purging an explanation from her husband.

She supposed she should have known he wouldn’t have made it that easy.

With a bodily sigh, the ebbing sweetness that had long since dissolved on her tongue lingering behind her gums, she ran her tongue along the sharpened tips of her canines as the doors of the elevator parted to unveil the dimmed lighting of one of the hotel’s many winding corridors.

Her room was the first in a hall of vacancy, and as the toes of her boots crossed over the narrow gap between the elevator and the area it ventured into, she stilled.

Breath catching and limbs locked, her eyes twitched from her intended destination to the shift of shadows a few feet from her doorway. Reflexively, her fingers twitched around manifesting threads of magic, scarlet weaves of power curling over her knuckles at the subtle movement along the edge of her door.

And just as quickly, every tensed nerve in her body slackened and softened when the sentient silhouette of the soul she’d vowed to eternally tie hers to stretched along the flat of her door. Alastor’s shadow paused at her unexpected arrival, the slits of its eyes narrowing slightly as its shaded hand seized around the dark reflection of a rustling wrap of plastic before it seemed to comprehend just who it was facing.

And, instead of merging itself with the rest of the casted shadows in the hallway, instead of instantly retreating into the night that stretched on outside and returning to its master, the shadow offered her a sharpened grin. With an unhurried deliberateness, the silhouette of his arm extended to lower the crinkling bundle of plastic before her threshold. It hovered there for a moment, the razored edge of its narrowed eyes softening slightly before it whispered away in a flurry of casted shadows and lightless wisps.

She felt her magic dissipate between her fingertips, shoulders drooping slightly as a bemused slant tempted the corner of her mouth. Her head swiveled to scan from the darkness before her to the golden light pouring down from within the elevator.

Her roaming eyes came up with nothing.

No lingering shadows or skulking husbands.

A dubious pout adorning her painted lips, she edged closer to the glinting plastic. She toed at the material, watching as it rocked under her booted hooves before it collapsed onto its side, exposing the burst of flora tied together by a red ribbon.

An assortment of reds and pinks bloomed up at her. Blooming peonies arranged in concentric circles to halo a single blossoming camellia, the hanging spray of sedum flowers caressing her wrist when she turned the bouquet over in her hands.

A little stupefied, a little awestruck, her ring finger traced the edge of a pink peony petal.

Her favorite, she mused.

She pressed the flowers to her chest, petals sinking into the plume of fluff spilling over the neckline of her blouse, neck craning to peer into the darkness of the hall on either side of her. As though prying eyes could intrude upon her wordless acceptance of the bouquet.

Because she really should kick the flowers into the shadows they’d emerged from. She should have the sense to crush the fragile tissues beneath the rubber soles of her boots and send the floral corpses to the man who’d sent them to their deaths.

Instead, she clutched them like a secret she intended to throw away as she slipped into her room. The noisy crinkle of plastic under her protective hold made the fluff of her ears twitch. The resulting bloom of a floral scent invading her nose and sending her tail into a frenzied state.

Against her will and better judgement, a cautious smile quivered at the corners of her mouth, teeth sinking deep into the plush flesh of her bottom lip to conceal the unwitting affections as she scooped the offering into her hands.

Her nightly ritual of undoing that of her morning routine had been unwittingly postponed by an hour. An hour of her hands absentmindedly twirling thornless stems between her fingers and plucking blooming peonies from their original bouquet. Flowers were interchanged, and both bouquets she’d received during the daylight hours were rearranged to form one amalgamation of reds and pinks, all sitting in a vase of twirled glass and crystal water.

Hair pins accumulated in a neat pile next to the vase, accompanied by a quiet hum under her breath as locks slipped out of their pinned places and cascaded over her shoulders. And, as she swiped gentle circles across her eyelids and cheekbones, vanquishing the light layer of glittering makeup she’d adorned that morning, she couldn’t help the drift of her gaze towards the bloom of flora between flexes of her wrist.

The quiet of her bedroom was interrupted only by the murmured croon of her voice, an old and familiar melody echoing within her larynx as her hands raked through her hair, undoing the informal updo with a loose shake of her head. She leaned across her dresser, eyes fluttering over the reflection of her freshly barefaced expression, inspecting for remnant specks of powder on her nose.

Finding none, she nodded once at her own reflection before her eyes wistfully drifted back to the mirrored image of her newly arranged bouquet. It tempted a small smile at the edge of her lips, one that she quickly smothered with a sharp, relaxing intake of breath that lifted her chest and prompted her to stand to her full height. She turned on her hooves, shaking off the giddy fluttering feeling under her sternum with a loose shake of her head and stepping towards the edge of her bed.

With a quick brush of her hands over her physique, the blouse and skirt she’d donned in the early hours of the afternoon and shortly after her evening show were enveloped by familiar tendrils of glittering scarlet, every fitted thread and sequin transposing for the comfortable fabric of satin pajamas.

And then, as her voice ebbed into a tired quiet, and her legs slipped under the plush terrain of her duvet, a short twitch of static to her right made her jolt. She sat up, short-lived boneless relaxation fleeing immediately, duvet pooling around her waist as she twisted her neck to locate the source of the noise.

Her wide-eyed, panicked expression instantly quelled into something flat and exasperated when her roaming gaze found the old, small, wooden, old-timey radio sitting innocently on her bedside table. Right where he’d slipped the last few. Before she’d smashed them or personally returned them to their sender. Dials twitched back and forth as static popped and broke before the device seemed to settle, and the voice of Ella Fitzgerald picked up where she had left off in her humming.

Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear

Still cravin’ your kiss

I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear

Her brow arched at the familiarity of the tune, and she reached out to grab onto the radio, pulling it into her lap with a purposeful downward angle of her lips as she glared down at the broadcaster. She ran her thumb along the intricate carvings embedded in the radio’s sides, forming a familiar nick in the wood and letting knowing amusement settle over the bow of her shoulders.

She really should have smashed it when he’d first bestowed her with it.

“You’re not subtle.”

She meant for it to come out flat and knowing, admonishing the brazen attempts of the demon who she undoubtedly assumed could hear every utterance since he’d somehow snuck a radio into her room.

Instead, the words came humored and reverent, a bodily roll of her eyes preceding the sudden flop of her upper body, head bouncing in the pillow as her hair fanned out to halo the cautiously amused expression filtering across her masked visage.

The radio rumbled against her mattress, speakers echoing towards the alert fluff of her ears as she flicked her gaze to the ceiling briefly, a weighty sigh harmonizing with the reiterated syllables of the song’s famed chorus.

Dream a little dream of me

notes: So? Whattya think? I'm trying to work out my writers block by working on this mini series, but I'm not a hundred percent on my prose at the minute, so any feedback is appreciated.

the next chapter is the reason I started this fic in the first place so I’m really excited to get to the date at Ozzie’s! and then, the smut starts, so look forward to that lol

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by either commenting, liking my comment, or reblogging this post

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always

thanks for reading

- route

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