He works fast, swapping his tie to your lips before you can find even a fleeting breath. Rust and copper settle against your tongue. The rattle of a zipper barely reaches your ears, blood pounding in your head like an unforgiving omen. Alastor doesn’t even get near the edge of the shadows as he works, meticulous in every motion. Deadly precision as he hoists you onto his cock, sliding in with little resistance. You knew you were wet, but shame still colors your cheeks. 

The salacious moans rumbling in your throat, though, die before life can greet them. A tough, pliable length of leather snakes around your neck, stifling the shock when you realize just what Alastor’s done. 

“If you’d been on your best behavior, I wouldn’t have to do this.” The belt tightens around your neck. The generosity you imagined in the form of a hooked finger around the makeshift chokehold fizzles before it reaches your lips. He’s serious. “You won’t die,” he mutters. “Not if they leave.” Alastor’s lips caress your neck, right above the belt. “Not if you quiet down. So listen well, and I won’t have to strangle those sweet little noises out of your filthy mouth.” 

Breathe. Breathe. You have to breathe. Your body fights for air, twitching at the neck for Alastor to interpret as a nod. 

His smile sounds like crackling firewood below your ear. “Good girl,” he drawls. “Now muster up what little strength you have left, and move.” His hips jerk just enough to get his point across; just enough for a delicious heat to surge through your body. 

You want to oblige. You really want to bounce on his dick and make a mess of yourself in his lap, but your heart won't cooperate. It claws at your sternum, threatening to burst with every frenzied beat. Hot tears prickle the corners of your eyes, a sob settling on top of your lungs, crushing your chances at a fresh, life-saving breath. The shallow motions you were able to make fizzle into little more than writhing; squirming in his lap, clenching down on his cock as your fight commences.

For a moment, you're at peace. Teetering on the sweet release of a dream come true, lightheaded and weary, the pressure building between your thighs crawls up to its peak. The tie in your mouth falls victim to your teeth, your lips trying to shape themselves into praise for the cock filling you up and making you whole. Jaw unhinged like a dummy abandoned by their ventriloquist, you snap, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt spasms. Your orgasm transcends the limits of life, your mind floating up and away without a thought or care; euphoria swarms your senses, diluting time and space until you're all that remains.

The belt around your neck, unforgiving in its embrace, tightens. Alastor drags you down to the decrepit walls and splintered floors, anchoring you back to the present. Air and its relatives vacate your body, claiming your arousal in their wake. You don't remember making any noise, but you are the unreliable narrator; Alastor's holding all the strings. Your life rests in his hands. 

You're going to die here. 

The voices outside are both near and far, warped by an enticing black fog spotting in your eyes. “Y’see anything?”

Survival outweighs everything. You try to raise your arms, aiming to smack or nudge the wall just enough to rouse suspicion; just enough to gasp for air. Alastor, though, is a seasoned murderer. He knows how to tighten his grip and snuff the light from your eyes, and you hope that, in a final act of mercy, he'll want to watch you fade to your death. You hope he'll want to watch you die on his cock, spasming with your last breaths and one final orgasmic release. 

“Check… … boarded… might…”

Words warp and twist into demons of themselves, rasping at one another in greeting - welcome, they say, to the start of your end. Your body goes ragdoll limp, mind just as useful, as darkness floods your eyes. The coils of lust spark and fade in your core, and oh, how heavenly it feels to die in his arms. 

The belt falls. The tie follows suit. Your guardian angel swoops in, lips pressed to your mouth with a lifeline of air. 

Breathing hurts. Swallowed knives and simmering acid, a pain you've never known, puts you into a different sort of chokehold. Burns and stab wounds littering your chest from the inside out as you breathe, breathe, breathe, greedily sucking in lungfuls of air. 

Alastor beams with pride, wide and big on his lips. “There she is.” He cups your flushed cheeks, “My resilience incarnate. You gave me quite the scare, you know. Handcuffs clash horribly with my physique.”

Rain taps against the roof, drowning out all but the sound of your ragged breaths and thrum of your heart. You can't hear him - you can barely make out his silhouette in the dark - but you just know he's waxing poetic on close calls and self-preservation. Drenched in cold sweat and a pinch of death's touch, too far gone to fire back with a witty quip, you nod in agreement with whatever he says. You almost signed away your rights to life - nothing could be worse. 

Alastor chuckles under his breath, lacing his fingers through your hair with unneeded vigor. “I'll assume you didn't hear me. I asked if you had enough, mon sourire.”

Of course not. You're not done until Alastor empties himself in each and every hole you have to offer. Rebuttals and apologies fall from mute lips, your throat struggling to produce any noise without added force. The world flips on its side, vertigo hammering behind your eyes when Alastor lifts you from his lap to tuck himself back into his slacks. Still hard, still devouring your body behind blood-speckled glasses. 

“A wonderful suggestion, my dear. Let's take a breather and do away with this body, shall we?”

Right, yes, your job. The deal you struck with Alastor the night he killed your dad: Help him dispose of his victims, and you get to live. At his side, exclusively; if anyone asks why you left your fiance, you're to tell them Alastor’s simply the better choice. You haven't seen an invoice a day in your life since then, but you figure it's because you're already buried in insurmountable debt of a different kind. 

Alastor wipes the blood from his glasses when you arrive at the designated burial site. “Dare I ask what happened to the original owner of such a fine abode?”

You rub your throat, wincing at the marks the belt left behind. They feel like instructions for the undertaker. “Train,” you rasp. “Vacation to Texas. Unmarked luggage.” 

“You loaded a dead man's bones into a plain trunk and tossed it onto the train?” Alastor shoves the body down into the open casket, stifling a giggle at the sound of flesh against wood. “What a humerus choice.” 

You’re tired. Blood and mud burrow under your nails as thunder claps from above, rain pouring from bloated grey clouds while you work. You used to find comfort in the scent of summer storms and moss, but there’s no aroma potent enough to wash away the throbbing pain around your neck. It runs deeper than any grief you’ve known, and hotter than any flame. A hot shower and sleep would work wonders right about now. But the second you’re done packing the dirt back into the defiled grave (‘your second brush with death,’ if you could talk well), Alastor grabs you by the wrist. 

You gasp, throat raw. “Ah-?”

“Shhh,” Alastor pets you as if you’re a wet stray cat, “you’ve done enough talking.” There’s a fleeting moment of relief when he picks you up, your dazed and tired brain assuming it’s time to go home and rest. The rain immediately washes away what little hope you had. Alastor lowers you to the ground, back pressed against the water oak leaves and cypress twigs you scattered around to mimic the neighboring graves. Water drips from his limp curls, his tie askew when he pins you down at the shoulders, and his smile… Any other man would be guillotined for such a grandiose display of sadism. The corners of his lips stretch farther than you think they should; somehow, you’re not afraid. 

“I want to hear all those pretty moans you denied me earlier,” he whispers into the night, breath caressing your injured neck as he speaks. “Don’t blame me if you start to scream.” 

He teases you, rubbing the tip against your weeping slit, bumping into your clit to see the depraved beauty crumbling across your face. Every hitch of your breath, every searing whimper bubbling in your throat; each noise drives him just a bit deeper into your cunt, glistening with God knows how much of his victim’s blood mixed in with your natural lubricant. A fleeting note of realization flashes in your breath, and he grins, sheathing himself from tip to base. 

“Does it upset you?” Alastor tilts his hips backwards. “Defiling a dead man’s grave like this?” He thrusts back in, his smile twitching when you latch onto his arms. “It shouldn’t,” he says, finding a comfortable pace for himself, one he can use to lie to himself, to tell him he’s fucking you stupid for the entertainment. “If you knew all he’d done… All he planned to do.” Something lower than a laugh drips from his lips, water splashing onto his back in a halo of mist. “Everything he could have done to a weak little thing like you.” 

Alastor fucks you like a man on death row, savoring the moment for all it can be. The slap of skin, the squelch of more than rain, the pathetic gasps you choke on when he rams into your g-spot. You want to be strong. You want to claw open his shirt and mark him with your nails. Add to the canvas of scars already adorning his back, spit words vile enough to make this dead guy turn over in his grave. But you’re a weak little thing - his weak little thing - and only manage to clutch his arms, voice lost in the throes of blinding pleasure.

“I’m protecting you, cher.” 

Something cracks. A dam of your internal creation, meant to save you from the worst of yourself in times of distress. But Alastor keeps poking. Alastor keeps fucking you, keeps smiling with smug satisfaction to hide the way his eyes roll back, the way he grunts and loses himself in you. To you. He laughs, raindrops falling from his lips to your cheeks, and you snap. You let go of his arms and lunge for his neck, not to crush his throat, but warn. His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm, drawing one thick line in your hand. It bleeds, not with fright, but delight. A twinge of surprise, perhaps, but his gasp is one of ecstasy, and you manage to wring out a moan before he pins you back down. Hard. 

“You– nngh…” Insults dance on his lips. “You… wicked– ohh, wicked girl.” The venom loses its sting, his hips stuttering to a rapid, erratic beat. He finds your clit, trembling when he strokes the nub with his thumb, and you fray at the edges, gasping and groaning and begging for him to start and stop at the same time. “You’re fortunate that I… I-I…” The man you’ve come to know as your captor turned caretaker crumbles above you. “I’m g-…!” Close, you assume, but his guttural growl speaks to the contrary. A melody of desperate moans unravel from his ego, some sharp, others reserved, a journal entry on his lips. He comes with abandon, sticky and silken webs filling you to the point of overflow. “Doing this for you,” he snarls through the tail end of his orgasm.

“On your knees.” 

The order sparks confusion. You reached for his glistening cock, knees caked in mud, ready to suck him off at his beck and call. A yelp rips open your wounded throat as you tumble back, catching yourself with your hands, fingertips swiping over the length of a tombstone for a man long gone. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

It’s a shorter gravestone. One you can use to prop yourself up while he takes you from behind. A one-way ticket to Hell, most certainly; the Bible doesn’t say so outright, but your common sense hasn’t been entirely fucked out of you. You swallow, wincing at the burn.

“Ass up. Now.” 

A frigid gust of rain and wind pummel your now-exposed lower back, and Alastor wastes no time shoving himself right back in. His only mercy? He’s not bringing the belt back out. His hand nestles past your lips, and to your surprise, his fingers taste like salt and little else. Maybe you’ve grown used to the copper. 

“Prends-le, mon lapin.” Alastor rattles off stuttered phrases in broken French. “That’s it,” he rasps, “good– ngh, good girl, fuck… Say my name for me.” 

You mumble around his fingers, eyes watery from another orgasm ripping through your core. Your clit begs for a break, but doesn’t beg well enough - your overstimulated screams push against Alastor’s hand. 

“Write it, then.” 

Your tongue laps the letters out in wet, hot strokes, gagging at the sudden introduction of another digit. You can’t quite describe it, the orgasms that feel like half of themselves; as if your body’s given up on climbing up to the top again, settling for shorter drops to keep you going as long as Alastor needs. They trickle through you, a stream of praise for the way he touches you, the way he ascends you into a high you’ll forever chase. You can’t let him go. That hoarse, strangled cry of your name, decorated with broken syllables and whimpers - you can’t give that up. 

Alastor admires the mess when he pulls out, gasping for air in a way that makes you giggle despite how much it hurts. The audacity to act like he’s been choked. Your cunt can squeeze pretty tightly, but it’s not the same. You collapse next to… You don’t actually know the name of the man whose grave you tore up. Edward? Edwin? Whoever it is, you hope he enjoys his time in Texas. You collapse next to Alastor’s newly buried victim - another name you don’t know - and drape your arm over your eyes. A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder resound in your bones, and the fatigue and pain hit just as quickly. Your giggles fade, smile falling despite how ridiculous this is - soaked from head to toe in a ruined dress, leaking what feels like an endless amount of cum without your panties to catch the residue. 

“Hmm?” Alastor kneels at your side. “Tired, sweet girl?” Among other things, yes; you nod. “Do I have to carry you home?”

After all that’s happened tonight, Alastor still manages to surprise you. Expectations plundered by haphazard thoughts you can’t even begin to imagine living in your own head. When you expect him to scoop you up into his arms and end this nightmarish fairytale by walking into the night, Alastor simply follows your cue, and lies down. In the mud. The grass. Everything that could possibly stain his shirt and waistcoat - aside from the aforementioned blood. 

You frown. “I can’t get that out.” Your voice sounds like a ghostly combination of nails on emery boards and pops of burning firewood, but you can’t just lie there and not lament the mess of it all.

“Neither can I.” Alastor rolls onto his side, searching you for something you can’t quite place. “Makes a little more sense to ruin it entirely, no?” He wants to do something, say something, but the crooked smile you’ve grown accustomed to in these situations is nowhere to be found. “Fits the theme of the night, if you ask me.” So he’s rambling now - let him hide behind his pretty voice and pretend to be clueless. You don’t expect anything close to an apology. “You’re lucky you didn’t get us caught. Fortunately, I’m in a charitable mood.” Quite generous to cuddle in a thunderstorm, yes. He must agree - the laughter rumbling in his chest feels genuine. “No one’s ever pillaged a grave for me before. Is it concerning that I find it rather charming?” You nod. Multiple times. “Ah, I suppose that’s no surprise.” 

Alastor’s as strange as he is attractive. Always keeps you guessing, some patterns fixed and permanent, others completely off-the-wall and dangerously spontaneous. Both hedonistic and sadistic, fucking you in ways that should nauseate you more than they do. All the blood, the dehumanizing acts you put on for his pleasure; it never occurred to you to try and run away. 

You suppose that’s no surprise, either. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, cher.” Alastor pats your shoulder. “Given how precarious our situation was, it’d be wise to expect additional reprimand.” 

You take it back. He could definitely stand to be far more unpredictable. 

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