𓂂ɞ̴̶̷ ₃ ɞ̴̶̷𓂂

Alastor POV

Alastor needed to clear his head.

Far too much of it had become occupied by thoughts of you. They drifted through his mind no matter how fiercely he willed them away. It was becoming… inconvenient.

He stood alone within the warm embrace of his greenhouse, the humid air scented with damp earth and blood. Methodically, he drew an oil soaked cloth along the length of the blade he concealed amongst his gardening implements. To the untrained eye it might have passed for an ordinary machete, something used for clearing brush or hacking back stubborn vines.

He needed to hunt. Ordinarily, nothing quieted the restless corners of his mind quite like the ritual. The stalk through the nightlife scene in the city. The moment their terror gave way to silence beneath his hands. It was cleansing in a way little else ever had been.

Tonight, it had merely delayed the thoughts.

His latest quarry had met much the same fate as the others. Poor bastard. Now reduced to neat, manageable pieces.

Some rested neatly wrapped within the icebox in his cellar, destined to become the rich meat he so enjoyed. Other portions had already disappeared beneath the black waters of the bayou where nature eagerly accepted its offerings. The remainder had been worked into the special compost reserved solely for his flowers. No sense wasting perfectly good fertilizer. His prize blooms had never looked healthier.

As he wiped the last trace of crimson from the blade and returned it to its place amongst the innocent looking garden tools, that familiar calm finally settled over him. Dawn had only just begun to creep across the bayou, pale ribbons of light filtering through the heavy clouds and casting the greenhouse in a muted silver glow. There was just enough time for a cup of coffee and a cigarette before the rest of the morning demanded his attention.

For the first time in days, Alastor almost felt like himself again. Almost. The feeling proved painfully short lived.

On the brief walk from his greenhouse back toward the house, his gaze wandered, as it had developed the unfortunate habit of doing.

There, amongst the neat little rows of your garden, stood a familiar figure wrapped in a soft shawl against the morning chill. He stopped without realizing it.

Curiosity returned with startling force, followed closely by that maddening yearning he had spent the entire night trying to carve out of himself.

You wandered slowly between the beds, pausing every few steps to inspect the tiny green shoots beginning to break through the rich soil. Your attention lingered longest over the bulbs he had gifted you weeks ago. His irises. A cultivar he had spent years perfecting until the blooms emerged such a deep shade of violet they appeared black beneath anything but direct sunlight.

Strolling toward you, Alastor found himself gripped by an altogether different sort of hunger.

His arms ached with the sudden, absurd desire to draw you against him. To feel the warmth of your body beneath the shawl. To tilt your chin upward and discover whether your lips were every bit as soft as he’d imagined during far too many sleepless nights.

Ridiculous.

He had spent the better part of the evening bloodying his hands in an effort to quiet thoughts of you, only for them to return with renewed vengeance at the mere sight of your silhouette amongst the flower beds.

You looked perfect there. As though you had always belonged amongst the flowers.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he called, his voice carrying easily through the cool morning air.

You turned so abruptly he almost laughed.

Your brows lifted in surprise, eyes widening as they settled upon him, as though you had never expected another soul to be wandering about at such an ungodly hour. The surprise quickly melted away, and a beautiful smile bloomed across your sweet face the moment you realized who it was.

How would you look at him if you knew where he had just come from? Would your smile falter? Would those gentle eyes fill with horror instead of warmth?

Would you still laugh as freely just as you had upon discovering his curious collection of bones tucked away in the greenhouse?

You had seemed to possess an appreciation for life’s darker curiosities, delighting in the beautiful things that made others uneasy. But this… This was something else entirely.

Would you still allow him close enough to steal a kiss if you knew those same hands had so recently been stained crimson? Alastor doubted it.

Yet the thought refused to loosen its grip. The impossible fantasy of someone knowing every monstrous corner of his soul, every awful thing he had ever done… and choosing him regardless.

What a dangerous thing to desire.

Your POV

“Good morning, Alastor.” You smiled. “No, I was restless. Thought a walk might help.”

“That’s too bad. I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, studying you with that quiet attentiveness that always seemed to make your pulse stumble. Suddenly aware of the brightly colored shawl draped around your shoulders, you instinctively gathered it closer, as though it might somehow hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks beneath his gaze.

You certainly couldn’t tell him what had stolen your sleep. It hadn’t been grief. Nor guilt.

Instead your thoughts had drifted to the life you had left behind. The sprawling house that had never truly felt like home. The marriage arranged more for appearances than affection. The husband whose fondness for whiskey had so often left you wondering which version of him would stagger through the front door after sundown.

The marriage had lasted only a handful of months, yet somehow it had still managed to change you. It wasn’t the man you mourned. It was the woman you had been before him.

Your entire life had been dictated by someone else. First your father. Then your husband. A dutiful daughter. A dutiful wife. Women were expected to endure, to obey, to smile prettily while others decided the course of their lives.

Somewhere along the way, you had forgotten what it felt like to make a choice simply because it was your own.

And now you stood before a man who asked nothing of you beyond making sure to water your plants. A man whose company made your heart race instead of your stomach knot.

It was frightening to realize you wished, with an ache that bordered on foolishness, that you had met him first. Before you’d resigned yourself to believing companionship was simply something other women were lucky enough to find.

The soft light before dawn wrapped itself around him as though morning itself had chosen him. His dark hair sat charmingly tousled, as if he’d only just returned from some early excursion, and for a moment you simply stared. He looked almost unreal standing amongst the drifting mist.

You wondered why he had been awake at such an hour. Then again… He had just asked you precisely the same question.

“Do you often wander before sunrise?” you asked, unable to keep your curiosity at bay.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

“Only when sleep proves elusive. One can only stare at the ceiling for so long before it begins losing its conversational skills.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“You know, in my own experience, I’ve found the garden to be a far better listener than the walls of my bedroom.”

“Have you now?” His smile widened. “Careful, amie. Spend enough time out here and you’ll start talking to every bee and bloom you come across.”

“I believe I may already have engaged in one or two similar conversations,” you mused, leaning into his little joke.

“Then I’m afraid there’s simply no saving you,” he teased, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re bound here now. There’s no escaping it. Once my beautiful bayou gets hold of a person, it never quite lets them go.”

His gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer than it ought to have.

“And I daresay…” he said softly, “…this lovely backdrop is a rather fitting place for someone such as yourself.”

Your heart nearly forgot its purpose. Was he… calling you lovely? As lovely as the gardens he so carefully nurtured? As worthy of this quiet little paradise as the magnolias and moss draped elms he spoke of with such affection? The thought alone was enough to make you feel positively lightheaded.

And he looked entirely at ease amongst the rows of vegetables, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets as he inspected the thriving tomato plants with quiet satisfaction.

Standing amongst the garden beds the two of you had tended together, your heart seemed to sink even as it raced within your chest. Every flourishing vine, every budding herb, every flower beginning to bloom bore the quiet mark of the hours spent side by side with this beautiful man.

And somewhere between the turned soil and easy conversation, between shared laughter and lingering glances, you had fallen for him.

Lord… That was wrong. You needed to distance yourself from this prison of your own making. You couldn’t stand next to him without the ache of want.

So you offered him one last smile, murmuring your well wishes before turning toward the porch steps. Every instinct begged you to look back, but you forced yourself to keep climbing, refusing to acknowledge the warmth prickling between your shoulder blades beneath the weight of his gaze.

Each step felt heavier than the last. It was a peculiar sort of ache, distancing yourself from the one person who had made your heart feel truly alive. Yet what choice did you have? You were in mourning.

It wasn’t until much later, after spending the better part of the day running from the truth of your own heart, that your pulse finally began to settle.

You filled your quiet Sunday with anything that kept your hands busy. A fresh loaf of fresh bread was cooling upon the counter, a visit to town for groceries now tucked neatly into their proper places. Every little household task became another excuse not to think about him.

You told yourself you were simply tending to your home as any young homeowner would. In truth, you were trying desperately to outrun your own emotions.

Anything to keep Alastor from your thoughts.

Naturally, fate seemed to find that notion positively hilarious. A gentle knock sounded at your front door late that evening.

When you opened it, you found Alastor standing upon your porch, absentmindedly twirling a pair of fine botanical tweezers between his fingers. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms and there was the slightest smudge of soil along the side of his hand. He looked as though he had wandered over in the middle of whatever had captured his attention.

“Good evening, amie.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Good evening.”

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything terribly important.”

“Not at all.”

“Splendid.” His smile widened ever so slightly. “I appear to have reached something of an impasse.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“An impasse?”

“Mmm.” He held up the tweezers with an almost sheepish expression. “I’ve been attempting another iris cultivar this afternoon. You seemed rather fond of the black bloom, and I’ve discovered I require a second opinion before I do something irreversible.”

You blinked.

“My opinion?”

“Yes, I find yours has become surprisingly valuable to me.”

The words left his lips so matter of factly you weren’t entirely convinced he’d realized what he’d just admitted.

“I hardly know the first thing about breeding flowers.”

“Excellent.” He chuckled warmly. “Then your judgment won’t be clouded by years of stubborn habit.”

“You realize you’ve made absolutely no argument for why I should be of any help.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes danced with quiet amusement. “But you’ll indulge me all the same.”

You shook your head, unable to suppress your smile.

“I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”

He stepped aside, extending one hand toward the narrow path leading to the greenhouse with a theatrical flourish.

“After you.”

The familiar warmth returned to your chest. You had spent the better part of the day trying desperately not to think about Alastor Hartfelt. And it had taken him less than five minutes to undo all of your hard work.

The greenhouse greeted you with its familiar warmth, the humid air fragrant with damp earth, composter decay and growing things. Dim evening light filtered through the glass panes overhead, bathing everything in a soft glow.

Alastor led you toward one of the long wooden benches where several irises rested in neat clay pots.

“Now then,” he said, rubbing his hands together with quiet enthusiasm. “I find myself at something of a crossroads.”

He gestured toward the bloom you recognized immediately. The same velvety black iris that you now had in your own garden. Beside it stood two others. One was a pristine ivory, its petals almost luminous beneath the fading light. The other bloomed in a rich crimson, the color so deep it bordered on burgundy.

“I’ve managed the black,” he explained proudly. “But I should like to see what happens when I introduce another color into the line. With a little luck…” His fingers ghosted over one of the petals. “…the next generation may bloom with feathering or dappling. Perhaps crimson veining across black petals. Or white edges like painted lace.”

His eyes sparkled with unmistakable excitement.

“The question is…” He looked toward you. “Which would you choose?”

You didn’t even need to think.

“The crimson.”

“So quickly?”

You nodded, stepping closer to admire the deep red flower.

“I think the contrast would be prettier with the black.”

Your fingertips hovered just above one velvety petal.

“Its so rich, it kind of reminds me of blood.”

The observation slipped out before you thought better of it.

“I don’t know, there is something rather beautiful about it.”

You were met with silence, glancing up. Alastor was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Then, slowly, his smile widened.

“How right you are cher.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks.

“An excellent choice,” Alastor murmured, satisfaction warming his voice.

With practiced care, he carried the two irises to the workbench beneath the brightest lamp in the greenhouse. He motioned for you to join him, already reaching for the fine tweezers tucked neatly into the pocket of his shirt.

“Come here.”

You stepped beside him.

“No, closer,” he said absentmindedly, entirely focused upon the flowers before him. “You’ll never see from all the way over there.”

You obeyed, closing the small distance between you until your shoulders were nearly touching.

“There.”

He smiled to himself.

“Now.”

With astonishing precision, he slipped the tips of the tweezers beneath one of the flower’s delicate anthers.

“This fellow will be our father.” His voice had softened into the patient cadence of a teacher. “The pollen is carried here.”

He carefully removed each pollen laden anther one by one, setting them upon a sheet of clean paper.

“If I were to leave them, the flower would simply pollinate itself. Perfectly practical…” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…but rather unimaginative.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“So we cheat nature?”

“No, we encourage it.”

The correction was accompanied by a wink. Your attention drifted from the flower to his hands. You had never noticed how careful they were. Long slim fingers capable of so much.

Strong enough to rebuild your garden beds without effort, yet impossibly gentle as they worked amongst petals so delicate they seemed capable of bruising beneath the slightest touch.

He gathered a dusting of golden pollen upon the tip of a fine brush before lifting the crimson iris toward the light.

“And now…”

Instinctively, you leaned closer.

“So this one becomes the mother?”

“Precisely.”

He inclined his head toward the center of the bloom.

“The stigma.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to follow the tiny structures nestled amongst the petals.

“I still can’t quite…”

Without a word, Alastor shifted beside you. One arm came to rest lightly against yours as he leaned in, his shoulder brushing your own. Close enough that the sleeve of his shirt grazed your skin, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of tobacco and the faint sweetness of rich soil that always seemed to cling to him.

“Here,” he murmured.

His voice was so near your ear that a shiver raced down your spine. He guided the tip of the brush toward the delicate stigmatic lip at the flower’s center before gently dusting it with the golden pollen.

“There.”

His hand lingered only a heartbeat longer.

“If fortune smiles upon us…” he said quietly, “…these two will spend the next season becoming something neither could have been alone.”

Your heart was racing and you felt a warmth deep in your stomach you could hardly name. You weren’t certain whether he was still speaking about the flowers. Your gaze drifted upward almost against your own will. But he was already looking at you.

Not at your eyes. But your lips.

For one impossible moment, the flowers were forgotten altogether as neither of you moved.

His gaze lingered upon your mouth with a longing so openly displayed it stole the very air from your lungs. The warmth of his breath mingled with your own, each shallow inhale seeming to belong to you both.

He wanted to kiss you. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name. Yet he made no move to close the final inch between you.

Your heart pounded so fiercely you feared he must surely hear it. Every lesson ever impressed upon you urged restraint.

A proper lady would never sit this close to an unmarried man. A proper widow certainly did not ache to be kissed scarcely months after her husband went missing. A proper woman knew when to walk away.

But propriety had governed every chapter of your life before this one. It had chosen your husband. It had dictated the way you moved throughout the world. And what had it ever given you in return? A house that had never felt like home. A marriage devoid of love. A life lived for appearances instead of joy.

Then Alastor had wandered into your life with his troublesome cat and an armful of seedlings, and somehow, little by little, he had reminded you what it felt like to laugh. To look toward tomorrow with something other than obligation.

He made you feel alive. Perhaps for the very first time. So in that moment, you knew propriety needed to be damned.

Your fingers found the front of his shirt before your courage had the opportunity to abandon you. Eyes wide and pulse racing, you drew one trembling breath.

“Kiss me, Alastor…”

The words were scarcely more than a whisper. Your breath caught.

“…Please.”

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@quietlysublimeuprising

Their marriage became a masterpiece of social theater. To the public, they were the pinnacle of New Orleans grace: he, the doting, eccentric gentleman; she, his serene, supportive anchor. Behind closed doors, however, they navigated a labyrinth of “mutual respect.” They were companions, confidants, roommates who shared tea and intellect but never a bed. For her, it was a beautiful torture. She had loved him since the days of scraped knees, holding her breath whenever a local girl confessed her feelings to him, only for Alastor to retreat to her side and vent his confusion. “Honestly, I am so glad we are friends,” he would say, his voice free of malice but edged with a sharpness that cut her heart. “I can tell you these things without the mess of sentimentality.” She would smile—a practiced, brittle thing—and bury her longing beneath the guise of perfect friendship, terrified that one honest word would shatter the only world she knew.

As the years matured them, Alastor’s thoughts grew longer, darker, more complex. He had never been a man of the flesh; women, to him, were as pleasing as a fine painting or a well-bound book, but he had never felt the pull of gravity toward another human being—until the marriage settled into his bones. He began to notice the way light caught the depths of her eyes, the way her laughter felt like a physical warmth against his skin. He, who prided himself on control, found himself bringing home bundles of jasmine or her favorite chocolate—not out of obligation, but because he was addicted to the way her cheeks flushed a soft rose.

The nights they were forced to share a room due to visiting family became the most grueling tests of his resolve. He would lie perfectly still, listening to the rhythmic, soft cadence of her breath. One evening, moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating her in a slip of silk that looked like liquid water. A single strap had surrendered to gravity, sliding down her shoulder to reveal the curve of her skin. Alastor felt his breath hitch, a sudden, violent thrum in his chest he couldn’t rationalize away. He watched the slight rise and fall of her chest, her hair a chaotic, beautiful halo against the pillow, and felt a hunger that had nothing to do with the dark things he did in the bayou.

The tension bled into their daily lives in subtle, agonizing ways. When she cooked, a stray dusting of flour might settle at the corner of her mouth. Alastor would reach out, his thumb lingering a second too long as he brushed it away. She would look up, offering a bright, innocent thank-you, unaware that he was fighting the primal urge to catch her lower lip between his teeth, to taste the sweetness she unknowingly offered. He was a monster—his hands stained with the blood of the city’s scum, his soul tangled in voodoo shadows—but she was the one creature he refused to tarnish. He would burn the world to give her warmth, yet feared that touching her would be the match that started the fire.

The topic of children became the thorn in their side. At every social gathering, well-meaning aunts and prying neighbors chirped, “When will we see a little Alastor Jr.?” In public, they laughed it off in rehearsed harmony, but in the quiet of their home, the question lingered like smoke.

“Alastor?” she asked one evening, her voice small as she toyed with the hem of her apron. “What do you truly think about... kids?”

Alastor, adjusting his radio dial with focused intensity, didn’t look up—though his heart did a strange, uncomfortable somersault. He assumed she was only asking out of obligation, perhaps feeling the weight of societal pressure. “Oh, my dear, are you worried about the wagging tongues of the neighbors? Darling, you needn’t give them a second thought. We won’t ever have children, so you can simply ignore their tiresome chatter. You are free from that burden.”

He thought he was being gallant, liberating her from a duty he assumed she didn’t want. He didn’t see the way her eyes clouded, or how she turned to hide the tremor in her chin. She excused herself quietly, slipping into the bathroom to let silent tears fall. She wanted a child—a piece of him to hold when he was away at his “late-night meetings.” She wanted the family her father had dreamed for her. But she believed he found the idea repulsive, and so she buried that dream in the same grave as her romantic hopes.

Meanwhile, Alastor began to notice a shift. He was a predator by nature, attuned to the slightest change in his environment. His wife was... different. He noticed the way her bottom lip seemed perpetually swollen, bitten raw by some hidden anxiety or passion. Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she’d worry at it with her teeth, the faintest hint of pink bruising at the delicate skin. It had become a tell—a secret sign of some storm swirling beneath her calm exterior. He noticed, too, the way her hair, which she took pains to wear in a neat, elegant coiffure each morning, would be a wild, tangled mess by the time he returned late from the bayou. The pins she so carefully twisted in would lie abandoned on the vanity, and loose strands would cling to her cheeks as if even her hair had grown restless in his absence.

He saw the flush blooming on her throat, a delicate, trembling color that crept from her collarbone to her jaw, and the way her breath came in shallow, frantic hitches whenever he entered the room. Sometimes, her eyes would flick to the window, or the clock on the wall, or down to her hands twisting a kitchen towel—anywhere but to his face. All of it was subtle, but to Alastor, it was unmistakable.

A cold, unfamiliar coil of jealousy tightened in his gut. He knew he was gone for hours, occupied by the grisly work he performed in his hidden cabin, and assumed she was lonely. Does she have a lover? the thought hissed. Is there someone else providing the fire I’ve been too afraid to light? She’ll leave me, won’t she? I can’t let that happen.

The truth was far more solitary. She assumed Alastor was out at jazz clubs, drinking and reveling with other socialites, leaving her alone in a house that felt too large. Months prior, a close friend had gifted her a “marital aid”—a sleek, scandalous dildo—hidden behind a wall of giggles and whispers. She had been mortified, shoving it to the back of her dresser, certain she would never touch it. But longing became an ache she couldn’t ignore.

During those late nights, while owls screeched in the bayou, she would retreat to her room. She would pull the device from its hiding place, her heart hammering against her ribs. As she explored her own body, she closed her eyes and conjured him—his gloved hands, usually so clinical and precise, becoming frantic and desperate against her skin. She whispered his name into the dark, a soft, whimpering “Alastor...” as she bit her lip to stifle the moans that threatened to echo through the halls. She would finish in a haze of guilt and relief, frantically smoothing the sheets and hiding the evidence before his key turned in the front door.

When he finally entered, smelling of the damp earth of the swamp, she would greet him with the same polite smile, her secret burning hot beneath her skin. Alastor would watch her, eyes narrowing behind his monocle, noting the flush on her neck that hadn’t been there when he left. The air between them, once so clear and friendly, was now thick with unsaid desires and growing suspicions—a storm front building over the quiet life they had built together.

The suspicion within him did not merely sit; it festered, growing more corrosive with each day, fueled by a fierce, territorial instinct he hadn’t realized he possessed. Every time he caught the scent of her skin—now often carrying the faint, salty tang of exertion, not the delicate perfume he’d bought for her—or noticed the way she avoided his gaze, the static in his soul seemed to crackle with a dangerous frequency. He prided himself on being the most informed person in any room, a man who thrived on secrets and subtext, yet in his own home, he felt like a guest excluded from a private joke.

One Tuesday evening, after dinner, Alastor made a calculated decision. He watched her move about the kitchen, her motions tense, hands shaking just slightly as she washed the dishes. He cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “I’ll be at the radio station tonight,” he said, tone casual, almost offhand. “We’re running a marathon broadcast, and I want to oversee it myself.”

She looked up, startled, a plate clattering softly in the sink. “All night?” Her voice was thin, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, stepping closer. He took her hand, turned it palm-up, and pressed a lingering, ghostly kiss to the soft skin between her fingers. He felt her shiver, saw her eyes brighten—not with malice, but with a frantic, desperate sort of relief. That look carved something cold and dark into his heart, something he only saved for his victims.

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Don’t wait up for me.”

She swallowed, nodding quickly. “Of course. I’ll leave a plate for you, in case you get hungry.”

“Always so thoughtful,” he murmured, letting his thumb trace the line of her wrist. He stepped out the front door, clicked it shut behind him, and stood for a moment on the porch, listening to the creak of the old wood beneath his feet and the cicadas humming in the dusk. Instead of heading to the radio station as he’d said, he circled back through the shadows, moving silently along the wraparound porch and past the rose bushes he’d planted for her last spring. He had built this house for them, with his own hands—every hallway, every window, every damn floorboard. Tonight, he would use those familiar hallways to catch her with the man she thought she could hide.

His mind burned with cold purpose. Whoever her lover was, whoever she was risking everything for—Alastor would find him, and when he did, there would be no mercy. He would make the man suffer, make him pay for daring to steal what was his. The thought of blood, of violence, coiled hot and electric in his veins.

Meanwhile, Y/N did what she always did when Alastor was at work. She cleaned the parlor, scrubbing the floors until her knuckles ached, the sharp tang of lemon and soap filling the air. She prepped dinner—roast chicken and potatoes, glazed carrots, a loaf of fresh bread she’d started before dawn. She ran her errands in town, nodding politely to neighbors, smiling at the grocer even though her heart wasn’t in it. When she finished dinner, she set aside a plate for Alastor, wrapping it carefully and placing it in the old icebox so it would stay fresh for him. She always did this, no matter how late he returned.

She glanced at the clock; it wasn’t even seven. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. The loneliness crept in slowly, seeping into her bones. She poured herself a glass of wine—just one, she told herself, but after the second glass, the empty rooms seemed even larger, the shadows deeper. She turned on the radio for company, fiddling with the dial until Alastor’s voice crackled through the static, distant and bright. She laughed bitterly. “You’re always here, even when you’re not.”

She sang along with the music aswandered the house barefoot, the cold floors biting at her toes. She paused by the window, staring out into the dark yard, the silhouette of the bayou just visible in the moonlight.

She whispered, “What am I doing?”

The wine loosened her tongue, the words tumbling out into the emptiness. “You’re a fool,” she told her reflection in the window. “A fool for hoping, a fool for staying.”

She finished her glass and poured another.

Upstairs, the house groaned in the wind, and Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the weight of secrets pressing down on her chest.

Outside, Alastor waited in the shadows, breath slow and steady, his eyes fixed on the light in the kitchen window, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation.

Alastor moved through the secret corridors of his home like a phantom—unseen, unheard, a human predator with a heart of cold calculation. Yet, for the first time in his life, his composure was fracturing. Inside him, a chaotic symphony of bloodlust and rage drowned out reason.

He had spent weeks scrutinizing the subtle changes in his wife’s behavior. To a man like Alastor—who understood the dark impulses of the human soul better than anyone—there was only one logical conclusion: Y/N, his anchor, his only true friend, was entertaining a lover beneath the very roof he had built for her.

Jealousy churned in him like a sickness, a bitter bile rising in his throat. He’d told her he’d be at the radio station all night—a lie, bait to draw the rat into the open. Now, crouched in the shadows behind the parlor wall, his fingers whitened around the cold steel of his shotgun. He already knew how the man would die. It would not be quick. He would carve the interloper to pieces, using the blood for his swamp rituals, ensuring not even a memory remained to haunt his wife’s heart.

In the parlor, Y/N was oblivious to the monster lurking mere inches away. Loneliness ached inside her, a void the wine in her glass couldn’t quite fill. She had finished her chores early, setting aside a plate of Coq au Vin for Alastor. Taking a long sip of wine, she let the warmth spread through her chest before a sudden thought struck her.

“Oh, I should let him in,” she whispered to the empty room.

Behind the wall, Alastor’s heart stuttered. Him. The word was a dagger. He heard her footsteps moving toward the back door, the soft click of the latch, his thumb hovering over the shotgun’s safety. He prepared to spring, to finally see the man who dared to touch what belonged to him.

“Hi, love,” Y/N cooed, her tone dripping with a fondness Alastor would have died to hear. “Aren’t you a handsome thing? I’ve missed you.”

He heard her scratching something, followed by the soft, rhythmic sound of a creature’s contentment. His vision tunneled. Through the narrow slats of the vent, he glimpsed only a tall, dark shadow near the floor and the hem of his wife’s dress. In his mind—clouded by rare, blinding possessiveness—he saw a man. A man she was holding. A man she was calling love.

“I saved you a little something, my dear,” she said, her voice light and playful as she drifted toward the kitchen. Alastor heard the clinking of china. “Here, baby! I saved you some of your favorite. I had leftover chicken from dinner tonight.”

Murderous adrenaline surged through him. She was feeding him. She was nurturing the man cuckolding him under his own roof, using the very meal prepared for her husband to sate her lover. The disrespect seared his soul. In the gloom, he watched her kneel, back shielding the “man” from view.

“You’re lucky my husband isn’t here,” she chuckled—a sound that once brought Alastor peace, now tolling like a death knell. “I don’t think he’d approve of you being here at all.”

Suddenly, the “lover” let out a sharp sound and lunged at her. Y/N’s melodic, bubbling laughter pierced Alastor’s heart. “Stop that! That tickles! Haha, okay, okay... no need to bite!”

He’s biting her, Alastor thought, his eyes darkening with mania. The cur is marking her in my own kitchen. He tightened his grip on the shotgun, breath coming in silent, jagged hitches. His mind hammered one single mantra: I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him. I am going to make him scream until his lungs burst.

Y/N stood, smoothing her skirts, oblivious that her life—and her guest’s—hung by a frayed thread. She picked up the wine bottle and her dog-eared romance novel, cheeks flushed from drink and playfulness.

“All right then, let’s go to my room, shall we?” she said softly, beckoning her companion.

Alastor watched the shadow follow her down the hall toward the bedroom. He didn’t see the tail flicking back and forth, nor the four paws of the stray black cat she had adopted in secret, knowing Alastor “wasn’t a pet person.” Through the warped lens of his rage, he saw only a rival.

He crept through the crawlspace, trailing them with agonizing slowness. He would wait until they were settled. He would wait until the man thought himself safe, nestled in blankets scented with Y/N’s perfume. Then, Alastor would step from the shadows and show this “lover” what became of those who tried to steal from him.

Every sound was a lash against Alastor’s pride. He clutched his shotgun, his knuckles white, his mind a fever dream of violence. He had already envisioned the ritual—the way he would drain the life from this man who dared to touch the woman Alastor had realized, far too late, that he truly loved.

Y/N, unaware that she was being hunted by the man she adored, retreated to the master bedroom. She felt a warm, buzzing glow from the wine, her inhibitions loosened just enough to let her fantasies roam free. She settled onto the bed with her adult romance novel, the pages crisp against her fingers. As she read, the story began to consume her—a scene of a husband returning from work, overcome with sudden, desperate passion, taking his wife right there against the kitchen table.

Her breath hitched. Her mind immediately replaced the nameless protagonist with Alastor. She pictured his sharp features, his elegant hands, and the hidden fire she sensed beneath his polite exterior. She wanted him to see her as more than a childhood friend or a convenient partner. She wanted him to break his gentlemanly facade and claim her with the same intensity she felt burning in her own blood.

Behind the wall, Alastor heard the door handle jiggle. He scrambled back, melting around a corner into the deep shadows of the hallway just as she stepped out. He watched her look back toward the kitchen, speaking to the "man" Alastor still hadn't managed to get a clear look at.

“Go ahead and eat more, love bug,” Y/N said softly, her voice thick with a sweetness that made Alastor’s skin crawl. “I’ll be in my husband’s room. You can join me shortly.”

Alastor’s world tilted. In his room? The audacity was staggering. He waited until she disappeared into his private quarters, his mind racing. He slipped out from behind the wall and moved like a predator through the dark house, searching for the man. He checked the kitchen—nothing but a half-eaten plate of chicken. He checked the bathroom, the parlor, the shadows under the stairs. The man was a ghost; he was silent, fast, and seemingly invisible.

How did he move so quietly? Alastor wondered, his fury reaching a boiling point. He must be a professional. A coward hiding in the cracks of my life.

Then, a sound drifted from his bedroom door. It wasn't the sound of conversation or footsteps. It was a low, desperate moan, followed by a soft, melodic whine of pleasure.

Alastor’s blood ran cold, then turned to pure, liquid fire. He dropped the shotgun—too loud, too impersonal. He wanted to feel the life leave this man's body. He lunged for the kitchen, snatching a jagged, heavy carving knife from the block. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown into dark pits of rage.

Not in my room, he thought, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards as he abandoned all pretense of stealth. Not in my bed. Not with my wife.

He didn't care about being a gentleman anymore. He didn't care about the "arrangement." He stomped up the stairs, the knife gleaming in the moonlight, ready to burst through the door and paint the walls red with the blood of the man he thought was stealing his soul's only light.

Alastor stood just outside his bedroom door, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of the carving knife. He had recaptured a terrifying, icy composure—the kind of silence that hangs before a storm. He expected to burst in and find a tableau of sweaty, frantic betrayal; to find a man to slaughter.

When he nudged the door open, the wood didn’t creak, but the sight that met him brought his internal world to a screeching halt.

There was no lover. No rival he had thought he stalked through the hallways. Instead, his gaze landed on her discarded garments—her silk robe and panties—flung carelessly across the floorboards like autumn leaves. The flickering orange light of the fireplace led his eyes to the soft, plush rug. There, silhouetted against the flames, was a shadow moving with desperate, agonized grace.

Alastor melted into the darkness of the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He watched, breath caught, as he realized she wasn’t with anyone. She was alone. But the sight was far more intimate, far more devastating than any affair.

Y/N was draped in one of his discarded white button-ups, the fabric oversized on her frame, saturated with the scent of his cedarwood cologne and tobacco. She was kneeling on the rug, head thrown back, her body arched in a way that made Alastor’s vision blur. She was lost in a haze of wine and unfiltered longing, her hands roaming her own skin with a hunger he’d never dared acknowledge.

“Alastor…”

The sound of his name, gasped in a fractured, high-pitched moan, hit him harder than any blow. The knife in his hand felt suddenly heavy, useless, absurd. He crept closer, footsteps soundless on the thick carpet, drawn in by the sheer vulnerability of the woman he thought he knew.

She was weeping—soft, crystalline tears that caught the firelight as they slid down her flushed cheeks. She clutched the fabric of his shirt over her heart, fingers trembling.

“Alastor… please,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of years of repressed love. She ground her hips into the rug, eyes squeezed shut as she surrendered to a fantasy where he was finally touching her, finally seeing her. “Please… breed me… please, please…”

The raw, carnal plea shattered the last of Alastor’s porcelain resolve. He stood just feet away, watching the woman he’d called a friend unravel beneath the force of her desire for him. He saw how his shirt clung to her damp skin, how her hair was tangled against the white collar. She wasn’t acting “off” because of another man; she was falling apart from the void he’d left in her bed and her heart.

The territorial rage he’d felt earlier didn’t vanish—it transformed. It became a dark, possessive heat surging through his veins, more intoxicating than any wine. He dropped the knife. It hit the rug with a dull thud, and for the first time, Alastor didn’t care about the “hassle” of feelings or the boundaries of their arrangement.

Meanwhile before Alastor caught her, Y/N found herself drawn to her husband's room, her steps unsteady from the wine buzzing in her veins. She paused at the threshold, her gaze landing on a button-up shirt draped across the bed. Oh, how she missed him—missed the way his presence filled the space, missed the touch she craved but never received. What was she doing here again? The thought flickered through her hazy mind, but she pushed it aside, her hand slipping into her pocket to feel the sleek dildo she'd brought with her.

Blushing deeply, she began to undress, letting her clothes pool on the floor. She'd clean everything before he returned; no one would ever know. Glancing at the clock, she noted she still had two hours until Alastor came home. With a soft sigh, she lit the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames casting flickering shadows across the room. Her thoughts drifted to the romance novel she'd read earlier—the one where the husband burst through the door and claimed his wife right there on the kitchen table, no words wasted.

She moved to the bed and picked up Alastor's button-up shirt, slipping it over her bare skin. It smelled like him. The fabric hung loose on her frame, brushing against her thighs as she inhaled deeply, her body responding with a shiver. Soft moans escaped her lips as her hands wandered, tracing the curves of her breasts, dipping lower to tease the ache between her legs. "Oh fuck," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Sinking to her knees on the fluffy rug before the fireplace, she placed the dildo down and positioned it upright. Slowly, she lowered herself onto it, imagining it was Alastor beneath her. In her mind, she gripped his brown curly hair, riding him as he thrust up into her. "Alastor," she moaned, tears pricking her eyes from the sheer need clawing at her. She was so fucking needy, her virginity a barrier that only heightened her desperation. "Alastor," she said again, louder this time, not caring about the quiet she'd always maintained. "Please, please breed me. Please..."

Her head threw back as she grabbed her breast, tugging sharply on her nipple, arching her back in ecstasy. She never took the dildo fully inside—just the tip, teasing her untouched entrance—but gods, she fantasized about Alastor taking her completely, seeing her not as a friend or a duty-bound wife, but as a woman to claim, to fill, to breed. Her fingers found her clit, rubbing in frantic circles as pleasure built, coiling tight in her core.

She was so close, teetering on the edge, when suddenly his voice cut through the air. "My, my, darling," Alastor's voice dropped to a low, velvet hum that vibrated through the room, no longer masked by his radio persona. The words sliced through the haze of Y/N's intoxication like a razor. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. In blind, frantic panic, her hands scrambled beneath the folds of his oversized shirt, desperately trying to shove the scandalous toy deeper into the shadows of her thighs or under the edge of the rug. She looked like a cornered animal, her face draining from passionate crimson to ghostly pale in seconds.

"A-Alastor!" she gasped, her voice hitching as she yanked the shirt's hem down to cover herself. "You... you were supposed to be... the radio... I didn't..."

Alastor didn't move. He stood at the edge of the firelight, the orange glow dancing in his eyes, making him appear less like the polite gentleman she knew and more like the predator he'd been embodying all night. His gaze dropped to her fumbling hands, still clutching the hidden object. With slow, deliberate grace, he reached out and caught her wrist. His grip wasn't cruel, but it was absolute—unyielding steel wrapped in warm skin.

"There is no need to hide your... little companion, darling," he murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble that made the hair on her neck stand up. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, the scent of cold night air and bayou clinging to him. "I must admit, I spent the last hour quite convinced I was going to have to dispose of a body. I thought you were entertaining a guest."

Y/N's eyes widened, tears still shimmering in them. "A guest? Alastor, I would never—I only—"

"I know that now," he interrupted, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner wrist in a way that made her breath catch. He glanced at the discarded romance novel on the floor, then back at her, his eyes dark with a hunger he'd denied for years. "Though I find I am quite offended. You were calling out my name, begging for your husband... and yet you were settling for a piece of cold silicone?"

He reached down, his fingers brushing against hers as he firmly but gently confiscated the toy from her trembling grasp. He didn't regard it with disgust; he eyed it like a rival already bested. With a casual flick, he tossed it back onto the hardwood floor, the dull thud echoing like finality.

"Alastor, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, covering her face with her free hand, the shame and embarrassment crashing through the wine's fog. "I know you don't... you don't like me that way. I know the marriage was just for my father... I'll go, I'll go to my room—"

She tried to scramble up, but Alastor's hand shifted from her wrist to her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. The contact was electric. For the first time, she felt the hard, lean muscle of his body and the frantic drum of a heart that had always seemed so cold.

"Don't be absurd," he hissed, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I have spent years convinced that you stayed with me out of duty. I thought the idea of a man like me—a man with blood on his soul—touching you would make you recoil. I stayed away to protect you from myself."

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his hands sliding up to cup her face. His thumbs wiped away her tears with a tenderness that shattered her defenses.

"But hearing you call for me... seeing you in my clothes, wishing for my touch..." A dark, genuine smile spread across his face—one not for a camera or crowd. "It seems we have both been very foolish, haven't we? You asked me to breed you, Y/N. You asked for your husband."

He lowered his head, his nose brushing against hers. "I think it's time I stopped being a "friend" and started being the man you were actually crying for. I believe we have a great deal of lost time to make up for, don't you?"

Alastor's words hung in the air between them, charged with promise and unspoken desire. Before Y/N could respond, he closed the distance, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger long restrained, his tongue slipping past her parted lips to taste the wine on her breath. She moaned into the kiss, her body melting against him, the oversized shirt riding up her thighs as her hands clutched at his shoulders.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of her neck. His teeth grazed her pulse point, biting just hard enough to draw a gasp from her, then soothing the sting with slow, deliberate licks. Y/N's head fell back, exposing more of her throat to him, her fingers tangling in his curly hair as shivers raced down her spine.

"On your knees, Mon Cherie," he whispered against her skin, his voice a low command wrapped in velvet. The words sent a thrill through her, and without hesitation, she obeyed, sinking down onto the fluffy rug before the flickering fireplace. Her knees pressed into the soft fibers, the warmth from the flames licking at her bare legs.

Alastor's eyes darkened as he watched her, his hand lingering on her cheek. "Grab that toy," he instructed, nodding toward the discarded dildo on the hardwood floor. "Show me the show I interrupted."

Heat flooded Y/N's face, embarrassment and excitement twisting together in her chest. She hesitated for a moment, her shy nature warring with the ache between her legs, but his steady gaze urged her on. Biting her lip, she reached for the sleek silicone, her fingers wrapping around it as she positioned it upright on the rug between them. Slowly, tentatively, she straddled it, the tip brushing against her slick folds.

"Good girl," Alastor murmured, his tone laced with approval that made her heart flutter. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Touch yourself, my darling girl. Let me see you."

Emboldened by his words, Y/N's hand slid down her body, fingers circling her clit as she lowered herself onto the dildo. She took only the tip inside, her virginity making her cautious, but the stretch sent sparks of pleasure through her core. A soft moan escaped her lips—"A-Al"—as she began to rock her hips, riding the shallow intrusion while her other hand teased her breast through the shirt.

"Yes, just like that, darling girl," Alastor praised, his voice husky. "So beautiful and such a mess. A wanton slut for me, aren't you?"

The crude words hit her like a spark to dry tinder. Y/N gasped, her rhythm faltering as a fresh wave of arousal soaked her thighs. She moaned louder, her body arching, chasing the building tension.

"Open your mouth, darling," he commanded next, his fingers deftly unfastening his trousers. Y/N's eyes widened, but she complied, parting her lips and sticking out her tongue in eager submission.

Alastor freed his cock, hard and throbbing, the length curving slightly as he guided it to rest heavy on her waiting tongue. The taste of him—salty, musky—made her whimper. "Can you take me in your mouth, my darling?" he asked, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Can you do that for me?"

"Y-yes," she moaned softly, her voice muffled around him. Clumsy at first, she paused her riding, leaning forward to wrap her lips around the tip. Her tongue flicked experimentally, lapping at the bead of pre-cum, then she sucked gently, hollowing her cheeks as she took more of him in.

Suddenly, his hands threaded into her hair, gripping firmly and pulling her back. She looked up at him, eyes wide and glistening, his cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop. "Did I tell you to stop riding it or to stop touching yourself?" he demanded, his tone stern but not unkind.

"N-no," she whispered, breathless.

"No what?"

"N-no, my love."

A satisfied smile curved his lips. "Then keep going, darling."

Y/N nodded eagerly, resuming her motions. She sank back onto the dildo's tip, grinding against it while her fingers worked her clit in tight circles. At the same time, she leaned forward again, taking Alastor's cock deeper into her mouth. Her sucks grew more confident, bobbing her head as she swirled her tongue around the head, savoring his groans of pleasure.

Alastor watched her with rapt attention, his hips twitching forward slightly, but he held back, letting her set the pace. The sight of her—his shirt clinging to her sweat-damp skin, her body undulating on the toy while she pleasured him—pushed him toward the edge. His grip tightened in her hair, breaths coming ragged as he felt the coil in his gut tighten.

Just as he neared release, he pulled her off with a sharp tug, his cock glistening and twitching in the firelight. Y/N whined in protest, her movements stuttering. "Please, honey," she begged, voice raw with need. "I want you. I need you. Please breed me."

Alastor's eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he gazed down at her, her plea hanging in the thick air like a siren's call. His cock throbbed, slick from her mouth, but he held himself in check, savoring the desperation etched on her face. "Oh, my sweet girl," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through her. "You beg so prettily. But I won't rush this. Not when you've waited so long."

He released her hair, his fingers trailing down to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. Y/N's lips were swollen, glistening with saliva and his pre-cum, her breaths coming in shallow pants as she continued to grind shallowly on the dildo's tip, her fingers slick against her clit. The firelight danced across her skin, highlighting the flush that spread from her cheeks to her chest, the oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder to expose the curve of her breast.

"Stand up, darling," he commanded softly, extending a hand to help her rise. Her legs trembled as she obeyed, the toy slipping free with a wet sound that made her whimper. Alastor pulled her close, his free hand sliding under the shirt to grip her hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh. He kissed her again, slower this time, tasting himself on her tongue as she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck.

Breaking the kiss, he guided her toward the bed, the massive four-poster with its rumpled sheets still carrying the faint scent of her earlier arousal. He sat on the edge, pulling her between his spread thighs. "Undress for me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet laced with the affection that made her heart swell.

Y/N's hands shook as she grasped the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and lifted it over her head, letting it pool at her feet. Naked now, vulnerable under his scrutiny, she stood before him, her body a canvas of soft curves and untouched innocence. Her nipples pebbled in the warm room, her thighs pressed together to ease the ache, slickness trailing down her inner leg.

"Beautiful," Alastor breathed, his hands roaming up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts before cupping them fully. He leaned in, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking firmly while his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud. Y/N cried out, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as jolts of pleasure shot straight to her core.

He lavished attention on her breasts, alternating sides, biting gently until she squirmed, then soothing with licks and kisses. All the while, his cock pressed against her belly, hot and insistent, reminding her of what was to come. "Lie back," he instructed, releasing her with a final nip that made her gasp.

She climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows, her legs parting instinctively as he followed, kneeling between them. Alastor shed his own clothes swiftly—trousers kicked aside, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the lean muscles of his chest, dusted with dark hair. His erection stood proud, veins pulsing along the length, the head flushed and weeping.

He reached for the dildo again, discarded nearby, but set it aside for now. Instead, he lowered himself over her, bracing on his forearms to avoid crushing her. "Tell me what you want, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "Say it all."

"I want you inside me," Y/N confessed, her voice breaking on a sob of need. "Please, Alastor. Fuck me. Breed me. Make me yours completely."

His response was a growl, low and possessive. He kissed her deeply, one hand sliding between her thighs to part her folds. His fingers explored her wetness, circling her entrance before pressing one inside, testing her readiness. She was soaked, clenching around the intrusion, but he took his time, adding a second finger to stretch her gently, curling them to brush that spot that made her arch and moan.

"So tight," he praised, his thumb rubbing her clit in firm strokes. "My beautiful wife, dripping for her husband." Y/N's hips bucked, chasing the building pressure, her nails digging into his shoulders as she teetered on the edge.

But he withdrew his fingers just as she neared climax, earning a frustrated whine. "Not yet, darling. I want you coming around my cock." Positioning himself at her entrance, he nudged the tip inside, the stretch immediate and intense. Y/N tensed, a sharp breath escaping her, but he paused, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, murmuring endearments. "Breathe for me. Relax. I've got you."

Inch by inch, he pushed forward, her walls fluttering around him, yielding to his girth. It burned at first, a mix of pain and pleasure that had tears pricking her eyes, but as he bottomed out, filling her completely, the fullness overwhelmed her. "Alastor," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He stilled, letting her adjust, his own control fraying at the velvet heat enveloping him. "My perfect girl," he rasped, starting with shallow thrusts, building a rhythm that had her moaning beneath him. The bed creaked softly, the fireplace's glow casting shadows that danced across their joined bodies.

Y/N's hands roamed his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moved, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. Each plunge stretched her, hit deep, rubbing against her inner walls in ways the toy never could. "Harder," she begged, lost in the sensation. "Please, my love. Fuck me harder."

Alastor obliged, his pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, changing the angle to drive even deeper, his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside her. Y/N's cries grew louder, uninhibited, her body coiling tight as orgasm built.

"Come for me," he demanded, his hand slipping between them to pinch her clit. "Milk my cock, darling. Show me how much you need it."

The command shattered her. Y/N shattered, her pussy clenching rhythmically around him, waves of ecstasy crashing through her as she screamed his name. Alastor followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her, hot pulses of cum flooding her depths. He groaned, collapsing onto her, their breaths mingling as aftershocks rippled through them both.

For a long moment, they lay entwined, his weight a comforting anchor. Alastor kissed her temple, whispering, "Mine now, truly. And I'll fill you again and again, until you're carrying my child." Y/N smiled through her haze, sated and cherished, his hand resting on her belly as if already imagining it.

You sincerely thought that damnation would be your biggest problem in Hell, devastated that God deemed whatever petty little sins you’d committed in life worth rotting over for eternity… until you received a rude awakening in the form of a 7-foot tall, monochromatic deer with a stupid bob upon being offered a place to stay at the Hazbin Hotel.

A chance meeting with Vaggie spared you from having to experience Hell in its finest hour.

From the delinquencies and atrocities most endured before finding their place on the hierarchy.

But as the familiar sound of Alastor materializing in a series of dark, smoky wisps permeated the air around you, you internally cursed yourself for accepting Vaggie’s offer. The man was a goddamn menace. He wouldn’t leave you alone, no matter how desperately you tried to avoid him, taking on a job, rearranging your schedule, whatever.

All your efforts were fruitless.

He always found you — always — and he tormented you in so many unique ways.

Exhibit A: The Flat-Earth Debate.

“I can’t believe that some people still think Earth is flat,” You told Angel Dust. “Like, we live in a time where information is easily accessible —”

“How would you know that Earth isn’t flat?” Alastor suddenly interjected, making you blink in bewilderment. “Have you tried looking yourself?”

“You’re joking… right?” You nervously laughed, but he maintained a serious facade and proceeded to argue with you, driving Angel Dust out of the room.

That was the first time the two of you interacted without Charlie bringing you together and encouraging you to bond, and it was absolutely awful. Husk and Vaggie had warned you about Alastor the first time your eyes curiously drifted to him, telling you that he was bad news, but you didn’t believe them until then.

He was certainly strange and unpleasant.

Though that wasn’t what made you consider maintaining your distance from him.

Exhibit B: The Chocolate Incident.

“Oh! Well, don’t mind if I do,” Alastor hummed as he boldly plucked the KitKat you were eating from your hands, making you sputter and fume.

“You don’t even like choc — ” You whirled around to tell him, but then he chomped down on the KitKat instead of breaking it apart. “What the fuck!”

“While I do detest sweets,” Alastor spoke with a full mouth. “I find it to be an excellent palate cleanser, especially after eating semi-decomposed flesh!”

The man was an enigma, but you had no desire to get to know him, especially after the interactions you shared with him left you simmering in annoyance. You didn’t say anything to anyone about it, though, opting to ignore him or make yourself sparse whenever you found yourself in the same room. You weren’t one for confrontation.

And you thought that avoiding Alastor would work.

But then he purposely went out of his way to prove you wrong, doubling down on his efforts.

Alastor made most of your days feel worse than the notion of damnation itself to the most religious, god-fearing individual on Earth. You didn’t know why, and you constantly wracked your head about it, trying to figure out what he got out of pestering you, scaring you, and hiding your belongings in the most secluded and obscure parts of the hotel.

You were a nobody compared to him.

You weren’t strong, powerful, or influential, and you weren’t trying to be any of those things, either.

When you kept coming up empty-handed, you took on a job at a club owned by the Vee’s, knowing damn well that Alastor wouldn’t bother you then. Not that he followed you and kept tabs on you during the rare moments you left the hotel, but he’d surely have less of an opportunity to torment you if you were constantly busy.

You were right about that, that he’d bother you less.

And yet he somehow became even more unbearable than he’d been when you got a day off.

Exhibit C: The Last Straw.

“Don’t you dare —” You squeaked at his finger jabbing into your side, loud and embarrassingly high-pitched, like a cute little bunny.

“My, my, what a delightful sound!” Alastor chuckled, a wicked grin tugging at his lips at the way your face flushed in embarrassment.

“Alastor, stop it! Or else I’ll —” You started, but he jabbed his finger into your side again, and again and again, almost making you pee yourself.

In only a small window of time, Alastor managed to torment you in so many unique ways. He picked useless arguments with you, snatched your stuff out of your hands, and made your life worse than Hell itself. But once he escalated things to a physical level and embarrassed you by tickling you, you decided that enough was enough.

You had to confront him.

And after all that you put up with, you figured that he didn't anticipate any sort of response from you.

Not now, not ever, and certainly not in the way you wound up going about it, but you were at your wits’ end with Alastor. You didn’t even get the chance to think of what to say to him before you exploded, standing up from your place on the couch and casting your phone aside as he materialized in front of you, a wicked grin plastered on his face.

“Listen here, you asshole, I’ve had enough of your shit,” You poked his chest, but he only raised his brows in amusement. “What? I’m being serious!”

“Come now, how am I to take you seriously when you’re so…” Alastor started, bending down to your level and booping your nose. “Small and pathetic?”

Your face flared up in a mixture of anger as you scrunched your nose in distaste.

The goddamn bastard!

He tilted his head and beckoned you to speak once more, a ‘Well?’ seeping past his lips.

“Again, I’m being serious,” You reiterated, your hands anxiously flexing at your sides. “I’m tired of you picking on me, so if you —”

“If I what, exactly?” Alastor cut you off, unable to believe that you had the gall to threaten him. “You’re weak, what could you possibly do —”

It made sense that as an overlord, he regarded himself as strong, powerful, and untouchable, especially in the face of a lowly sinner, but that didn’t make you weak or incapable of defending yourself. No, you were quite capable of doing that, actually, but it was ultimately his words that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t think, you simply acted.

In one swift motion, you reached out and went for his ears, grabbing them. Apparently, they were sensitive, because Alastor let out a strange noise when you tugged at them. A bleat — the sort of noise that a cute little fawn made, not a grown buck such as himself, you realized as you pulled your hands away and stared at him in shock.

Hs eyes were wide open and his body perfectly still, evidently sharing your sentiments.

“Holy shit, that was…” You put a hand over your mouth, not knowing whether to laugh or coo at him. “…cute? But in a pathetic sort of way.”

He suddenly blinked, shaking his head and straightening his spine.

“You — how dare you?” Alastor seethed, the filter in his voice crackling and distorting, instantly wiping the look of amusement off your face.

You only gasped when he lunged at you, though, sending you tumbling back.

Your back met the couch with a soft thump, his hands pinning your wrists against both sides of your head and his knee slotting in between your legs, trapping you. Alastor leered down at you, his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring as the parlor steadily grew dark in his anger, but you weren’t exactly staring up at him in fear.

“A-Alastor?” You shakily breathed out, your eyes nervously darting down, hoping that he’d understand what you were trying to communicate.

His knee, his goddamn knee.

It was in an area you knew he didn’t intend to touch, your heart rate picking up, a familiar wetness pooling in your underwear.

The position wasn’t helping, either.

“Oh my God, Alastor!” You shrieked, snapping him out of his rage. “Your leg — move your fucking leg! It’s rubbing against my crotch!”

Just like that, the mood in the air drastically shifted, the darkness that once threatened to envelop the parlor retreating behind Alastor as he reeled back in horror. The reaction you elicited from him when you tugged at his ears, it was unbelievable — though nothing could quite compare to the flustered look on his face.

You stared up at him, panting, feeling… strange.

Feeling something you definitely didn’t want to feel for him, averting your gaze and shutting your legs.

He slowly blinked and opened his mouth.

However, before he could formulate a single syllable, he vanished in a series of dark, smoky wisps, leaving you all alone — something you didn’t think you’d manage to get him to do. You should have been relieved, you should have been proud of yourself for managing to achieve such a great feat, but you didn’t.

“Yeah! You better leave,” You still yelled out, as if to try and make yourself feel that way. “Pick on me again and I’ll, uhh… I’ll pull your tail next time!”

Of course, your words were met with silence.

Alastor was long gone.

You sunk into the couch and buried your face in your hands, letting out a frustrated groan.

Suddenly, you were full of regret.

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere behind the bar. The atmosphere was exactly as Alastor liked it—chaotic, loud, full of him. But then—

Husk tilted his head toward the lounge. “Still don’t get it,” he said under his breath, drying another glass. “How the hell did you convince her to like you?”

The word her pulled every spark of static in the air into silence.

Alastor followed Husk’s line of sight, grin still wide—but when his eyes landed on her, sitting curled up on the hotel couch with a book in her lap, everything softened.

Her knees were drawn up, bare feet tucked beneath her dress. The lamp beside her bathed her in warm gold light. She wasn’t even doing anything—just reading quietly, head tilted slightly to the side, the smallest smile ghosting her lips as her eyes traced the page.

For a moment, the entire bar melted away.

Static died completely. The usual manic hum behind his eyes faded, replaced with something still, something tender that made his chest ache in the most pleasant way.

He didn’t answer Husk. He just… smiled. That different kind of smile—the one that never reached the sharpness of his grin, but lived in the soft edges of his eyes.

Then, with a little hum, he abandoned the bar entirely.

Husk blinked. “...the hell?”

Angel snorted. “He short-circuited again.”

Alastor strode across the room, his long legs carrying him in quick, eager steps. The static around him returned, faint and happy this time, like a radio tuned to a love song.

She looked up when she felt him near, those gentle eyes meeting his.

And oh, she smiled.

Just a small curve of her lips, but it was enough to send a thrill up his spine.

“Ah, there’s my darling little doe,” he said warmly, dropping beside her on the couch. He reached for her hand, lifting it carefully as if it were made of glass, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Reading again, are we?”

She nodded once, her other hand closing the book halfway.

His eyes sparkled. “And how fares the story this evening? Do tell me it’s not another one of those dreadful tragedies—you know how I loathe unhappy endings.”

She tilted her head side to side, a little shrug that meant It’s fine.

Alastor chuckled, the sound softer than anyone in the bar had ever heard. “Ah, only ‘fine,’ is it? Then perhaps I should write you something better! A tale worthy of your time and your smile.”

She laughed silently—a breathy, bright little sound that never quite made it to voice—and shook her head, nudging his arm playfully.

He melted completely.

Husk watched from behind the bar, eyebrows raised. “Is that the same guy who just threatened to turn Angel into a xylophone five minutes ago?”

Angel leaned on his elbow. “Nope. That’s his evil twin—the romantic one.”

Charlie, watching quietly from the doorway, smiled softly. “I think that’s just… Alastor when he’s happy.”

And as he leaned back on the couch, still holding her hand, Alastor didn’t even hear them. He was too busy tracing gentle circles against her skin, talking about nonsense—constellations, old poetry, the way her hair caught the lamplight—anything just to keep that quiet, shy smile on her face a little longer.

Alastor never thought he’d grow to love silence. For most of his existence, silence meant boredom. The static died, the noise stopped, and he was left with his own mind—something he’d rather never sit alone with. But she changed that. She made silence… beautiful.

She was quiet in the way snow was quiet, soft and pure and shimmering with something sacred. A doe demon, delicate in manner and movement—every tilt of her head graceful, every blink deliberate. Her voice existed, but rarely; a shy thing that appeared only in whispers or startled gasps, usually when she saw a spider scuttle too close or when Alastor’s shadow decided to be dramatic again.

He never asked her to speak. Never needed her to.

He’d learned early that there was something behind that silence—a story she wasn’t ready to share. He’d seen it once, in the way her eyes had flickered at a loud noise, or how her fingers trembled when someone raised their voice too sharply. Whatever it was that made her quiet, it wasn’t weakness. It was survival. And Alastor understood that better than most.

He’d fallen in love with her far too quickly to be rational about it. One smile, one shy little nod when he’d asked her to dance that first time, and he’d been lost. Entirely and hopelessly.

Now, his days orbited around her like she was the sun and he was a planet blessed just to be near her warmth.

Every morning began the same way now. The soft light of Hell’s false dawn spilling through the curtains, dust motes swirling lazily in the air, and her sitting beside him at the little table by the window. She was still in her nightgown, hair mussed from sleep, delicate ears twitching faintly whenever his radio crackled. He read to her from one of his favorite books—his voice smooth and melodic, full of cheer—but somewhere between the words, his eyes always wandered.

She’d lean on her hand, listening quietly, eyes half-lidded in contentment. And without fail, that thought would come crashing into him again. I want to marry this woman.

It startled him every time, like a sudden swell of static that buzzed through his ribs. His grin would falter for half a heartbeat, his voice catching mid-sentence, and she’d blink up at him with that curious tilt of her head—those wide, fawn-brown eyes soft and questioning.

He’d just smile brighter, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Ah, forgive me, my dear, I simply lost my place! Where were we? Ah yes—‘and thus, love conquered the silence of the world’…”

She’d smile back, not realizing how her quiet presence had just conquered his.

Later, when the day stretched on and most of the hotel dozed in lazy afternoon warmth, he’d sit behind her on the couch, brushing through her hair. The strands were silken, the color glinting faintly in the light, and he handled it as if it were spun gold. Her small antlers peeked through near the top, delicate and lovely, and he always took extra care not to tug too hard near their base.

He hummed while he worked—an old, cheerful tune from decades ago, his voice low and velvety. Every few moments she’d let out a soft little sigh, her eyelids fluttering, and he’d feel her relax completely beneath his touch.

It was domestic bliss incarnate, and it nearly undid him.

He found himself thinking again—I want to braid her hair every morning for the rest of eternity.

Then, immediately after—Good lord, Alastor, pull yourself together.

But he couldn’t. His chest felt too full. Too warm.

She turned her head slightly to look at him, brow furrowing when she noticed the faint blush that had crept up his cheeks. “...Al…?” she whispered softly, her voice barely there, like a breeze brushing past his ear.

The sound of his name from her lips—gentle, hesitant, real—made his grin falter into something dangerously tender.

He cleared his throat, pretending to focus on the braid. “Yes, my darling doe?”

She shook her head, smiling just a little, as if she already knew he was acting suspiciously lovesick again. He finished the braid and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I’m simply delighted,” he murmured. “Terribly, hopelessly delighted.”

The evenings belonged to their dances. Sometimes in the studio, sometimes in the lounge—wherever the static hum of his old records could fill the air. He’d bow dramatically, hand extended, and she’d always hesitate for a heartbeat before placing her small hand in his.

The moment he pulled her in, her body relaxed like it remembered him. They swayed to the slow crackle of a 1920s ballad, her head resting just under his chin.

He didn’t speak much during these dances. He didn’t need to. The world felt smaller, softer, more manageable when it was just them and the music. Her lashes would flutter as she smiled faintly, and his chest would constrict again.

I want to marry this woman.

He thought it every single time he spun her, every time she looked up at him and giggled soundlessly at one of his silly flourishes.

And when she caught him staring—wide-eyed, pink creeping up his cheeks—she’d tilt her head, confused but amused, mouthing silently, What?

He’d only laugh, brushing his nose against hers. “You, my dear, are the most dangerous creature in Hell. You’ll give me heart palpitations.”

On quieter days, they’d go for walks into the woods beyond the hotel—just the two of them, away from the noise. He carried a woven basket, full of pastries and tea, and she carried flowers. Always flowers.

She’d make little crowns of them, threading the stems with patient fingers, and when she was done, she’d place one on his head with a soft giggle. The absurdity didn’t bother him in the slightest; if anything, it made him beam.

“Oh, how dashing I must look!” he’d proclaim dramatically, posing with a hand on his hip. “A fine gentleman, bedecked by the finest florist in all of Hell!”

She’d cover her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. And when she finally met his eyes again, he felt the words hit him so hard it nearly hurt—I want to marry this woman.

Every little thing she did, every smile she gave him, made him feel it again and again—so constant it became a rhythm beneath his heartbeat.

He loved her silence. He loved her small whispers, her expressive eyes, her shy way of reaching for his hand. He loved that she never asked for grand gestures or declarations. She didn’t need them.

And maybe that was what made it so easy for him to adore her.

When night fell and the rest of the hotel settled, Alastor often found himself sitting with her by the window, both of them wrapped in a shared blanket. She’d point toward the stars—those faint pinpricks in Hell’s artificial sky—and he’d talk softly about constellations, old myths, stories he remembered from his days among the living.

Sometimes she’d write a few words on a scrap of paper, slide it over to him, and he’d read it as if she’d handed him something divine.

Tonight, she’d written only: You make me happy

His grin trembled a little at the edges. “Ah, my dear,” he said softly, taking her hand and pressing it to his chest, “you’ve no idea how much you mean to me.”

Her ears twitched. She looked at him, curious.

He didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t. The words I want to marry you danced behind his teeth, too big for the moment.

Instead, he kissed her knuckles and smiled like a fool, letting her rest her head on his shoulder as the night pressed in gently around them.

And when she drifted off to sleep, her breathing steady and soft, he whispered into her hair—just barely audible—

“One day, my darling doe… I’ll make you mine properly.”

-------------

He told her it would be a picnic. Nothing extravagant, just a quiet walk through the woods — something she loved, something simple. He carried the basket in one hand, his cane in the other, and his voice hummed low as they wandered beyond the familiar path. The trees grew denser, the air cooler, and sunlight dappled the ground in broken patterns of gold.

She followed close, curious but trusting. He glanced back every so often, pretending to check the trail, but mostly just to watch her — the way her hooves pressed softly into the moss, how the ribbons in her hair caught stray beams of light.

Then, the path opened.

And she stopped breathing.

The clearing unfolded before her like something from a dream — lanterns swaying from branches, ribbons fluttering like captured light. Wildflowers wove through the moss, glowing faintly under the magic he’d threaded into their petals. The air smelled of earth and roses, and the faint sound of violins drifted between the trees, low and soft, as though the forest itself were singing.

She turned to him, lips parting in stunned silence. He simply smiled — not the sharp, manic grin that cracked across his face when he performed, but something smaller. Warmer. Almost human.

“No tricks today, my dear,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Only truth.”

He reached for her hand, thumb brushing along her knuckles, and when he spoke again, his voice trembled — just slightly — like he’d been holding the words too long.

“I can’t imagine eternity without you.”

Her breath hitched, her lashes fluttering as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He reached into his pocket, unfolding his palm to reveal two rings — thin bands of gold intertwined with green vines, delicate and imperfectly shaped, crafted by his own hands.

He offered them wordlessly at first. Then, softly:

“Marry me. Right here. Right now. Just us. As the forest witnesses.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then she nodded — one, small, trembling nod — and pressed her free hand to her mouth, a soft sound escaping her. It wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite laughter, but something between.

He smiled so tenderly it almost hurt.

He set the basket aside and took both her hands, his thumbs circling over the backs of them. The light around them seemed to glow brighter, as though the forest itself leaned closer to listen.

“There are no priests in these woods,” he said, voice soft as silk. “No guests. No witnesses save the trees and the stars. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She swallowed, and for a moment — just a moment — she found her voice. Barely a whisper.

“You made all this… for me?”

The question nearly undid him. He blinked, his grin faltering into something far gentler.

“For us, my darling.”

They stood beneath the arch he’d woven days before. The violins faded to a hum of strings, the water murmuring behind them. He took one ring and slid it gently onto her finger, the gold gleaming against her skin.

“With this,” he said, “I give you all that I am — my laughter, my loyalty, my every sunrise and song. You have made a home of my heart, and I can only hope to spend eternity making yours feel the same.”

Her lips trembled as she lifted the second ring. Her voice was still soft, fragile as wind through leaves.

“I don’t… need forever,” she whispered. “Just you.”

It was barely audible, but to him it might as well have been shouted. His chest tightened painfully, and his smile wavered before he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

They stayed like that for a long moment — the candles flickering, the breeze weaving through her hair, the river murmuring its endless lullaby.

Then, in that quiet, he spoke again, voice steady, low, and almost reverent:

“Then, my love… for as long as time will allow.”

He kissed her — not hungrily, not with his usual teasing dramatics, but with the aching gentleness of a man who had finally, truly found peace. The forest seemed to hold its breath as they stood together, married by nothing more than the truth between their hearts.

When they finally pulled apart, her tears glimmered like stars, and he brushed them away with his thumb, smiling against her skin.

No audience. No applause. Just the sound of her quiet laughter, the forest’s song, and the man who had once thought he could never love standing beside the woman who made him forget what eternity even meant.

The fire crackled to life in the heart of the clearing, its light flickering across the moss and catching on the lantern glass. The sun had dipped below the trees, and now the forest glowed only by the warm pulse of the flames and the faint shimmer of Alastor’s magic drifting through the air like fireflies.

The fire crackled, casting ribbons of gold and crimson across the moss and her pale skin. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wildflowers, the scent of earth stirred by their slow, meandering steps.

Alastor stood before her, the flickering glow painting soft amber over his usual sharpness, rounding the edges of his grin until it looked almost human. He extended a hand to her — gloved fingers curling slightly as he dipped into a low, playful bow, his voice carrying that familiar sing-song lilt.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Hartfelt?”

Her breath caught softly, a shy smile unfurling like a petal. Her lashes fluttered as she nodded, slipping her delicate hand into his. Her touch was warm, feather-light, trembling just enough to make his chest ache with tenderness.

Barefoot, she stepped closer, her hooves barely whispering against the moss. He drew her in by the waist, one hand guiding, the other cradling hers as though she were something breakable — not fragile, but precious.

They moved slowly, rhythmless at first — a quiet sway between heartbeats. The forest hummed around them, the soft rush of the river and the chirp of crickets weaving into the faint melody of strings that drifted through the air. The music wasn’t coming from anywhere visible — it shimmered like magic itself, summoned from his fondness, from the uncontainable joy that spilled from him whenever he looked at her.

He twirled her — clumsily, purposefully too fast — and she laughed without a sound, a breathless puff of joy that made his grin widen. Her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, her doe ears twitching with bashful delight as she stumbled right into his chest.

He caught her easily, arm tightening around her waist as they both stilled. She looked up at him, eyes wide, reflecting the dancing firelight. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

The world could have ended right then, and he wouldn’t have cared.

“Ah—my apologies,” he said softly, though his tone was far too tender for true remorse. “It appears I got a little… carried away.”

She smiled again, shaking her head, that small movement enough to make her curls bounce against her shoulders. She whispered something — maybe his name, maybe just a quiet hum of affection — and the sound was so faint he almost wondered if he’d imagined it.

He started humming then, because silence felt too sacred to break with words. The tune was old, older than memory — a love song from a world long gone. His voice was smooth, low, the edges of his static softening into a warm, steady hum. The sound seemed to fill the clearing, wrapping around them like silk. She could feel it where he held her hand, the vibration of his voice thrumming through her bones, into her chest.

The firelight painted her like art — gold and rose across her soft skin, catching in her eyes until they gleamed like liquid amber. Her small tail flicked lazily, her posture relaxed, trusting, her head tilting just enough for her temple to brush against his cheek.

He swayed with her, guiding her in gentle circles around the fire, their steps slow and uneven but perfect in their imperfection. Every time she glanced up at him, he felt that same wild flutter in his chest — that electric pull that made him think, over and over, I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her.

The forest watched in silence — lanterns flickering, the water murmuring, the trees bending just slightly as though leaning closer.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Everything he could ever need to hear was written clearly in her gaze: love, peace, safety. Things he’d once believed forever lost to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering closed as he exhaled, letting himself melt into the rhythm of her breathing. For once, he didn’t think about power or performance, didn’t think about Hell or the past or his reputation. Just her.

Hell felt far away.

Here, in this tiny sacred corner of the world — surrounded by soft light, rustling leaves, and the faint song of magic still hanging in the air — time seemed to stop. The chaos of eternity faded until there was only her heartbeat, steady against his chest.

Her fingers traced over his jaw, tentative and affectionate. His smile softened even further, eyes opening just enough to meet hers again. He could see the reflection of the fire in them — but more than that, he could see himself. The version of him that existed only for her: gentle, tender, utterly hers.

“You make it so very easy to forget the world,” he whispered, voice trembling with warmth.

She breathed out a small laugh, soundless but luminous, and tucked her head under his chin.

The fire crackled softly beside them, the ribbons he’d tied in the trees swaying with the wind, casting shimmering shadows across their joined hands. He held her a little tighter, swaying a little slower, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as if to anchor himself to this moment — to her.

Nothing existed beyond this clearing. No sinners, no schemes, no noise. Just the quiet hum of love made tangible, a demon and his doe moving beneath the stars, their hearts beating to the same, tender rhythm.

For the first time in centuries, Alastor understood what peace truly felt like — and as she smiled up at him, shy and glowing in the firelight, he thought that maybe… eternity didn’t seem so long after all

He hovered above her, chest rising and falling in uneven, quickened breaths. The firelight flickered across her, painting her in gold and rose, catching the gentle sheen of her furred skin where her shoulders peeked from under the loose folds of her dress.

He paused, suddenly aware of how close he was — how tender and delicate she looked beneath him. His hand hovered, uncertain, trembling slightly. He bent his head, voice a soft murmur that only she could hear.

“May I… touch you?”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of hesitation dancing across her gaze. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to — her face said everything. Curiosity and excitement, yes… but also a quiet, unspoken warning: she had never done this before.

Alastor blinked, heart hammering in his chest. He knew her so well — better than he’d ever known anyone. He could feel what she wanted to say without words.

“Then I will be gentle,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Even if this is your first time, I promise… I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. To make you feel comforted, loved… cherished.”

She shivered at the words, lips curving into the tiniest of smiles, the flush climbing her cheeks. Her hand rose tentatively, brushing along his jaw, and before he could stop her, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, sweet, and trembling, the kind that made his stomach twist with warmth.

Her hands found his shirt, tugging at it, and he allowed himself a small, breathless laugh before lowering himself closer. His claws fumbled briefly at the buttons of her dress, careful not to rush, not to frighten.

The dress slipped over her shoulders, sliding down her arms in slow, deliberate movements. The fabric fell away, pooling at her sides, and he froze for a heartbeat, mesmerized. Her skin — furred, soft, warm — glimmered in the firelight. He shuddered, not with lust, but with awe, reverence, and a swell of protective desire.

Even seeing her in her undergarments, he felt nothing but love and tenderness. Every inch of her spoke of trust, of vulnerability shared freely with him, and it rendered him almost speechless.

He leaned down again, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, letting his hands rest lightly along her arms, careful, reverent. Every brush of his fingertips was a promise: he would not rush her, he would not hurt her, he would treasure her entirely, in every way she allowed.

Her hands reached up, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, and her lips met his once more. This time, the kiss deepened naturally, a silent conversation between two souls — one gentle, one quivering, both entirely devoted to one another.

He stayed above her, suspended in that delicate balance of awe and longing, letting the fire, the stars, and the soft whisper of the river around them witness something sacred: the first time they allowed themselves to be entirely, completely together.

Alastor’s hands drifted lower, tracing the curve of her stomach with the gentlest touch, marveling at the warmth that the soft fur of her skin gave under his fingers. Each stroke felt like a privilege, like touching something sacred, and he couldn’t stop the low hum of awe that escaped his throat.

She giggled, a soft, breathy sound that made his chest twist with delight, and he realized her laughter came at the faintest tickle of his claws brushing along her side. Heat crept up his neck as he caught her eyes, shimmering in the firelight, reflecting the moon above.

Slowly, reverently, he leaned closer, the tip of his claws tracing the straps of her bra before he clicked the fastenings behind her. The piece of clothing slipped down her shoulders and pooled somewhere in the moss beside her, leaving her utterly bare against the soft, yielding green. Her back pressed into the earth, and he took a breath at the sight — the moss warm beneath her, cradling her like it had grown for this very moment, the scattered petals brushing against her bare skin, sending a thrill through him.

His own breath hitched.

Her small, perky breasts rose and fell beneath him, the faintest coat of fur catching the firelight. He swallowed hard, keeping his gaze locked on hers, memorizing every line and curve. He moved down slowly, reverently, pressing a soft kiss to her nipple before letting his tongue trace it gently. Her body shivered at the sensation, sighs of contentment slipping from her, and his heart nearly broke with the intensity of the emotion in that sound.

One hand remained above her chest, cupping the other breast, his claws gliding lightly across the soft fur, marveling at the heat, the texture, the fragility and strength all wrapped into one. He was utterly, irreversibly captivated — eyes wide, mind spinning, the entire world narrowed to the wonder of her.

He had never seen her like this. Not truly, not this intimately, not with everything she was and everything he felt for her laid bare before him. The moss beneath her, warm and tender, the faint scent of wildflowers mixing with the night air, the moonlight spilling silver across her skin — it was like the heavens had descended and left a single perfect moment for them to exist in.

Alastor’s chest tightened, his voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a sigh as he leaned down to brush his lips along her collarbone. Every sense was heightened — the soft tremble of her body under his touch, the sweet heat of her breath, the rustle of leaves and distant river — and all he could think was: This is her. This is everything. I’ve never loved like this, and I will never love anyone else. She is heaven, she is everything, and I am undone.

His eyes met hers again, shimmering with the firelight and moon, wide with awe, with obsession, with an almost unbearable love. He pressed closer, letting his mouth capture her nipple again, soft and worshipful, while his hand still cradled the other breast, the faintest brush of fur against his claws sending shivers up his spine. Every exhale, every sigh from her, felt like a benediction, a confirmation that she trusted him completely — that she was his entirely, if only for this moment.

He could have stayed there forever, lost in the marvel of her, in the warmth of the moss beneath them, in the scent of flowers and river and night, and in the perfect, fragile divinity of her body pressed beneath his. Heaven, he realized, had nothing on this. Nothing at all.

Alastor’s lips trailed down her stomach with deliberate care, each kiss feather-light, as if the softest pressure could shatter the moment’s magic. The fur along her skin brushed against his face, warm and delicate under his touch, making him shiver with a thrill that was part reverence, part longing.

Every so often, he nipped softly at her skin, a playful, teasing gesture, and she jumped against him, small whimpers and giggles escaping her lips. The sounds were music to him, each one pulling a low, breathy hum from his throat. He could feel her heat through the thin fabric of her panties, a warmth that made his chest ache with a dizzying mixture of desire and devotion.

When he reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, gazing at her face, flushed and beautiful in the moonlight. Her eyes shimmered with uncertainty and anticipation, a delicate flutter of nerves that made his chest squeeze. Carefully, reverently, he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, giving her space to settle against him, to trust him.

She blushed so deeply he could see the heat in her ears, her doe features even softer, more vulnerable, illuminated by the scattered firelight and silvered by moonbeams. Even though this was her first time, her little whines and subtle movements told him she understood the intimacy, the pleasure, the surrender that was about to unfold — and she wanted it with him.

Her hands flew to her face, covering her blush, a tiny, breathy whine escaping her as he lowered his head, brushing soft, worshipful kisses over the fabric of her panties. His breath hitched at the sensation, the closeness, the scent of her mixing with the night air, the moss, the faint floral perfume surrounding them. Every inch of her felt like a revelation, every small gasp or shiver a treasure.

He sighed softly, happily, letting the sound vibrate through her, sending a ripple of warmth through them both. Another kiss, a little deeper this time, made her jolt instinctively, and he paused, looking up at her with wide, worshipful eyes. The faintest trace of static in his voice, a shaky whisper, escaped:

“You are… perfect.”

Then he indulged in a slightly sloppier, more desperate kiss, his tongue tracing her in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring every reaction — every soft squeak, every shiver, every quiet, breathless whine she allowed herself to give.

He kept one hand steady on her waist, cradling her, while the other rested lightly on the moss beside her, anchoring himself, grounding them in this sacred, intimate world they’d created. The moss beneath her back was soft, warm, welcoming — a cushion that pressed gently against her bare skin, making her sigh and shiver beneath him.

Every moment felt like eternity, the river whispering in the background, the moonlight painting her skin silver, the scattered petals brushing against her as if the forest itself were blessing them. And in that moment, hovering above her, Alastor felt a dizzying mix of awe, love, and desire so profound that it nearly left him breathless.

She was his, utterly, in every whispered sigh, every trembling gasp, every little fluttering touch. And he would worship her forever if it meant holding her like this — exposed, trusting, beautiful, and entirely his.

Alastor’s hands trembled slightly, though not from fear — from awe. Every inch of her he touched felt sacred, a revelation he never wanted to end. Slowly, reverently, he slid her panties down her legs, the softest brush of his claws against her furred thighs making her shiver and whine quietly, her small hands flying to her face in embarrassment.

Her doe eyes peeked out from behind her fingers, glistening with vulnerability and trust. He swallowed hard, heart hammering, utterly undone by the sight of her bare, wet flesh beneath him. She was beautiful — breathtaking in a way that made the world outside fade to nothing.

He hovered above her for a moment, drinking in the sight, memorizing every curve, every line of her body bathed in the silver glow of moonlight and the flickering lanterns he’d hung around the clearing. The moss beneath her back pressed softly into her skin, warm and yielding, and the petals of scattered flowers brushed against her like tiny kisses from the forest itself.

His lips descended gently, brushing the soft skin between her legs, tasting her subtly before venturing lower. A soft, breathless sigh escaped her, trembling and unrestrained, and he shivered at the sound. She was quiet — always quiet — but the small whines, the tiny gasps, the way her body arched toward him, said everything he could ever want to hear.

His tongue traced her folds, slow and worshipful, teasing and tasting, while his hands splayed over her thighs, steadying her, holding her with gentle insistence. Every flick of his tongue, every suckle, drew a shiver from her, a quiet gasp that made his chest ache with need and adoration.

So soft… so perfect… all mine…

He muttered it under his breath, voice low and tremulous, barely louder than the river whispering nearby. He could feel her legs twitching, small movements seeking more of him, urging him closer, and he obeyed with reverent eagerness.

The lanterns cast dancing shadows across the moss and petals, painting them in hues of gold and silver. The night smelled of fire and flowers, the river flowing like a lullaby just for them. Every inch of her he touched he cherished, as if memorizing the way she responded to him was the only thing in existence that mattered.

Her small hands ran through his hair as he moved over her, pulling him down, urging him closer, coaxing him in ways that made him groan softly into her, a deep, resonant sound that mingled with the soft sighs and gasps she made.

She arched her back, her body pressing against the moss, the petals brushing against her bare skin, and Alastor’s heart thudded violently in his chest. He was utterly captivated — every tremble, every sigh, every glimmer of vulnerability made him worship her more fiercely.

His tongue and mouth worked with devotion, slow, deliberate, almost desperate in their care, as he traced her, tasted her, made her shiver and gasp with quiet moans that melted him entirely. He wanted her to feel every ounce of pleasure he could give, to know in every trembling breath that she was adored, that he had fallen utterly, irreversibly in love with every part of her.

The forest around them seemed to hum in response: the river whispering, the lanterns flickering, the moss warm beneath her, petals brushing like tiny caresses. And above all, there was her — soft, trusting, alive beneath him — and he could not imagine ever wanting anything more than to stay here, worshiping her forever, lost in the perfection of her, the scent of the night, and the warmth of the moss beneath her.

Every soft gasp, every tiny whine, every shiver against him, made him tremble with devotion, longing, and uncontainable love. She was heaven, she was fire, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of — and he would give himself entirely to her, for as long as she would let him.

Her legs wrapped around his head like a delicate cage, guiding him closer, urging him deeper, and he obeyed instantly, reveling in the trust she offered him so completely. Every movement of her body, every subtle shift of her hips, sent sparks of electricity through him, making him dizzy with desire and reverence.

Alastor’s hands gripped her hips gently but firmly, anchoring himself as his long tongue explored her with slow, deliberate devotion. He traced her entrance again and again, tasting, teasing, sliding just inside, reveling in the warmth and wetness that belonged to him alone.

She shivered, tiny trembles racing up her body, and soft gasps — louder than usual — escaped her lips. He froze for a heartbeat, ears flattening in stunned awe.

My mute little darling… making noise for me…

The thought struck him with a force that made his chest ache with love and pride. That she could let herself feel, let herself react, in this way — only for him — left him utterly undone. He pressed his lips to her flesh again, tongue working tirelessly, each movement slow, worshipful, precise, and yet desperately eager to draw every sigh, every gasp, every little tremor from her.

Her hands tangled in his hair, urging him closer, coaxing him, and he hummed low against her, a sound of satisfaction and reverence vibrating into her. He let himself get lost in her entirely — the soft warmth, the subtle fur against his tongue, the shivers that wracked her body with each touch.

The moss beneath her cradled her in softness, the petals brushing her bare skin, the lanterns casting a golden glow across her body. The river whispered in the distance, the night flowers perfuming the air, and he felt as though the forest itself had bent its magic around them, consecrating this act of devotion.

Every tremor she made, every gasping exhale, only deepened his obsession. He could feel himself melting into her, consumed by awe and desire, and yet every movement was still tempered by adoration — by the unshakable need to make her feel safe, cherished, and treasured.

How honored I am… how utterly, completely honored…

The thought repeated in his mind with every lick, every suckle, every press of his lips against her. She was his, entirely and vulnerably, and he would worship her until the stars fell from the sky if that’s what it took.

Her soft whines, gasps, and trembling body beneath him fed the manic, loving obsession that burned hotter than any fire in Hell or on Earth. He lingered on every shiver, every sigh, every quiver of delight, committing it all to memory, seared into him like a sacred ritual — the first, the most intimate, the most utterly perfect gift she had given him, and one he would never let go of.

He pressed his forehead against her thigh for a moment, inhaling her scent, letting the warmth and softness of her, the moss, the moonlight, and the flowers etch themselves into him, before diving back in, eager, worshipful, and lost entirely to her.

He froze mid-lap, tongue still grazing her warmth, as her small hands tugged insistently at the strands of his hair. At first, he blinked, dazed and disoriented — the world narrowing to the soft pull of her fingers, the sweet shivers coursing through her, and the intoxicating scent of her, all of it overwhelming him.

Gradually, he realized what she was doing. Her legs were lifting, shifting, moving further away from him, and his gaze snapped up to meet hers. She didn’t speak — never did — but the look in her eyes was unmistakable. She was ready. Her pupils glimmered with trust and desire, and the faint blush across her cheeks made him feel simultaneously protective, flustered, and utterly captivated.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying to steady the storm of feelings that churned in his chest. The back of his hand wiped his mouth automatically, though it did nothing to calm the sudden heat crawling up his neck. His tongue had barely left her folds, and yet the sight of her like this — lifting herself to him, spreading with quiet insistence — made his mind stutter.

“Are you… sure?”

The words were ragged, low, almost a tremble. He wasn’t done — he hadn’t finished preparing her, hadn’t lingered over every sensitive curve, hadn’t taken the time to savor every little tremble and sigh. And yet, in her silent way, she made her answer clear. Her soft whine, the tiniest tilt of her hips, the deliberate lift of her legs and the spreading of herself before him, all spoke with unmistakable certainty: she wanted him now.

His claws dug lightly into the moss beneath her, grounding himself against the thrill that threatened to sweep him off his feet. The firelight and lanterns cast dancing shadows across her skin, the petals brushing gently against her fur, the moonlight silvering every curve. It all painted her like a living masterpiece, and his chest throbbed with an almost painful adoration.

He hesitated for just a heartbeat longer, gazing down at her trembling body, the soft flush across her ears, the subtle quiver of her thighs. His tongue had barely left her folds, and yet the pull of desire, love, and reverent obsession made him shiver violently.

My darling… my mute, perfect, beautiful darling…

The thought echoed in his mind as he leaned closer, trembling. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, gripping him with a mixture of anticipation and trust, pulling him just slightly forward. The gentle brush of her fur against his palms, the warmth of her thighs pressed to him, the soft shivers radiating from her… it was all-consuming.

His own breath hitched, uneven and shallow. His usual confidence, the loud, extroverted mask he wore for the world, was gone — replaced by something raw, trembling, and utterly devoted. The thought that she had never done this before, that he was about to be her first, made his heart hammer with protective urgency, and yet the heat pooling in his chest, the ache between his legs, and the desperation in her gaze left him dizzy with longing.

As her legs remained lifted, wide and welcoming, he felt his resolve waver — part of him wanting to linger, to worship her more, to take every precious second of her trembling sighs and soft whines into memory. And yet another, more primal part of him throbbed with impatience, eager, desperate, completely undone.

“If you’re sure… then I will… I will do everything to make this perfect… for you,” he whispered, voice trembling, full of awe and devotion, as his eyes drank in the delicate flush of her cheeks, the silvered shimmer of her skin in the moonlight, the moss cradling her body like a soft, yielding bed beneath them.

He hovered there, above her, heart hammering, breaths shallow, every sense acutely aware of her, the night, the fire, the lanterns, the rustle of the river in the distance. She was ready. And he would cherish every moment of this — every gasp, every tremor, every silent plea. She was his, utterly and entirely, and he could not wait to show her just how much.

Alastor’s claws dug lightly into the soft moss beneath them, grounding himself as he leaned over her. The night smelled of fire, river, and the sweet tang of flowers scattered around them. He pressed his lips to hers again, deepening the kiss, letting it carry both his nervousness and his overwhelming love for her.

His magic stirred quietly beneath them, vines coiling around her soft, bare body with a gentle, almost reverent touch. They lifted her slightly off the ground — only a few inches — the soft cushion of moss beneath her still cradling her completely. It made her shiver, and he froze, eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror.

She let out a small, breathy gasp and looked up at him, her eyes wide, shining, trusting, and entirely open.

He stammered, words catching in his throat. “I—I… I’ll be careful… I—please… if it’s too much, tell me… I don’t want to hurt you…” His voice trembled, quivering with raw vulnerability. The confident, extroverted Alastor the world knew was gone — stripped away, leaving only this: a demon utterly consumed with love, nervous, and desperate to protect her.

Her small hand lifted, brushing against his cheek. Her fingers traced lightly along his jaw, then she gave a soft nod, her eyes saying everything she never could speak. That small motion — the smallest act of trust — made him shudder, a deep breath rattling from his chest. He pressed his forehead gently to hers, whispering, “Thank you… thank you for trusting me…”

Heart hammering, he fumbled with his belt, hands slightly trembling, as he freed himself. He hovered above her, gazing down at her fully exposed, soft, shivering body. The moss, vines, and petals around them created a cradle of warmth and life; the moonlight silvered her skin, highlighting the gentle fur along her body, making her look ethereal, otherworldly, untouchable — and entirely his.

A low, shaky breath left him as he took in the sight of her: her thighs parted slightly, the subtle glisten of her desire catching the faint glow of the lanterns, her small whines and gasps vibrating against him like music. Every instinct in him screamed to worship her, to move slowly, to savor her, and yet a tremor of raw desire ran through him, making it impossible to stay still.

She’s mine… I have her… I can’t… I can’t believe she’s mine…

He pressed another soft kiss to her lips, lingering there, letting her feel his steadying love, before finally shifting slightly, so he could line himself with her. His hands moved gently, brushing her sides, cupping her hips, feeling the subtle shivers of anticipation and trust radiating from her. The vines wrapped around her with magic, holding her gently in place, giving him the perfect angle to enter, while the moss below cushioned her back, petals brushing her furred skin like tiny kisses from the forest itself.

His chest rose and fell rapidly. He was trembling, heart hammering, and yet utterly focused on her. Every nerve, every claw, every inch of his being screamed to make this perfect — to make her feel loved, safe, cherished.

“I… I’m here… I’m yours… just breathe… just let me be gentle…”

She nodded slightly, breath shaky, eyes wide, and he felt a shiver of relief run through him. This was it — the moment he’d been waiting for, the moment he’d been dreaming of, and he was determined to make it more than perfect. More than intimate. More than love. This was worship, devotion, and ecstasy all wrapped into one trembling, shivering heartbeat.

Alastor breathed like the forest itself—slow, deliberate, every inhale full of the night’s perfume. He lined himself with her, feeling the velvet warmth of her waiting heat press against him, hair and fur and skin so close he could name every constellation in the way the moonlight pooled along her curves. For a heartbeat he froze, terrified and reverent at once: this was her first time, and the idea of causing her pain was a jag through his chest.

She watched him with those wide, liquid eyes, cheeks still flushed, a tiny, tremulous nod saying everything she couldn’t say aloud. He swallowed, kissed her quickly—lips, brow, the tip of her nose—until her soft hands threaded in his hair and steadied him. The vines held her gently, lifting and cradling so that her hips tilted just so; the moss beneath them hummed cool and comforting against her back. Lantern light and moonlight braided across her skin, making her look less like anything he’d known in Hell and more like some impossible blessing the woods had kept for itself.

He moved, not with the confident swagger of performance but with a nervous tenderness. The first inch was slow, measured—an inch that felt like an entire confession. She gasped, a raw, untrained sound that tore something open in him and filled him with protective heat. The sensation of filling her—new, tight, very real—made his claws ache to be gentle. He paused inside her, letting her adjust to his length, letting the moment settle like a benediction. Her breath came in quick, shining little bursts; she clutched his shoulders, eyes fluttering closed. He couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped him, equal parts stunned and worshipful.

She wasn’t entirely comfortable—how could she be? This was new and vulnerable and enormous in scope for both of them. He remembered every small hesitation she’d shown earlier and promised himself, wordlessly, that he would never rush her into something that hurt. So he shifted with infinite slowness, in and out, each movement a loving study of her response. When a tiny wince crossed her face he stopped immediately, voice a tremulous whisper against her ear. “Tell me,” he breathed. “If anything is too much—”

Her fingers found his cheek and stroked. The single, tiny motion steadied him more than any vow. She pressed closer, a sign that steadied what fear remained, and when she parted her thighs again to welcome him, the sight of her—so soft, so trusting—undid the last of his restraint.

He wanted to give her everything at once, but he was a creature of caution now; worship tempered by hunger. While the tip of him moved in and out, he used his thumb—light, sure—to find the small, sensitive nub at the apex of her, that slick warmth that answered every inch he gave. He rubbed there with a careful rhythm, matching his thrusts to the press of his thumb until the two movements became a single language: inside, and the circle of his hand outside, coaxing and promising.

Her reactions were immediate and intoxicating. A sharp, surprised cry ripped from her—louder than any sound she’d offered him before—and then a string of softer moans braided into the night. Each noise was a jewel to him. My mute little darling making music for me, he thought, stunned and swollen with pride. Her hips began to meet his, not jerky but eager, aligning her warmth to his strokes. He went slower when she flinched, faster when her body arched with acceptance. Every slight change in her breath told him more than speech ever had: she wanted more, she wanted him, she needed to be led and loved in equal measure.

Alastor’s mouth never stopped being tender. Between kisses he murmured reassurances against her ear, promising patience, promising softness, promising he would stop if she needed him to. When her legs tightened around his waist, urging him deeper, his hands found her hips and held her like a treasure. The vines cradled her thighs lightly, the moss cushioned her spine, petals brushing at the places his skin didn’t touch. Lantern light painted the curve of her belly; moonlight caught the damp sheen along her folds. The whole clearing felt consecrated—river murmuring, leaf-voices hush—and his every thrust was an offering.

He changed angles gently so his strokes brushed a spot that made her arch violently: a spot behind the small, tender nub he’d been tending. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, nails soft against fabric, voice gone for the moment but sound pouring from her anyway—little whines, a raw syllable that might have been his name. He kissed her forehead and then her temple, soaked in the thrusts and the wet, slick sound of skin on skin, the quiet slap of warmth that meant she was responding, letting go.

When she came—coming first, and hard—Alastor felt himself tremble with something that was part reverence, part victorious worship. Her muscles tightened around him, a shudder that pulled a moan from him deep in his chest. He held her through it, softening the rhythm to cradle the aftershocks, rubbing circles at her clit with a stubborn, reverent patience until the tremors eased and her breathing smoothed. Her face fell against his shoulder, tears glinting in the lantern light, and he kissed each tear away like a benediction.

He didn’t let himself ride the edge of his own release immediately; he wanted her first, wanted to bring her back to euphoria again before his own need completed the song. She wanted him, he could feel it in the little presses of her pelvis, in the way her fingers curled in his hair. So he moved with renewed, aching focus—each thrust deliberate, slow, deep—until she came again beneath him, till her hands fisted in his shirt and her whole body trembled like a bell. The second wave took them both somewhere unnameable: his vision tightened to the curve of her, the taste of her on his tongue, the smell of moss and flowers and river and fire all tangled with her scent.

When at last he eased, sliding out with infinite care, they remained wrapped together, moonlight haloing them, vines slack and protective. He held her close, forehead pressed to hers, whispering nonsense and promises, voice raw and delighted. The forest sighed around them; the lanterns guttered like contented eyes. He trailed slow, worshipful kisses down her collarbone and along her shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin and the wildflower sweetness at her hairline.

When I reached the top, the sight that greeted me tugged at a part of me I hadn’t known existed before she arrived. My tower — my once proud, empty spire of solitude and static — was no longer mine alone. It looked nothing like the cold red fortress it had been. The radio hum that used to echo faintly through the walls had softened, replaced by something… domestic. Lively. Hers.

I set the tray carefully on the nightstand before turning toward the bed. She lay there tangled in soft sheets, the morning light bleeding across her skin in a wash of gold. My heart thumped like a skipping record.

Every corner of the room bore her mark now. The vanity near the window — I’d conjured it myself after she nearly broke her back leaning over that damned bathroom sink. She told me I’d gone overboard, but I couldn’t stand the sight of her discomfort. Now her bottles and brushes glittered across the surface, organized chaos in a way only she could manage.

My once-crimson rug had been replaced with a plush pink one, thick enough that she could sprawl across it while I worked at my desk. Often she would lie there reading, humming to herself while I pretended to focus on the reports in front of me. I was always listening to her instead — to the way she sighed when she found a line she loved, to the soft rustle of pages as she turned them.

Our bookshelf had become a strange marriage of worlds — my leather-bound tomes from the 1920s sitting shoulder to shoulder with her well-worn romance novels, their pastel spines a scandalous intrusion among the dusty classics. Even my liquor cabinet had changed; my sharp whiskey now shared space with her sweet wines, their bottles lined up like mismatched lovers.

Everywhere I looked, she was there.Her presence, her scent, her laughter soaked into the very walls.The tower wasn’t a tower anymore. It was a home.

And for a monster who had built his life around solitude, that realization was… overwhelming in the most exquisite way.

I leaned down slowly and brushed a kiss against her cheek. Then another. And another. Her skin was warm beneath my lips, soft from sleep, and I couldn’t help myself — I kissed the bridge of her nose, her forehead, her jaw, anywhere I could reach without waking her too abruptly.

When she stirred, a small sound escaping her, I felt my grin stretch wide, unrestrained and foolish. I pressed another flurry of kisses across her face just as her eyes fluttered open.

She giggled, the sound bubbling up like sunlight itself, and there it was again — that look she always gave me in the mornings, drowsy and adoring, as though I were something worth waking up for.

For eight months now, this has been our rhythm. Even when she had her own room, even before she’d agreed to move in, whenever I woke her, she was greeted by this same sight: me, leaning over her with a grin that wasn’t the sharp-toothed mask I wear for the rest of Hell. It was real. The kind of smile that felt too large for my face, too bright, too full.

And on the rare mornings when I hadn’t yet dressed — those precious, private hours where my waistcoat hung over a chair and my coat lay draped somewhere forgotten — I knew she could see it. That little flick of my tail, wagging uncontrollably behind me. I used to hate that thing — such a foolish appendage, childish and unbecoming. But the way she’d smile when she caught sight of it, the quiet little giggle she’d hide behind her hand… it made me feel oddly proud.

“Good morning, my darling,” I murmured, my voice still low from disuse. “And happy eight months.”

She blinked mid-stretch, her arms curling above her head before she smiled at me, soft and sleepy. I wasted no time setting the tray across her lap, arranging the cutlery neatly — not that she’d get to use it.

Before I could even straighten my tie, she reached out, catching me by the bowtie and tugging me down into a kiss.

It was quick, barely more than a peck, but it made me laugh — that silly, uncontrollable giggle that only she ever pulled from me. I set the tray properly and climbed into bed beside her, feeling her warmth seep through my shirt as I sat close enough to feed her myself.

I held the fork out expectantly. She gave me that look — the one that said she might protest — but we both knew she wouldn’t win. She never did.

She sighed in defeat and opened her mouth obediently, letting me slip a piece of pancake between her lips. I hummed in satisfaction, watching her chew with bleary eyes.

“So!” I began cheerfully, brushing a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. “What shall we do on this fine day? Eight months, my dear, is no small milestone!”

She swallowed, still half-asleep, and giggled. “You said that last month too.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly about to question whether I wanted to spend the afternoon dress shopping, but before she could speak, I lifted another forkful toward her mouth and said brightly, “Yes, I would enjoy it!”

She gave me a knowing look but accepted the bite anyway, chewing with that tiny smile that said she saw straight through me.

I continued to ramble — about possible lunch spots, a walk through the park, maybe even a quiet evening listening to one of my favorite records — but as I held up the next bite, she caught my wrist gently.

“I already have something planned,” she said.

For a moment, I just blinked, her words processing slowly through the fog of my excitement. And then—

Oh. Oh, what a lovely sentence.

A grin split across my face, my heart leaping like static in my chest. “You do?” I breathed, voice almost boyish in its glee. “Well, then! Color me intrigued, my dear!”

She blinked at me, and there was something in her eyes I couldn’t quite name — not fear, not uncertainty, but something soft and trembling that made my chest ache. Her hands shifted in her lap before she slowly lifted the tray away, placing it gently on the nightstand beside her.

My ears twitched. That nervous little motion of hers — the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and looked up at me — it set my mind spinning. Had I done something wrong? Did she not enjoy breakfast? Was she going to scold me for that playful tap on her lovely rear last night when I’d passed her in the hallway? I swallowed hard, my tail flicking once behind me.

She turned fully toward me then, folding her legs beneath the sheets. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything else stopped.

Her hands reached for mine — her small, warm fingers wrapping around my claws, holding them tightly as if she were afraid I might disappear. That smile she gave me… oh, it was unlike any smile I’d ever seen from her before. Sweet, but steady. Almost secretive, like she was about to tell me something sacred.

“Al,” she began softly. Her voice trembled, but it didn’t falter. “I’m ready.”

My ears perked. My entire body seemed to go still, the air thinning around me

She swallowed, leaning closer, her gaze never leaving mine. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she whispered, her thumb brushing across the sharp edge of my knuckle as if she were soothing me instead. “So patient. You’ve never pushed me. Never made me feel bad for saying no.”

A warmth spread through my chest so sudden it nearly took my breath. The corners of my mouth twitched upward, but I didn’t dare interrupt her.

Then she leaned forward — just slightly — and pressed the gentlest kiss to my lips. It was brief, but it was enough to make my tail flick wildly, betraying me entirely.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of pink, her voice small but filled with resolve. “I love you more than anything, Alastor. And I want you to have me. All of me.”

My breath caught.

She hesitated then, as though she had practiced these words in front of a mirror a hundred times, but this next part weighed too heavy on her tongue. “I want you to have my virginity, Alastor,” she whispered at last. “I’m ready now.”

For a long, unbearable moment, I could only stare. My heart thudded in my ears, an uneven, static rhythm. My mind raced with every emotion imaginable — disbelief, devotion, hunger, reverence.

Her… what? My darling, my delicate, precious love—She wanted me to be her first.

My hands trembled before I even realized I was moving. I caught her face between my palms, my thumbs brushing over her cheeks as if she might vanish if I blinked too long. I kissed her — once, twice, again, unable to stop myself.

“Darling, I— you cannot possibly understand—” I breathed against her lips, voice shaking with joy. “I am… honored beyond measure. You—oh, my sweet girl—how long I’ve dreamed of this day!”

I kissed her again, frantic little pecks between each word. “I’ll be gentle, I’ll be so very gentle, I promise—! You deserve everything, you wonderful creature, and I’ll make sure it’s perfect, you hear me? Perfect.”

She giggled softly, half out of nervousness, half because I was smothering her with kisses, and I couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly with her.

Then I paused, pulling back slightly. My hands still cradled her face, my heart racing against my ribs. “But first—” I said, my tone slipping into something serious, deliberate. “I must prepare everything.”

She blinked, confused, tilting her head. “Prepare? I mean, you just… have to, you know, put it in, right?”

I froze, my expression twisting into sheer horror. “Put it in?” I repeated, aghast. “My love, that would be the least pleasant way to go about such a sacred event!”

Her brows lifted, a faint laugh escaping her. “Sacred?”

“Of course!” I huffed, ears flattening briefly as my tail flicked with agitation. “This is your first time. It must be done with care, precision, attention! There are—candles to light! Music to choose! Sheets to warm! And I—oh, good heavens, I’ll need to—” I looked around wildly, already scanning the room as if the perfect plan might materialize before me.

She laughed again — that soft, melodic giggle that always pulled me back from the edge of my mania — and reached for my hand to still me.

“Al,” she murmured, tugging me closer until our foreheads touched. “You’re already perfect.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of vanilla that clung to her hair. My heart throbbed painfully in my chest.If this was what love felt like… I’d gladly drown in it.

I wanted to do something special for her — for us. Eight months deserved it, didn’t it? Even after her beautiful confession that morning, my mind refused to rest. I needed to make this day shine.

So we went to that little boutique she adores, the one tucked between a record store and a bakery that always smells faintly of sugar and smoke. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun in my life. She’d step out from behind the curtain in a new dress, shy and uncertain, and I’d start clapping like an absolute fool, my grin wide and unrestrained. If anyone else had been watching, they might have thought I was mocking her, but no—no, I was enchanted.

Every new dress, every color, every bit of lace or fabric that touched her body made my heart pound like a live broadcast static. She’d twirl shyly, cheeks pink, asking what I thought. And I’d tell her, with perfect sincerity, that I thought she looked like divinity made flesh.

She tried to argue with me when I insisted on purchasing several of them. “Al, I don’t need that many!” she’d said, laughing as I piled them into the clerk’s arms. But I was immovable. “You deserve them,” I told her, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “And besides, what’s the point of riches if not to adorn beauty when it crosses your path?”

The shopkeeper, I noticed, couldn’t meet my eyes. His hands trembled as he took my money, but I was far too busy admiring the way she beamed when I handed her the wrapped parcels to notice his fear.

Afterward, I took her to dinner — a little restaurant she’d grown fond of. Quaint, candlelit, full of mortals and demons pretending they weren’t nervous. The moment we walked in, I felt the atmosphere shift. Conversations halted mid-word; cutlery froze halfway to lips. Ah, that delicious silence of fear. Normally I’d relish it, but tonight? Tonight, I didn’t care.

All I could see was her.

The waiters stumbled through their greetings, one nearly dropping the menus when I thanked him with a too-sharp smile. She noticed, of course — she always does — but her hand brushed against mine under the table, and that was enough to make the whole world fade away. We ate, we laughed, and I might’ve forgotten entirely that I was supposed to be terrifying.

By the time we returned to the hotel, my chest ached from smiling. I didn’t want the night to end — not yet.

When we stepped into the lobby, I turned to her, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly. “Ah—my dear, could you—could you perhaps stay here for just a bit?” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat creep up to my ears. “I, ah, I need to… set everything up.”

She blinked, confused for a second, before that soft, knowing smile spread across her lips. She leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “Okay,” she said simply.

And I swear, my heart stopped.

I was gone before she could even sit down — practically bolting for the staircase with a grin that refused to fade. My tail swished behind me like a metronome of excitement as I took the steps two at a time.

Everything had to be perfect.

Candles. Music. The sheets turned down just so. Maybe even the bottle of sweet wine she liked best.

I’ve lived lifetimes, ruled over chaos and horror alike, but nothing — nothing — has ever made me move as fast as the thought of making this night perfect for her.

I could hardly keep still. My hands were trembling, my grin felt far too wide for my own face, and my tail wouldn’t stop wagging no matter how many times I tried to still it. The moment I saw her in the lobby, I didn’t even let her speak before I scooped her right up into my arms — and oh, that sweet little laugh she gave nearly melted me right there.

A few months ago, she would’ve tensed up, stammered, maybe even protested that she was “too heavy.” But I’d spent weeks, months even, undoing that nonsense. Every time she said it, I’d pull her closer, tell her I liked the way she felt in my arms — soft, real, warm. Not some dainty little feather I could lose in a breeze. She’s mine. And I wanted her to know that I never minded carrying her. In fact, I loved it.

Angel’s snicker floated behind me as I started up the stairs, but I didn’t even glance his way. I was too caught up in the sound of her breathing against my neck, her nose brushing just beneath my ear, the tickle of her hair against my jaw.

“You seem nervous,” she teased, voice light and musical.

I swallowed hard, tail flicking behind me. “I am,” I admitted with a chuckle that came out a bit too tight, too rushed. “I just— well— I want everything to be perfect, my dear. Tonight deserves that, you deserve that.”

She blushed, looking so sweetly bashful that my chest ached. “Thank you, Al,” she murmured, pressing a small kiss to my cheek.

That sound— that little mwah of her lips— felt like a bullet straight through my chest.

By the time I reached the top of the tower, my pulse was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, stepping inside, and felt her stiffen slightly in surprise.

The soft candlelight filled every inch of the room, warm gold glows bouncing off the walls. I’d dimmed the lamps just enough that the whole space looked like it was holding its breath. The bed was freshly made — sheets warmed by a little enchantment, pillows fluffed — and a few petals scattered across the blanket because, well, why not? Romance is all in the details, isn’t it?

I set her down gently on the bed, and she looked around with that bright, teasing grin of hers. “You really put some effort into this,” she said with a playful lilt.

I blinked, smiling nervously, my ears twitching. “Of course I did,” I murmured, smoothing my coat as if that would somehow ground me. “I will always put effort into you. No matter what.”

Her blush deepened, and she giggled, leaning forward to give me a small, soft kiss. Just a peck. But enough to make every nerve in my body light up like a switchboard.

I couldn’t help but smile into it — the kind of smile I only ever have with her.

Inside, though… I was a storm.

I swallowed hard, feeling that same anxious knot twist deep in my chest. My claws flexed at my sides as I began to pace in front of the bed — ears flicking, tail twitching, words stumbling over themselves as I tried to speak through the rush of thoughts in my head.

“I… ah… I must warn you, my dear,” I began, running a hand through my hair, feeling the static crackle against my palm. “It could hurt— no, it will hurt, at least at first.” My voice came out too quick, too jittery. “I’m… well…” I hesitated, wringing my gloved hands, ears flattening slightly. “Larger than most.”

The admission made heat crawl up my neck. I shook my head, forcing the thought away before my brain could spiral down that particular path. “But that’s— that’s not the point! The point is, I’ll take care of you. I’ll prepare you properly, thoroughly. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable— pleasured— before I even think of…” My voice faltered as I paced, trying to hide my nervousness behind forced composure.

I nearly jumped when I heard the faint sound of fabric rustling behind me. My ears flicked up instantly, and I turned sharply— and there she was.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, shorts discarded on the floor, left in nothing but her bra and panties. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and she looked so soft, so real that my entire body went rigid.

My jaw opened— then closed— then opened again as my brain short-circuited.

She stretched out, settling back into the pillows with a content little sigh. “You changed the sheets,” she said softly, rubbing her hand along them with a small smile. “They’re comfy.”

I sputtered. I truly did. “I— ah— well yes— I— wanted— that is— you deserve— good linens—!”

She giggled, turning her head toward me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The sound of that laugh nearly knocked me off my feet. She reached out a hand, curling her fingers slightly in a silent invitation.

“Come here, Al.”

My breath hitched. I took a step forward, then another, my legs feeling like they’d forgotten how to work. I swear, I’ve seen her undressed before — many times. We’d shared baths, shared lazy mornings under blankets, shared moments where she’d changed right in front of me without a hint of modesty. And yet somehow, right now, it felt different.

I felt like a boy again — awkward, shy, unsure where to put my hands.

She tilted her head as I hesitated near the bed. “You’re blushing,” she teased.

I gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar,” she whispered, tugging lightly at my hand until I climbed onto the mattress beside her. My knees sank into the plush sheets, and my heart beat so loud I was certain she could hear it.

She looked up at me with that same soft, knowing expression that always unraveled me completely. “I’ve been preparing,” she said quietly.

That made me blink. “Preparing?”

She nodded, still smiling. “For a couple weeks now.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she kept her eyes on mine. “I’ve known for a while that I wanted this. That I wanted you. I’ve known you were the one I could trust.”

My throat tightened as she continued.

“You’ve never pressured me,” she said, brushing her fingers over the back of my hand. “You’ve never tried to push me or make me feel guilty for waiting. You’ve been perfect, Al. Patient. Kind. You always made me feel safe.”

My ears drooped, my chest aching in that unbearable way it always did when she spoke like this — too sincere, too loving, too much.

“I’ve done my research,” she went on, her voice steady but soft. “I know what to expect. I know it might hurt a little, but… I’m ready.” She gave my hand a small squeeze. “I trust you, Alastor. And I want this with you.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My tail stilled, my mouth opened, but no sound came out.She trusted me. Completely.

I let out a trembling laugh, unable to contain the overwhelmed warmth rising in my chest. I smiled — small, shaky, but so full it almost hurt. “You have no idea,” I murmured, “how much that means to me.”

Her eyes softened. “I think I do,” she said, pulling me a little closer.

I leaned down and kissed her—slowly at first, just a soft brush of lips that quickly melted into something deeper, something that made my chest tighten with that dizzying warmth I could never quite get used to. Her arms slipped around my neck, drawing me closer until I could feel every breath she took against my skin. I let her guide me down with gentle pressure until her back sank fully into the mattress, the candlelight catching in her hair like molten gold.

Her lips tasted faintly of honey from breakfast, and the sweetness made my head spin. I pulled back only long enough to draw in a shaky breath before my claws trailed down the slope of her stomach, following the lines of her soft skin. My fingers brushed over the stretch marks I’d admired so many times before, the ones she tried to hide. I paused there, tracing them gently.

She bit her lip, glancing down as if she wanted to apologize for them again. I clicked my tongue softly and smiled against her skin. “You know,” I murmured, letting my voice drop to that warm, low tone that always made her shiver, “I’ve told you before, my dear—these look like lightning strikes. Beautiful reminders of every storm you’ve survived.”

Her breath hitched, and the blush that spread across her cheeks made me want to kiss her all over again. So I did.

I kissed the curve of her stomach, the space beneath her ribs, the hollow of her throat. Her giggles turned to quiet sighs as I trailed up to her chest, my hands following close behind. I cupped her breasts gently through the thin fabric of her bra, feeling the way her breath caught against my lips. My claws dragged just enough to make her squirm, and she arched up slightly, her fingers curling into my hair.

Gods, she was intoxicating.

I needed to feel her.

Without breaking the kiss, I reached up and tugged off my gloves—one, then the other—tossing them blindly aside. My hands felt oddly bare without the familiar barrier of leather, but when I touched her again and felt the heat of her skin directly against mine, I couldn’t imagine ever wearing them again.

Her pulse fluttered beneath my lips as I pressed slow kisses along her neck and jaw. She tasted divine. I couldn’t help but nip at her just enough to draw a soft, startled giggle. “Ah, forgive me,” I chuckled against her skin, “you make me positively feral, darling.”

Her laughter vibrated against my lips. “You always say that.”

I grinned, moving lower, to the tops of her breasts where the candlelight met the faint shimmer of her skin. “And it remains true every time.” I kissed there, once, twice, before letting my tongue flick over the tender spot between them. Her back arched as a soft moan escaped her throat, and I smiled against her.

I couldn’t help myself; I needed to leave a mark, something small and hidden, just for me. So I sucked lightly at her cleavage, drawing out a quiet gasp as a faint bruise began to bloom beneath my mouth. The sound she made was heavenly.

Reaching around her back, I hesitated just for a moment—my claws brushing the clasp of her bra. “May I?” I asked softly, my voice trembling just a little despite the attempt to keep it light.

She nodded immediately, her hand coming up to stroke the base of my ear. The touch sent a shudder all the way down my spine. My tail twitched wildly behind me, and I swallowed a quiet groan as I unclipped the bra with careful precision.

When it fell away, I froze.

She was breathtaking.

My eyes drank her in, every curve, every freckle, every inch of her I’d only been able to imagine before. My throat went dry, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. “Goodness gracious…” I breathed, my voice breaking into a nervous laugh. “You are… utterly exquisite.”

Her blush deepened, and she shifted beneath me, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “You really think so?”

“Think so?” I chuckled softly, leaning closer. “My dear, I know so.”

I lowered my head again, trailing my tongue over the swell of her breast, tasting her soft skin. Her breath hitched, and her fingers threaded deeper into my hair, urging me on. I obliged eagerly, my lips closing around one perfect nipple, sucking gently while my hand cupped the other, thumb brushing in slow circles until her quiet gasps turned into breathy little moans.

Her body trembled beneath me, and I couldn’t stop the words that came tumbling out between kisses. “So good for me… so perfect, sweetheart… you’ve no idea what you do to me…”

Her fingers tightened in my hair, a sound halfway between a laugh and a whimper escaping her lips. I smiled against her skin, utterly lovesick, utterly hers. Every movement, every noise she made only pushed me deeper into the dizzying, adoring madness that she’d brought into my once-empty world.

I hummed against the soft swell of her breast, a low sound that thrummed through me like an old radio finding its frequency. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, and I obliged with a kiss that tasted faintly of syrup and the memory of breakfast. For a breath — only a breath — I let myself be utterly lost in the heat of her, the rise and fall of her chest beneath my mouth, the little noises she made that were wholly, uniquely hers.

Then she shifted beneath me. I felt it first as a change in weight, then saw it: her thighs, pressed together, quivering just so. A grin split me, ridiculous and feral and terribly fond all at once. My bare claws traced a path down her stomach, following the map of her skin I loved so well, until my fingers brushed the softness at the top of her thighs. They were plump and full under my touch, yielding deliciously, spilling pleasantly through my hand whenever I groped them. The sensation — that soft flesh between my palms — made something in me thrum with greedy gratitude

I spread her legs with gentle insistence, taking a moment to drink in the sight. Candlelight pooled across her, painting the planes of her body in a warm glow. There was no bra now, only the pale pink of her panties clinging to the curve of her hips, and through the thin fabric a dark, honest patch of wetness shone like a secret. Her breathing had quickened; her nipples, dotted with faint marks where I’d left my stamps of affection, stood proud. Her face was flushed to the edges of lovely, eyes open and luminous with a trust that made my chest ache.

I couldn’t resist. I brushed my thumb along the damp patch, slow enough to savor the small gasp that tore from her. The sound was a tiny, perfect thing — half plea, half surrender — and my tail gave a traitorous little wag.

“You always get so wet for me,” I murmured, voice thick and fond. It was a selfish admission, true and gleeful; the knowledge puffed my ego like a flourish. “It flatters me more than it ought to.”

She whimpered, thighs trembling, and I watched how her body moved whenever I pressed my thumb in the right place through the fabric. The little jerk of muscle, the hitch in her breath — each reaction was a map, and I wanted to memorize every contour. I rolled my thumb deliberately, feeling the slick cling of fabric against me, my other hand splayed possessively across her hip.

“Al—” she breathed, a whine threaded with impatience. “Stop teasing.”

I snorted, a warm, delighted sound. “And deprive myself the sight of you unraveling at my leisure? Preposterous.” I leaned forward, kissing the inside of her thigh, tasting the faint salt of her skin, letting the intimacy of the act make me clumsy with adoration. “You’re unbearably adorable when I do this.”

Her fingers tightened in my hair, nails grazing the base of my skull. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” I countered, even as the truth of her words — her want, her readiness — reverberated through me. I pressed my thumb harder for a moment, eliciting a sharp, involuntary gasp that rolled straight through me. The sound was a match to dry tinder.

She spread her legs a little further at my encouragement, the movement hesitant and utterly trust-filled. I hooked two fingers under the edge of her panties and, with infinite slowness that felt like worship, slid them aside. The air kissed the slickness of her center, and I inhaled sharply; she smelled like sweet skin and desire and a trace of the perfume she favored — vanilla and something floral that clung to the memory of her.

My thumb returned, now gliding directly across the dampness at her slit, tracing lazy, worshipful circles over the place that had been aching for attention. Every time my thumb stroked just so, her hips jerked upward reflexively, searching for more friction. She let out broken breaths, half-moan, half-laughter, and I found my composure dissolving into praise.

“You’re perfect,” I murmured between kisses to her inner thigh, each word soaked in love. “So perfectly made for me. Look at you, quivering for me like that—my, my, how proud I am.”

Her cheeks flamed. “Stop talking and— just do it,” she begged, voice ragged.

“Noted,” I replied, but I didn’t stop speaking entirely. I needed to tell her — to reassure myself and serenade her at once. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me if you want slower. Tell me anything, always. I would rather walk through the fires of— of a hundred ruined broadcast towers than cause you a sliver of pain.”

She nodded, breath hitching, trust gleaming in her pupils. “I will. I trust you.”

That admission — that simple, shattering admission — unmoored me entirely. I pressed my mouth to the place I had been teasing, tongue coming out to taste the wetness that had pooled there. The first contact was electric; her back arched, a sharp sound of surprise and pleasure tearing from her throat. I licked, slow and patient at first, tracing the delicate outer folds, savoring the softness. She tasted of heat and honey and that undercurrent of want that belonged only to me.

Her hands roamed, finding my shoulders, then dragging down my back, urging me closer. I deepened my attention, tongue probing deliberately, seeking the spot that made her voice hitch the most. When I found it, she grabbed my hair like an anchor and howled my name — half plead, half exultation. My tail thudded against the bedspread, moving of its own accord, wagging in time with the rushed rhythm of my heart.

“You feel divine,” I breathed, between licks and murmured encouragements. “So slick, so warm— for me. For my mouth.” My voice was a croon; each syllable was edged in reverence. “You make me so very, very proud.”

She gasped, a hot bead of wetness slick beneath my tongue as she bucked up, searching. I curled two fingers and joined the motion with my tongue, a careful, practiced pressure that stroked the inner arc with a slow, building urgency. Her legs trembled and clamped around my head, not in restraint but as if she were trying to carve me into her with the pressure of her thighs. That closeness — the suffocating, sweet embrace of her flesh — made me dizzy with possession and worship.

“Al—oh—” she cried out, voice fraying at the edges. “God, Al— right there— don’t stop.”

Praise made me reckless. I nibbled at her entrance, then dove back to the place that earned the highest moans. I kept my strokes measured, but with growing fervor — not because I wanted to hurry her to some end, but because watching her unravel under my ministrations was a drug I craved. Her hands clawed my shoulders, nails leaving tiny crescents in my skin. Her chest hitched and her hips lifted with each press of my fingers; I answered with a counterpressure, matching the rhythm of her arousal with deliberate insistence.

“You’re mine,” I murmured into the heat between her legs, voice thick. “Every sound you give me — every little broken noise — belongs to me. Keep giving them to me.”

She sobbed, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I— I can’t—” she gasped. “I’m close—”

“Good,” I praised, as if she needed confirmation. “Come for me, my darling. Let me hear you fall apart. Let me collect every tremor.” My thumb found the tiny, hypersensitive nub and rolled mercilessly, the friction sharp and focused.

She hit the edge so suddenly it jolted me, a tremor that ran through her core and tightened her whole body like a bowstring. Her mouth opened on a wordless cry; the orgasm collapsed into her in successive waves, and she clung to me, breathless and incandescent. I lapped greedily at the residue, wanting to taste everything she had left behind, to mark her in the most intimate way I knew.

When her breathing finally eased, she lay splayed and soft, looking up at me with eyes that glittered with aftershocks. I crawled back up to hover over her, palms flat on either side of her head, and let the heat of the moment settle between us like a sacred smolder.

“You alright?” I asked, absurdly careful, even as my voice rasped with want.

She smiled through the haze, cheeks still flushed. “Yeah,” she breathed. “That was— amazing. I— you’re incredible.”

Her words made something clench inside me — a sweet, aching bloom of possessive joy. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering.

“You are incredible,” I countered softly. “And this is only the beginning, my dear.”

I froze when she mentioned the lube. My head snapped toward the nightstand where the small bottle sat like a damning piece of evidence. My ears went flat, and my face felt like it was on fire. “O–oh, that? Well, I—I simply thought it would be… practical!” I stammered, running a hand through my hair as my tail twitched nervously behind me. “It’s—ah—meant to help! I wouldn’t want to… hurt you.” My voice cracked at the end, and she giggled softly, that sweet, warm sound that always melted through my composure.

She sat up a little, her eyes soft but teasing, her lips curling into that smile that always undid me. “Alastor,” she murmured, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, “you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s sweet that you thought of it.”

Sweet. No one had ever called me that before. My throat tightened, and I had to look away, ears twitching as I let out a quiet, “Well… I should hope so. I’d rather not rely on sheer luck tonight.”

Her laugh was gentle, affectionate. Then, her tone dropped, sultry and full of promise. “Then get on with it already, darling.”

My heart practically stopped. I swallowed hard and nodded, fumbling slightly with the buckle of my belt. My hands were shaking. Me—shaking. I’d faced down demons, slaughtered rivals, and laughed in the face of death, but here I was, undone by the way her eyes followed my every move. The sound of the belt sliding free echoed in the quiet room, and I exhaled slowly, my body thrumming with anticipation.

When I freed myself, her breath hitched. Her hand came up, wrapping around my length with a soft gasp. The touch alone nearly made my knees buckle. Her fingers were so small against me, her grip tentative at first, then firmer as she began to move, stroking me slowly from base to tip. My breath stuttered, a low groan escaping before I could stop it.

“Goodness…” I muttered, my voice breaking into a strained laugh, “you’re going to be the end of me before we even begin.”

She smirked, leaning up just enough for her breath to brush my ear. “I’m just grateful you’re being so gentle with me,” she whispered, her tone dripping with warmth—and wickedness. Her words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn’t stop the small, helpless sound that left my throat.

I was panting now, fighting to keep control, to not let instinct take over. Her hand slid away, and she reclined back onto the bed, looking up at me with that perfect mix of trust and desire. “Come here,” she said softly, her thighs parting just slightly in invitation.

I reached for the bottle, my hands still trembling as I uncapped it. “This is going to feel a bit cold, my dear,” I murmured, my voice low and rough, betraying just how close I was to losing composure.

Her soft giggle came again. “It’s okay, Alastor. I trust you.”

That did it. My chest ached with emotion, the kind that was rare for me—something pure, something terrifying. I squeezed a bit of the slick liquid onto my fingers, rubbing them together before bringing them to her, gently brushing against her soaked entrance. She gasped immediately, hips twitching at the touch.

“Easy now…” I whispered, kissing her thigh as my fingers circled her slowly, spreading the lube and her wetness together. Her body was already responding, muscles fluttering around my fingers as I eased one in, then two, moving carefully. She moaned softly, her hand finding my hair, gripping gently as if to ground herself.

I looked up at her, completely lost in the sight. Her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her chest rose and fell with every shaky breath—it was intoxicating. “You’re doing so well, my dear,” I whispered, kissing her inner thigh again. “So perfect… so ready for me.”

Her eyes met mine, glassy with affection and heat. “Then stop worrying,” she said breathlessly. “I’m yours, Alastor.”

And in that moment, every ounce of fear I had melted away, replaced by the overwhelming, dizzying need to show her just how deeply I loved her.

The room hummed softly — candles flickering like a nervous audience — and for a moment the absurdity of my nerves struck me: Alastor—the Radio Demon—kneeling, palmed, poised to do the most human of things with the woman who had stolen my quiet tower and my heart.

She giggled once, impatient, and the sound made me both ache and furious with my own hesitation. I pressed a lazy kiss to her cheek, then lowered my forehead against hers. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “For my cowardice. For my foolishness. For loving you so much that even my hands tremble.”

Her fingers tightened in my hair. “Do it, Al. Please. I’m ready.” Her voice, though small, was resolute. She sounded like prayer and permission all at once.

I swallowed. Coating myself fully with the slick warmth of the lube, I held my breath and let the head of me hover at her wet slit, rubbing a shallow, reverent circle across her clit with the crown. The little gasp she gave — more plea than pain — was a knife in my ribs. “You always do this to me,” I murmured, voice hardly more than static. “You undo me.”

I set my tip against her entrance, felt the quiver that ran through her like a live wire. For a slice of a second I considered pulling away, hiding behind some ancestral cruelty I no longer possessed. But she gripped my shoulder with white-knuckled resolve, jaw clenched around a soft whimper. “Keep going,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Consent, repeated. I lived for that word now. I slid forward, just the head, and the first inch burned with honesty. It was not the soft sweet heaven I had fantasized about in the lonely hours. It was tight and raw and every nerve in her cried out. Her breath hitched, a sound that tore more at me than any scream in a battlefield ever had.

“This will hurt,” I said, because I could not be anything but honest. “Tell me if—” My words broke as she jerked, and I wanted nothing more than to bolt; to take it away from her and nurse the harm myself.

She shook her head, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes but a stubborn set to her mouth. “I read it’ll hurt first,” she panted. “It’ll be… awkward. But I can get used to it. I want you inside me, Al. Please.”

That was all the permission and the plea a monster could bear. I closed my eyes briefly, tasting the iron tang of fear on the back of my tongue, then kissed her — soft, urgent — to anchor both of us. “Then I go slowly,” I promised, hands trembling as I braced on either side of her hips.

I pushed forward another inch. Her hands clawed the sheets, and I felt the tiny shudder ripple through her body. Every fraction of movement was measured now; I pressed, waited, let her breathe me in, let her breathe out. “Relax your jaw,” I whispered. “Relax everything you can. Tension tightens the entry. It will hurt more if you hold yourself closed.”

She obeyed like a soldier and like a lover, slow exhalations, tiny noises that were part pain and part something else I hadn’t yet earned. I kept talking to her — ridiculous, frantic little reassurances, oldblood comforts dressed in new tenderness. “You’re doing beautifully. You’re so brave. You are… breathtaking.”

When I finally sank deeper, an inch at a time, until I was seated to the hilt within her, the sensation was a blinding mix of agony and exquisite possession. She was impossibly tight, every warmth and velvet pressing back against me. My own breath stuttered, not because it felt bad — heaven, it felt divine in a way no casual conquest ever had — but because watching her pain me like that cleaved open my heart.

She jerked and cried out, nails drawn across the sheets, and something raw and furious rose in me. I wanted to curse the world for inflicting hurt on her, for letting someone who deserved softness feel jagged edges. I wanted to pull out and curl around her until the hurt bled into nothing. Instead, I lowered my face to hers, drawing a slow, steadying breath.

“It’s me,” I said, voice thick. “It’s my hand, my rhythm. Tell me what you need. If you want slower, we stop. If you want more, squeeze my arm. I will follow you.”

She met my eyes, wet and fierce. “Keep going,” she rasped. “Slow. Please. Don’t stop.”

I could have wept, right then and there. Her trust sat on me like a crown—beautiful and terrifying. I laid one clawed hand at the arch of her hip to anchor myself, the other descending, delicate, to press at her clit. Rubbing was both practical and merciless—practical because stimulation would coax her body into accepting me more, merciless because the tiny, precise pressure sent a shudder up through her that almost undid me.

“Al—” she breathed, a plea folded into a plea. Her face had contorted, pain shaded into a raw, aching need. I adjusted my angle on a whisper, angling up a fraction so I brushed a spot that made her whole body arc. The sound she made at the contact was a ragged thing that pushed all my private demons into the corner and left only the man who loved her.

I moved with infinitesimal patience — an inch forward, a beat, an inch again — fingers grinding slow circles on her swollen clit, thumb occasionally pressing in tandem. Each careful thrust was a lesson in gentleness; I watched her every reaction like a sacred script, altering pace, depth, angle on the fly, my own pleasure a distant, guilty echo beneath a tide of concern.

She began to tremble — first with tension, then with a different kind of tremor, something that laced through her like heat. Her hands left the sheets to clutch my shoulders, to pull me closer, nails biting into the fabric of my shirt as if to prove we were both real. “Al,” she whispered, voice breaking, “I— it’s… changing. It’s not just pain.”

The admission was a shard of light. Encouraged, I increased the gentle pressure at her clit, added a whisper of motion with my hips — shallow, considerate — and felt the shift. The tightness loosened in small increments; her arches eased; the cries dulled and softened into gasps that told me she was moving beyond hurt and into the fragile doorway of pleasure.

“I’m here,” I murmured again and again, because what else was there to say? My tail thudded against the mattress in a frantic, guilty cadence, ears flat with rapt attention. I kissed her, tasting salt and sweetness, and pressed my forehead to hers. “You are so brave. You are everything.”

Her hands found my face, thumbs sweeping the lines there as if to memorize them. “I love you,” she said, the three words like prayer and prophesy. “Please—keep going.”

So I kept going. Slow, deliberate, worshipful. Every push in and every patient withdrawal was a vow: I will not rush you, I will not overpower you, I will learn your music until I can play you without thinking. My claws rubbed her clit in lazy, insistent circles, and with each cycle the tremors in her body turned from frightened to wanting. Her hips began to answer me—ever so slightly at first, then with more intent—and when her voice climbed into a keening that sounded dangerously like surrender, it broke me open in the best way possible.

I was inside her for the first time—clumsy, solemn, utterly in love—and as the candlelight painted our joined bodies in the warm gold of this new covenant, I realized I would spend the rest of my damned existence trying to deserve this moment.

She sounded different now — not the shy, breathy mew I’d coaxed out of her earlier, but a wild, sharp song that scraped right through me and set every nerve alight. When she asked for me to go faster, the plea was a jagged, beautiful thing, and I obliged without thinking. My hands found her hips, planted there as if they’d always known their place, and I began to move with more intent.

The first few quicker thrusts were gentle, testing the new pace, then I let myself answer the friction and the heat and the way her body clenched around me. Her moans grew louder, ragged and unreserved, and god — she sounded like a sin I’d been saving up for centuries to commit. I couldn’t help the low groan that ripped from my chest; it was animal and worshipful all at once.

“Putain…,” I cursed under my breath, the French swear escaping like steam. “Vous êtes incroyable—” My voice broke into bits, half-sung, half-choked, every syllable meant only for her. “So fucking pretty,” I managed in English, because some things needed to be said plainly. I felt hot and ridiculous and unbearably proud as I watched her face twist with pleasure. She tightened deliciously around me on a deep thrust and the world narrowed to the slap of our skin and the wet, slick rhythm we were making.

Her hands clawed at the sheets, nails digging crescents into linen, and she cried out that she was going to cum. Pride swelled in my chest like something feral and holy. She — my girl, my… mine — was about to come on my cock, under my body, to my motions. Every careful choice, every soft reassurance I’d given her, all of it led to this small, catastrophic triumph. I’d been holding back this whole time — a gentleman’s principle, yes, and also selfish: I refused to take before she was satisfied. That notion had felt right the first time it formed in my mind, and now it felt like the only honest thing I’d ever done.

“Do you want me to go faster, my love?” I rasped against her neck. My tail thudded against the mattress in time with my hips, betraying how very much I wanted to lose myself. She shook her head, words choked into moans, but then between breaths she managed, “No—don’t stop. Pound me, Al—harder—please.”

Her command hit me like a dare I’d been waiting for. A laugh, half terror, half triumph, escaped me — a sound she’d never heard before — and I honored her with a surge. I began to pound into her, not cruelly, but with a force that matched the need pressing behind my ribs. Each thrust drove deep, filling me with that tight, exquisite ache I’d been aching for since the moment she’d told me she was ready.

“Merde,” I gasped, the profanity slipping out as the motion stole the last of my restraint. The burn and the pull of her were everything — better, somehow, because I loved her. With every slam of my hips the bed creaked and the little candle flames quivered, but all I registered was the heat and the way she clung to me, nails raking my shoulders, voice breaking into urgent fragments of my name.

“You—you’re mine,” I panted between urges, praise tumbling out raw and breathy. “Putain, you are mine.” My words were possessive and tender both, the two merging into something that made her arch up into me, pressing her mouth to my throat. Her gasps were wet and high, spiking through me until I felt dizzy.

She told me she was close, voice ragged, and my chest swelled with a fierce, ridiculous pride that made me want to shout. “Come for me,” I begged softly, even as the coil in my belly tightened; I counted myself a curmudgeonly old man who did not suffer weakness gladly, yet here I was, begging for the sound of her surrender.

The way her body answered — stuttering, collapsing, clenching — was like music. Her back arched, and she tore off a sound that was part prayer, part raw animal cry, and she came on me in a torrent: wave after wave that bucked her hips around my own, squeezing me shut in the most delicious, maddening way. I pressed my forehead to hers, feeling the tremor that ran through her like an earthquake, each aftershock making my own mouth fall open.

She came harder than she ever had, loud and long, and I drank it in. Her legs trembled and wrapped tighter; her nails left crescents on my skin; her breath came in ragged little sobs. Pride swelled until it hurt. I nuzzled the corner of her mouth and told her over and over how perfect she was, how brilliantly she’d done, my voice a frantic hymn to the moment.

For a heartbeat I thought I might still be able to hold back — be the ridiculous, self-denying gentleman — but when her body shook under mine and her hand clamped down on my shoulder like an anchor, everything that had been held in reserve broke. The heat coiled low and then snapped, the band of sensation unraveling with a groan that was part surrender, part exultation.

“Putain de—” I cursed, the French tumbling out as I lost control, and then I let myself go. My hips drove faster, harder, filling and sliding and surrendering in time with the last of her shudders. The release that followed was not quick; it was a slow, hot unraveling, a burst of need that flooded me from base to crown. My cock pulsed inside her as I spilled, hot and strong, painting the place that had just accepted me, every thrust jammed with the crazed gratitude of a man who had waited to take only this way.

I trailed a string of soft, obscene sounds as my seed emptied, my breath ragged and filthy with joy. When it was done, I collapsed against her — chest to chest, forehead to forehead — the aftershocks of our joined rhythm echoing through us both. Her hands found my face, fingers gentle and trembling, and I kissed each one as if consecrating them.

“Are you—” I whispered, voice small and rough, the fierce protector and the shattered lover bleeding together. She nodded, eyes glossy and smiling despite the haze of cum and sweat and candlelight.

“That was—” she breathed, words coming out in staccato, “—the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

I laughed, a broken, delighted sound, nuzzling her hair. “And you have no idea what you did to me,” I murmured, French curses still catching my lips now and then, softer, more affectionate than anything I said to rivals. “Mon cœur… my heart is ruined for anyone else.”

We lay tangled, hot and sticky and impossibly full, the world reduced to shallow breaths and the slow rise and fall of two chests. Pride and tenderness swelled in me, an ache worse and better than any wound I had ever known. I had taken her gently, fiercely, and in return she’d given me more than the moment itself — she’d given me trust, surrender, love.

French translations

Putain- technically translates to "damn" but most use it as a way to say "fuck" or "whore" (BRO ISNT CALLING HER A WHORE DW. HES SAYING FUCK)

Vous êtes incroyable- You are incredible

Merde- Shit

Weeks have passed since that fateful night, and every day feels like an eternity in the hell that is now your home. The house, once a refuge of shared routines with your husband, is now a prison of memories that haunt you at every turn.

You glide through the hallways like a ghost, avoiding the armchair where it all happened, but inevitably your eyes fall on it, and the treacherous heat returns to your skin. You remember the touch of Alastor's hands, the static in his voice whispering promises you didn't ask for, the total abandonment that made you forget who you were.

It was a mistake, a weakness fueled by wine and loneliness, but now remorse eats away at you like a slow plague. You tell yourself it was just once, that it means nothing, but the lies you tell yourself crumble every night when you close your eyes and feel his ghostly presence.

Alastor has become a recurring shadow in your life, appearing without warning, as if the house belonged to him as much as it did to you. His visits are not friendly; there is a latent tension in the air every time he crosses the threshold, a mixture of forced courtesy and something much darker that has been escalating as time goes by.

He arrives with vague excuses: "I was just passing by, dear, to make sure you're not wasting away in this hellish solitude." But you know there's more. There's always more with him.

This afternoon is no different. The crackle of static announces his arrival before he knocks on the door, and when you open it, there he is, with his eternal smile and his cane casually resting on his shoulder.

— How wonderful to see you again! May I come in? — He doesn't expect a real refusal; he's already inside, moving with that feline elegance that makes the space seem smaller.

— You again. Don't you have anything better to do? — You cross your arms, trying to keep your distance.

He laughs, a sound that vibrates with slight static, and settles into one of the armchairs—not "that" armchair, thank whatever rules this place.

— Oh, there's always time for a pleasant chat. How have you been, dear? Hell seems… particularly oppressive these days.— The conversation flows superficially, like a calm river that hides treacherous currents.

You ask the usual questions, the ones that eat away at you:

— Have you heard anything from my husband? He's been missing for weeks. He should have been back by now.

— Ah, yes, the good man. I've been waiting for news from him too, you know? Our… partnership requires his presence. But Hell is a capricious place; journeys like his can take longer than expected. — Alastor tilts his head, his smile unchanging.

You frown, pressing him.

— Why did he leave in the first place? He never gave me any clear details. Do you know anything? Was it your idea to send him?

He skillfully evades the question, twisting it like an expert dancer.

— What a curious accusation! That journey has nothing to do with me, my dear. It was his own ambition that drove him, wasn't it? — The aura of secrecy envelops every word: his low voice, the mystery in his red eyes that seem to know more than they say, the elegance with which he avoids the core of your demands. It's a game, one in which he always has the upper hand.

Tired of the evasiveness, you decide to get to the point.

— I need to know about him. Help me find him. I'm asking you as a favor. — You sigh for a moment, calculating the words you will use and remaining silent for a fraction of a second. — Use your contacts, your power. In return… whatever you want, as long as it's reasonable.

Alastor stands still for a moment, and although his expression doesn't change, you feel a flash of possessiveness in the air, like a shadow lengthening. But he doesn't show it; instead, he lets out a light, mocking laugh that echoes with static.

— A deal? How charming. Why would you want to know about him after what you did, hmm? After that very… memorable night?

Your cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and anger rising up your neck.

— What are you implying?"

— Oh, nothing we both don't already know. —His tone is playful, but there's an edge to it.— Would you tell him you were unfaithful? That you gave yourself to another in his absence? And worse, would you have the courage to tell him all the details? Every touch, every whisper… every moan.

Anger explodes.

— Shut up! It was a mistake, your manipulation, if I may say so… You have no right to judge me.

The mild argument flares up, words flying like sparks, but Alastor does not shout back. Instead, he rises fluidly, and before you can back away, he subdues you with a speed that leaves you breathless. His hands lift you by the waist as if you weigh nothing, placing you on the table with a firmness that makes the objects around you rattle.

He stands over you, cornering you with his tall, slender body, one hand closing around your wrist while the other rests on your hip, subtly immobilizing you against the hard surface. His red eyes seem to pin you in place, intense, devouring.

The accumulated tension makes you gasp, the air between you charged with static electricity that makes your skin bristle, every hair standing on end in response. You try to push him away, your hands pressing against his firm chest—once he accidentally loosened his grip on your wrist—but the latent passion is too strong to hide.

Your body betrays your mind, responding to the heat of his proximity with a rapid pulse in your belly.

— What… what do you think you're doing? — you stammer, your voice breaking, an attempt at resistance that sounds weak even to you.

Alastor doesn't respond immediately; instead, his hip presses against yours in a deliberate, slow movement, simulating a thrust that makes you hold your breath. The friction through your clothes is wicked, a raw, provocative rub that sends waves of heat straight to your core, the fabric of his pants rubbing against yours in a calculated rhythm, as if reminding you exactly what happened that night.

— Judge you? me? — he murmurs, his voice a low purr that vibrates with static, sending shivers down your spine.

He moves again, a firmer thrust this time, his body pressing you against the table, forcing you to feel every inch of his hardened desire against you.

— When have I ever judged you, darling? I'm just reminding you… of what you already know. — Another pause, another deliberate brush, his hand on your hip squeezing just hard enough for you to feel his subtle claws through your clothes, a reminder of his demonic nature.

You gasp involuntarily, a muffled sound escaping your lips, betraying the heat building between your legs despite the anger still burning in your chest.

— Why… why are you doing this? — you ask, your voice trembling, trying to look away, but he takes your chin in his free hand, forcing you to look at him, his red eyes burning with a mixture of manipulation and pure, raw desire.

— Because you want it. — he replies, his hip grinding against yours in another simulated thrust, slower this time, torturous, intensifying the friction until a low moan escapes you without permission. — Admit it, darling. Your body doesn't lie like your mouth does.

The manipulation is evident in his tone, in the way he uses desire to erode your resistance, but there is something else: a genuine hunger in his gaze, a possessive longing that makes his thrusts more insistent, finding himself on the verge of losing control himself. The fabric between you feels like an insufficient barrier, the heat of his arousal seeping through, teasing you until your hips move slightly in response, a traitorous instinct that makes you curse internally.

— Stop! — you demand, but your voice comes out broken, more of a gasp than a command, and he just laughs softly, one final thrust leaving you trembling, on the verge of something much more dangerous that can escalate.

Alastor rubs against you over your clothes one last time, a deliberate, slow movement that sends waves of heat straight to your core. You gasp again, involuntarily, and he takes the opportunity to take your chin firmly, forcing you to look at him.

— You were mine, darling. — he whispers, his voice a purr vibrating with static. — And you shouldn't forget that… ever.

The moment stretches out, suffocating, charged with an unspoken promise. Your lips are inches from his, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you, that he's going to claim what he clearly desires. But then, with exasperating slowness, Alastor pulls away slightly, releasing your chin and straightening up. His smile returns, more controlled, more calculating.

— As for your deal… I accept, my dear. I'll tell you about your husband when I have news. I can't promise to bring him back, but… I'll keep you informed.

You sit up at the table, confused, your pulse still racing.

— What? That's it? You accept just like that? — You ask incredulously, wondering if he really has something up his sleeve.

— Oh, not so fast. — He extends his hand, pointing his claw at you with his characteristic theatrical elegance. — But in return, you will agree to one request of mine. I will tell you what it is when the time is right. Deal?

You hesitate, but your desperation to find out about your husband drives you on. You take his hand, and in that instant, a ghostly green glow envelops your joined palms, like invisible chains sealing the agreement. The air crackles with magic, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The deal is done, and something in his smile tells you that you have played right into his hands.

A few days pass without news from the Radio Demon, and the silence is almost worse than his visits. Hell continues on its chaotic course: rumors of Heaven's impending extermination spread through the streets, with angels preparing for their annual purge, leaving sinners in a state of collective paranoia. You try to distract yourself by going shopping in the infernal markets, haggling over trinkets you don't need, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of lesser demons selling souls and forbidden artifacts.

But nothing appeases your anxiety; every shadow makes you think of Alastor, every static crackle in the air puts you on alert.

You return home exhausted, your mind reeling with clues you've gathered on your own: conversations overheard in dark taverns, glimpses of stolen maps pointing to the most dangerous corners of Hell.

You've been searching alone, refusing to rely solely on him. And then, as you set the bags down in the entryway, your mind brings back that envelope you left tucked away in your husband's desk—the same one you dropped that fateful night, already opened, its scarlet seal intriguing you.

An urgency overwhelms you.

You practically run to the office, your heart pounding, ignoring the outside world. But just as you are about to enter, a knock on the front door echoes, stopping you in your tracks. Something inside you tells you to ignore it, to look at the envelope quickly. You yank open the office door, reach out with a trembling hand…

And finally you touch it. The envelope feels heavy in your fingers, and as you turn it over, you see the elegant red seal with antlers that could belong to no one but Alastor. Your eyes widen in surprise as you look at the broken seal, open the envelope, and read, whispering the words as if you fear they will come to life: A mission… confidential details… ancient artifacts… a powerful object lost in the depths of the Pentagram.

And the specific location: a remote corner of Hell, full of dangers. But what leaves you speechless is the sender: Alastor himself, addressed to your husband.

The front door, which had been ringing insistently, is now silent. Everything seems to have stopped, the air thick.

Until…

— Looking for something interesting, my dear? — Alastor's voice echoes behind you, with that playful tone and subtle static. You jump, your heart leaping into your chest, and quickly cover up, hiding the letter behind your back as you laugh nervously.

Terror begins to consume you: how did he get in? How long had he been watching you? He always knew, and he just shows up at this moment, as if he had been stalking you from the shadows. Alastor leans against the office doorframe, his smile widening, his red eyes sparkling with amusement.

— What are you hiding so eagerly? You look like a child caught in mischief.

— Nothing… just some old papers. What are you doing here? I didn't hear you come in.— You feign innocence, your pulse racing.

— Hmm, I'm always where I should be. — He takes a step closer, tilting his head. — And you? Snooping around in other people's secrets? That's not like you, dear.

You try to change the subject, clinging to the only thing that matters to you.

— What news do you have about my husband? — You ask, looking him in the eyes so he doesn't become even more suspicious. — You've been away for days. Did you find anything?

Alastor makes an elegant gesture with his hand, as if sweeping away the heavy air in the office, and his smile curves with a touch of theatricality.

— But let's talk about that somewhere more… cozy, don't you think? Your husband's office has such a… dense atmosphere. It's not the ideal setting for such juicy revelations.

You're not convinced at all; the terror consuming you makes you want to stay right where you are, with the letter still hidden behind your back. But you can't show weakness now.

— Fine. —you reply tensely, forcing a smile that feels like a crack in your facade.— Go to the hall. I'll be right behind you.

He tilts his head, watching you with that intensity that always seems to pierce your thoughts, but nods graciously.

— As you wish, my dear. — He turns and leaves the office with deliberate steps, his cane tapping the floor in an almost musical rhythm.

As soon as he disappears down the hallway, you act quickly. Your hands tremble as you search for a hiding place: a thick book on the nearest shelf, one of those ancient tomes on infernal rituals that your husband collected. You hurriedly open its pages and slip the envelope inside, slamming it shut and returning it to its place. Your heart pounds in your chest; if Alastor finds it, everything will fall apart before you can confront him.

You rush out of the office, composing your expression as best you can, and find him already in the hall, settled into an armchair with that Overlord pose.

— Sorry for the delay. — you say, trying to sound casual.— Let me offer you something to drink. Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger

Alastor raises an eyebrow, clearly noticing the change in your attitude—the nervousness disguised as hospitality, the blush that still tints your cheeks.

— How thoughtful of you all of a sudden, dear. Tea will be fine. Black, no sugar, please.

You nod and head to the adjacent kitchen, feeling his eyes piercing your back like daggers. As you prepare the tea, your mind races, searching for a way to break the ice without revealing what you know. You remember that night, the conversation that flowed between wine and temptation: his words about ancient magic, deals with powerful entities, how intention was key, not written rules.

— You know. —you say from the kitchen, raising your voice so he can hear you.— I've been thinking about what we talked about that… night. About magic, contracts with higher beings. It really intrigued me. Remember? You mentioned the importance of books… A grimoire, perhaps, a powerful object or whatever.

You feel more than hear his laughter: a crackle of static that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, like a contained thunderstorm. When you return with the cups, he is no longer sitting there. He is standing next to you, so close that his shadow envelops you, and with a fluid movement, he takes the cup you were preparing for yourself and takes a tentative sip.

— Delicious. — he murmurs, his red eyes fixed on yours. — Why the sudden interest in these matters, dear? Have you been… investigating on your own?

The tension is unbearable, a lump in your throat that you can't swallow. You can't take it anymore; the pieces fit together too well—Alastor's envelope, the mission he sent your husband on, his timely appearance—

— What did you do to my husband? — you blurt out, your voice trembling but firm.

Alastor, who had just taken another sip of tea, gently places the cup on the nearby table. His smile sharpens, like the edge of a blade, but he masterfully feigns innocence.

— Me? Do something? Oh, dear, I don't know what you're talking about. — He takes a couple of steps away, turning as if the conversation were trivial, but there is tension in his shoulders, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

— Don't lie to me. —you reply harshly, advancing toward him, fear turning to fury. — You know everything. You know exactly what happened to my husband. Tell me!

Alastor stops, his back still facing you for a moment, before turning with deliberate slowness. The mask slips; his smile is no longer playful, but a grimace of dark satisfaction. But instead of responding immediately, he remains silent, a heavy silence that fills the room like smoke. He begins to walk with measured steps, pacing the hall as if he owns the place, his gloved fingers brushing random surfaces: the edge of a table, the spine of a forgotten book, a window frame.

He doesn't seem to care about your impatience; on the contrary, he enjoys the control, leaving you powerless, watching him with your heart in your throat.

Finally, he stops in front of a wedding photo decorating the large mirror on the opposite wall. It is a picture of you and your husband, smiling in a frozen moment of mortal happiness, before Hell corrupted everything. Alastor tilts his head, studying it with feigned interest, as if it were a curiosity in a museum.

— A supposedly happy marriage. — he murmurs at last, his voice tinged with soft, almost melancholic static.— A sinner with a devoted wife, ambitious to the core, always wanting more… much more. Power, knowledge, a legacy that Hell does not grant easily.

He pauses, his finger tracing the edge of the frame.

— Your husband came to me, you know? He asked me for a deal. Something extremely powerful in exchange for… something valuable. In exchange for you. He knew I wanted you, and he used that as currency. 'Take her,' he said. 'Do what you want with her, just give me the power.'

From the kitchen, where you have instinctively taken refuge to put some distance between you, you feel a blow to your chest.

— You're lying. — you exclaim, your voice breaking with disbelief. — I don't believe you, Alastor!

Alastor turns his head slightly, his smile sharpening.

— Ah, it's not a lie, my dear. Your husband let me take you in exchange for that power. It was a fair trade… for him, at least. Ambition over loyalty, power over love. How poetic, isn't it?

Emotional pain pierces you like a cold blade, leaving doubts that entangle your mind like thorns. Could it be true? Would your husband, the man you once loved, have sold you like that? But you don't give in; you can't. You approach him with trembling steps, your face flushed with anger and restrained tears.

—No…I don't believe you.— you repeat, closer now, almost begging for answers.— Tell me the truth. What did you do to him?

Alastor turns completely, his red eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and possession.

— Fine. — he says with a theatrical sigh, as if giving in to a childish whim. — I think it's time to put the deal into action.

The air crackles with a dance of static, a buzzing that vibrates in your bones. From the shadows in the corners of the room, a dark shape materializes—an extension of his power, a shadowy tentacle that coils around you like a playful snake. At first, it's just annoying, brushing against your arm, your leg, but soon it becomes insistent, pinning you against the wall with inexorable force. You struggle, screaming in frustration, red with rage, feeling betrayed not only by Alastor, but by the entire universe that has led you to this.

As you struggle, Alastor begins to recount in that radio voice, calm and enveloping, as if telling a macabre fairy tale.

— It all began in the depths of Pentagram City, in a small, seedy establishment. I met a filthy sinner who thought himself powerful, a poor devil with nothing of value… except his sweet wife.

You scream louder, pulling at the shadows that bind you, but he continues, unperturbed. The lights in the room dim, flickering like candles in a storm, and the atmosphere becomes charged with palpable electricity.

— In that forgotten café, we talked. He arrived with his newly acquired grimoire, brimming with enthusiasm. And I… confessed to him. I told him how I fucked her, how I took her in her own home, how I made her moan with pleasure while he was lost in his odyssey.

His words hit you like punches, reviving that night in treacherous flashes. Alastor approaches, his hand firmly taking your chin, forcing you to look at him. You growl, trying to bite or pull away, but he only tightens his grip, a flicker of primitive desire crossing his red eyes. As he narrates, more shadowy tentacles slide in: one tangles in your hair, holding it with possessive gentleness; another presses down on your shoulders, keeping you still.

— That's right, darling.— he whispers, his warm breath against your skin. Then, without warning, he kisses you with a hungry, devouring fervor, as if he wants to consume your anger and pain. The kiss is intense, charged with static that tingles on your lips.

The air thickens with the kiss, a whirlwind of hunger and possession that leaves you breathless. Alastor pulls away slightly, his sadistic smile curving as he savors the moment, his tongue grazing the corner of your lips in a deliberate, provocative gesture.

— I'm not sorry. — he murmurs, his voice a purr vibrating with static, his red eyes devouring you up close. His breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged. And then, with a coldness that chills your blood, he confesses. — I killed your husband.

The words strike you like lightning, and the struggle begins immediately. Your hands push against his chest, your nails scratching the air in a desperate attempt to free yourself from the shadows that bind you.

— No! — you scream, your body convulsing with disbelief and horror. — Let me go, monster!"

Alastor takes a step back, watching you with that eternal smile, but his eyes shine with dark satisfaction.

— It's time for you to pay, my dear.— he says with theatrical calm, adjusting his coat as if nothing had happened. — I've already given you the news you've been longing for about your husband. The deal is in motion.

— You're a traitor! — you spit, the words coming out like poison from your throat.— A damned, disgusting demon!

Anger consumes you, but underneath there is an abyss of betrayal that makes you tremble. His smile does not falter, but for a moment, something crosses his face: a small pain, a contained anger that makes his deer ears twitch slightly. He loses his patience in a snap; his hand rises, and with a gesture of spectral green magic, the envelope you had hidden in the office book appears in his palm, materializing out of thin air like a living accusation.

He shows it to you, waving it in front of your face with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

— What a cunning bitch. — he hisses, his voice tinged with furious static. — But you can't hide anything from me. Did you think I wouldn't know? That I wasn't watching you?

Terror paralyzes you for a second, but denial returns with force.

— No! That doesn't change anything! I won't do anything with you!

Alastor laughs, a sound that echoes like a distorted transmission, and extends his hand with the grimoire now visible, pulling it out of the shadows with a flourish.

— The condition is simple, sweetheart: a ritual. You and I, united in one main act… sex. The spell of conception will bind us forever.

— No! — you scream, struggling against the shadows again. — Never! Don't come near me!

His expression darkens, and a cursed energy manifests around him: tentacles of darkness crackling with green static, enveloping you like invisible chains.

— A deal is a deal… and it cannot be broken. — he threatens, his voice low and lethal, the air charged with a power that presses you against the wall.

With a sharp gesture, the shadows release you, and you fall to your knees, gasping, your chest rising and falling with erratic breaths. Alastor leans down to your height, his face inches from yours, his red eyes piercing you with absolute possession.

— You're a dirty traitor. — you whisper between gasps, tears welling up in your eyes.

He just smiles, touching your cheek with a finger.

— I only get what I want. — he replies, his voice an intimate and sinister whisper.

Alastor lifts you easily, placing you in the center of the room, where he draws a ritualistic circle on the floor with a snap of his fingers. Ancient runes glow in spectral green, floating in the air like fallen stars. He opens the grimoire, its yellowed pages exuding a latent energy, and begins to invoke the spell of conception with words in a demonic language, a chant that vibrates in your bones and warms your skin from within.

Everything glows: the circle pulses with supernatural light, enveloping them both in a warm, oppressive aura. The magic amplifies every sensation, making the air crackle with static that makes your hair stand on end. Alastor draws closer, his hands undoing your clothes with deliberate urgency, tearing the fabric with his claws, leaving red marks on your skin as reminders of his possession.

— Mine. — he growls, his voice distorted by static, as his fingers trace your exposed body, squeezing your hips hard enough to leave bruises. — Since that night, you have been mine, and now you will be mine forever.

You protest weakly.

— No… please. — you gasp, but your body betrays your words: your thighs clench involuntarily at his touch, a treacherous heat building in your core despite the remorse gnawing at you. The magic of the ritual clouds your mind, amplifying the residual desire from that fateful night, making it impossible to tell if you are fighting him or yourself.

Alastor pushes you to the ground inside the circle, his body covering you like a living shadow, and kisses you with devouring hunger, his lips claiming yours in a whirlwind of possession. His tongue invades your mouth, savoring every muffled moan that escapes you, while his teeth graze your lower lip, nibbling just enough to draw a drop of blood that he licks with sadistic delight.

He penetrates you with a deep, raw thrust, without preamble, his hard, throbbing length filling you completely, stretching you to your limit. You moan loudly, a sound that mixes pain and unexpected pleasure, your nails digging into his shoulders as your back arches against the cold floor.

— Ah… Alastor! — you exclaim, not knowing if it's a plea for him to stop or to continue. He laughs against your neck, a hoarse, possessive sound, as he thrusts again, harder, faster, his hips colliding with yours in a relentless rhythm that makes your breasts bounce with each impact.

— Feel that, beautiful. —he whispers, his hot breath against your ear, — feel how I claim you. No one else will touch you. You are my vessel, my legacy.

The overstimulation hits you like a wave: each thrust grazes that sensitive spot inside you, sending electric shocks down your spine, causing your inner walls to contract around him involuntarily. You moan uncontrollably, wet, desperate sounds filling the room.

— Please… it's too much… oh, God…— Your tears roll down your cheeks as your body shakes, on the verge of sensory collapse.

Alastor doesn't stop; on the contrary, he accelerates, his hands clinging to your thighs to open you wider, exposing you completely as he thrusts with demonic force, sweat beading on his forehead beneath his horns, which now subtly emerge in their most primal form.

— Moan for me. — he commands, animalistic and raw, one hand reaching down to rub your swollen clitoris in precise circles, amplifying the overload until you sob, your vision clouding over with overwhelming pleasure.

The climax approaches like a storm, you feel the knot in your belly untangle violently, your body convulsing around him as waves of ecstasy wash over you, broken moans escaping your throat.

— Yes… no, no… Alastor!

He growls, his own control fracturing, thrusting once, twice more with brutal force before spilling inside you, hot and abundant, sealing the conception with a magical pulse that makes the runes glow brightly. In the last throes of your orgasm, as you still tremble and pant, Alastor kisses you wetly and deeply, his tongue tangling with yours in a dirty, devouring kiss, absorbing your last moans as if they were his own.

The ritual is complete in that moment, a supernatural heat settling in your womb, the seed irrevocably planted.

The world fades into a whirlwind of residual sensations: your body, exhausted and overstimulated, trembles uncontrollably against his, every muscle tense and then lax in waves of fatigue. You gasp heavily, your chest rising and falling as if you had run a hellish marathon, sweat beading on your skin and mixing with the tears still running down your cheeks. Alastor pulls away slightly, his warm breath against your neck, and holds you with one hand on the curve of your back, preventing you from collapsing completely.

— Perfect. — he murmurs, his voice a satisfied purr tinged with static, his red eyes shining with victory. —Now you are mine in every way, my dear. Our legacy will grow inside you.

— Bastard… what have you done…— escapes your lips between gasps, but the words are lost in a muffled sob. The magic of the ritual weighs on you like a heavy blanket, clouding your mind, making your eyelids heavy. You struggle one last time to pull away, but your body betrays you, yielding to overwhelming exhaustion.

— No… you can't…— you whisper, your voice breaking, but Alastor only laughs softly, cradling you against his chest with a twisted tenderness that contrasts with his sadism.

— Shh, rest. —he says, his finger tracing a line down your cheek.— Everything is as it should be. Sleep, my sweet bearer.

The static in the air softens into a soothing hum, and the world gradually darkens, your eyes closing against your will. The last thing you feel is his kiss on your forehead, a final seal of possession, before consciousness leaves you completely, plunging you into a deep, dreamless sleep, where remorse and pleasure merge into a hellish void.

. .

.

Somewhere in Hell, the new Alastor, who had been missing for seven years, had now returned with a new project of redemption: the Hotel Hazbin, a beacon of twisted hope amid eternal chaos. And elsewhere, there you were, hiding your secret in the shadows, alongside Alastor's son, now old enough to know who his father really was. But no one in Hell was to know; the legacy remained hidden, a ticking time bomb waiting for its moment.

To the little people who wanted to be tagged, here you go, eat up, it's a decent dinner. ♡

It wasn’t just the hangover.

Though to be fair, the hangover was its own personal Hell—screaming behind your eyes like a banshee with a megaphone, and your stomach doing acrobatics that defied several laws of physics. Your mouth tasted like someone had poured sand into a blender with regret and served it lukewarm. Your soul felt wrinkled.

Even the walls of the hotel seemed to wince when you staggered into the kitchen, hoodie up, sunglasses on, and death in your eyes.

(The sunglasses indoors was definitely an active choice, a mental wave of a white flag as you hoped and prayed no one in this damned hotel would bring up the fact that you were so publicly caught snogging the Radio Demon less than 24 hours ago. At least, not bring it up while the tempest in your head demanded you rip apart the first demon who dared to piss you off this morning.)

No one dared speak to you. Husk took one look and slid the coffee pot across the counter like a peace offering before vanishing away down the hall. Niffty, bless her overly cheery heart, started to chirp a greeting—saw your face—and made a hard left turn, muttering something about reorganizing the mold drawer. Even Angel Dust tiptoed around you. Angel. A man who routinely did lines of coke on the lobby dining table at 2AM. He gave you a once-over and simply nodded in solemn solidarity.

But of course—it wasn’t just the hangover.

Of course.

The one person immune to your carefully cultivated aura of “speak and perish” was him.

Smug. Pristine. Radiant. Like he hadn't spent last night flirting with alcohol poisoning just to egotistically one-up you in a drinking game that he proposed you two play. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in sight. Wearing that damn bowtie like he’d earned it.

He didn’t just walk into the kitchen. No—he waltzed in, humming a cheery little tune and radiating danger in four-part harmony. You ignored him, continuing to stir your coffee, hoping he would show you some pity to at least not bother you for the first few hours of the day. But of course he wouldn’t. He was Alastor, of course.

You felt him before you saw him. That chilling presence sliding in behind you, brushing too close, violating several unspoken rules about personal space and hangover protocol. You felt your bloodshot eyes twitch, whether that be from the hangover or the Sinner standing right behind you, you weren’t sure. Inhaling slowly, you continued to look at the caramel-colored beverage in front of you, once more praying to any deity out there that perhaps you were just imagining his presence.

"Good morning, darling!" he purred, like your skull wasn't splitting open. "Sleep well?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. Not when your entire existence was currently held together with willpower and lukewarm coffee. You weren’t planning to reply at all until he cleared his throat—clearly waiting.

You swore the mug cracked in your hand. “…I had a dream that I died. Peacefully. In my sleep. You ruined it.” 

He chuckled, that low, musical hum that scraped up your spine and took residence in your brain like a catchy song you couldn’t get rid of. "Such vivid dreams. I do hope I was in them."

Despite your irritation, your stomach fluttered at his soft tone, the vocal static accompaniment absent as sincerity intertwined with his usual mirth. You turned slowly, craning your neck to look at him through your sunglasses. Pursing your lips, you watched him through the tinted lenses. “You know, I think I like this color palette of you more.”

Alastor’s eyes seemed to narrow when you lifted your chin up defiantly, a deep rumble of satisfaction emitting from his chest. “Ah, but chère, now I can’t see those lovely eyes of yours!”

He leaned down to remove the sunglasses, his long fingers brushing against your temple a bit too gently for your liking. You were about to protest before Alastor ripped the glasses off your face, your frown twisting to hiss like a vampire as you shut your eyes tightly in a failed attempt to shield yourself from the light. “Alastor! What the fuck!”

He only laughed at your pain, dropping the sunglasses on the counter behind you and covering your upper face with his large palms. You continued to shut your eyes after the light behind your eyelids disappeared, not daring to open them and face the sadistic asshole in front of you. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Open your eyes, chère.” You shivered at the sudden proximity of his voice, his breath tickling your right ear as you involuntarily swallowed. You weren’t sure why you necessarily listened to Alastor, but as your eyes hesitantly fluttered open, you realized you weren’t in the headache-inducing bright lights of the hotel kitchen. No, you were suddenly greeted by plush red cotton sheets, pupils adjusting to the dim glow of soft green lights littering the walls. 

You glanced around, realizing quickly you were in a hotel room. Not any hotel room—Alastor’s. You jolted up from the bed, wincing as you moved a little too fast for your hangover’s liking. “Alastor, why exactly am I in your bed?”

Your eyes landed on Alastor standing by his desk, coat discarded on the loveseat next to him, fingers starting to undo his bowtie. You practically short-circuited at the scene, your cheeks turning a bright red as you blinked in surprise. “Al, what is going on?”

“Why, I’m here to cure your hangover, dearest,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused, trying to make sense of the current situation you were in—which was not giving you much to work with. Your brows furrowed. “And exactly how do you plan on helping?”

He hummed softly, placing his bowtie on the table as he approached your spot on the bed. “By getting in bed with you.” 

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing up air as you gave him an incredulous look. “What?!”

“Oh please, nothing will come of this encounter if you don’t wish for anything to happen. I’m simply trying to help in any way I can.” He sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you as he waved his hand over the other, a tall glass of water appearing in it.

You were too surprised by the turn of events to comprehend his statement, throat suddenly dry by the glorious cup of water practically dangling in front of you. He sighed once more, rolling his eyes as he handed you the glass. “Drink up.”

You snatched the cup with both hands and downed it, gulping so fast it nearly splashed back up your nose. Your eyes closed as you sigh in relief, your body an ounce better than it was before as you passed him the glass. Though you still had a raging headache, your eyes weren’t throbbing from any bright lights nor were you unknowingly suffering from dehydration now. 

“Would you like another one?” Alastor hums softly, watching your pacified expression. You shake your head, opening your eyes to look at Alastor. He was watching you with surprising patience, his smile small but genuine. You pause a moment to observe him, him merely doing the same as you meet his glowing stare. Those damn eyes—blood-red, always gleaming with mischief. But now, as he stared at you with uncharacteristic softness, you couldn’t help but get flashbacks from the way he watched you the entire time last night.

You inhaled through your nose, groaning as your moment of peace is suddenly interrupted by the remembrance of last night’s affairs. "...Are we going to bring it up or not?"

Alastor took a second to think, brow raising in confusion when he didn’t understand what you were talking about. "Bring what up, dear?"

You stared, huffing at him in exasperation. "The kiss, Alastor. Are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?"

His smile froze, ears twitching faintly—as if caught off by the thought of it as well. Then, just as quickly, he lit up like you’d handed him a fresh corpse wrapped in a bow and sealed with a kiss.

“Oh, that!” he chirped. “Heavens, no. I’d never forget something so…” He paused, his eyes dragging slowly—lazily—down your face. “…tantalizing!”

A sharp inhale slipped through your nostrils. You visibly recoiled, your face now a dangerous shade of crimson. “Tantalizing?!” you sputtered.

His smile turned downright wicked, lips curling upward. He leaned forward to set the empty glass on the bedside table, the movement smooth, casual. But your eyes betrayed you—snagging mid-motion, drawn down to the curve of his back, the subtle shift of fabric over lean muscle.

And then you saw it.

Somehow—somehow—you had missed it before. Blame the hangover. Blame the shock. Blame the fact that your brain was probably still rebooting from the whole appearing-in-Alastor’s-bed thing. But now that your gaze had landed on it, there was no un-seeing it.

The harness.

A jet-black leather harness wrapped around his broad chest, completely visible now that he was sans his usual red coat. Despite just drinking water, your throat suddenly felt extremely dry. You tore your staring upward like a Sinner yanking their hand from a Bible.

Too late.

He was already watching you. And oh, he was delighted.

His smile widened by degrees. His eyelids dipped into a half-lidded stare, slow and heavy with implication. There was no point pretending. Between your flushed cheeks and the way your eyes had lingered a millisecond too long, you may as well have been holding a neon sign that read: I JUST OGLED THE RADIO DEMON.

He savored your expression. A content hum rumbled in his chest, not quite a purr—but close.

“I do wonder, though,” he mused, voice dropping to a velvety murmur, “was it only the liquor?” His head tilted again, that playful glint never leaving his gaze. “Or...”—He leaned in slightly, just enough to send your pulse scattering—“would you still taste as sweet sober?”

Your eyes widened by the shift in his attitude, clearly feeling confident from your little staring mishap. Swallowing, you folded your arms, trying not to give into his very tempting flirting. “Alastor,” you warned, your tone brittle, “I’m five seconds away from tearing that smug expression off your face.”

“If that’ll help your hangover, by all means.”

You paused, confused if his words were another jest or genuine. “What?”

“I told you,” he said, gesturing innocently, “I’m here to cure your hangover. Whichever way you find fit.”

You blinked at him. Hard. The silence stretched. Finally, you squinted, hugging your crossed arms harder against your body with a slow, suspicious edge. “You’re messing with me.”

His brows raised in mock innocence. “Moi? Never. In fact…” he paused, his tone shifting just slightly—less cheek, more earnest, like the static had dialed down a notch. “I realize I’ve put you in quite the precarious situation. One that now, unfortunately, involves the rest of the hotel bearing witness. And for that”—He gave a faint, ironic bow of his head—“I do apologize.”

The cogs in your head churned in overtime to try and understand the current situation. 

You somehow were sitting in the middle of the Radio Demon’s bed, being pampered by that very demon himself, because he wanted to apologize? The very concept was laughable, and you especially found this whole thing unnecessary when it was simply a drunken mistake.

(Not to mention that you enjoyed every second of being in Alastor’s lap. How were you ever going to forget that intoxicating smell of cedarwood and death?)

You forced away your drifting thoughts, looking at him with a raised brow. “You’re doing all this to apologize? Really? All you did was kiss me.”

Alastor’s lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to grin wider. It was a losing battle.

“Correction, dear,” he said, voice dripping with faux innocence. “You kissed me first.”

Your jaw dropped at how he completely ignored your question, instead focusing on your word choice. You scoffed, once again scandalized. “While wasted! That doesn’t count!”

“Ah,” he mused, tapping his chin as though pondering the secrets of the universe. “Then perhaps we should try again.”

You stiffened, throat catching at how he spoke so easily. His voice still held that familiar playful edge—but beneath it, something was shifting. The air thickened. His grin didn't widen this time. Instead, it softened, just a touch. Like he was testing the waters. 

His eyes flicked across your face—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. When he spoke next, the room felt smaller somehow. Quieter. You could hear the gentle hum of the fire in the hearth, blending seamlessly with the low radio static emitting off Alastor, the mattress creaking as he leaned a fraction closer.

“Why, I don’t do this often, you know,” he murmured, the static in his voice dimmed as he almost gave you a bashful look.

Your brows furrowed.

“And I realize,” he continued slowly, almost cautiously, “our unfortunate interruption last night may have left… desires unfinished for you.”

His eyes searched yours, expression unreadable. But his voice—oh, his voice—held the kind of vulnerability that cracked through your defenses like light under a locked door.

“I’m here to help.”

You blinked at him, stunned. The words didn’t even register at first—not fully. Not until they echoed in your chest a second time.

“…Wow,” you managed, trying to keep your tone light, deflecting with a slight teasing huff. “How noble, Alastor.” You bit your lip at how Alastor’s gaze studied every detail of your expression like a hunter, his lips thinning as if he was waiting for more from you—a challenge wrapped in silk.

You swallowed down your nerves, catching on the way his intertwined fingers twitched in his lap. “...Did it leave unfinished desires… for you?”

He stilled, his eyelids dropping as he took in a deep inhale at your words. And when he looked at you again, there was no mask. His smile had turned into something so hesitant—so faint that it barely registered in your mind as a smile at all, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. A long, soft silence filled the room as he looked at you with such intensity, you forgot how to breathe.

“I’d be lying,” he said, voice suddenly deep and sure, “if I said I am not undoubtedly yours, ma chère.”

The world stopped. Your breath caught. The heat that had been simmering under your skin now rushed to the surface, electric and dizzying. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangled. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

The man sitting in front of you was one of Hell’s most feared Overlords, a man who had crumbled the strongest of demons. And yet, he was also a man who had just confessed his feelings for you, just hours after french kissing you in a drunken stupor. Sure, Alastor had always seemed to be kinder to you than to anyone else in the hotel, but you had always just brushed that off to be mere acceptance of your presence—not a fondness for it.

Alastor simply waited patiently for your reply, legs crossed politely over the edge of the bed as he twisted his body to face you. His ears were flat against his head, his thumb tapping against his skin in a small display of nerves. And Satan help you, your heart surged at the sight like a moth to a flame.

“I—” you started, voice breathy. But as your brain failed to come up with a response, you didn’t try to say anything else.

You just leaned in, cupping his cheeks with your palms as you placed a gentle kiss on his lips. The gesture was familiar. But this time—unlike the inebriated mess of a kiss you’d given him last night—you had the decency to pull back. The radio static in the room swelled, the old radio on one of Alastor’s shelves crackling to life, playing a charming jazz melody.

“Dare I presume that’s your way of telling me you share the same sentiments toward me, darling?” Alastor chuckled, pulling his hands away from his lap to lean in closer to you.

Before you could react, Alastor had leaned in close once more, stealing another kiss from your lips. You couldn’t help but giggle in response, “Yes, you ass.” You gave him a light kiss on the cheek, your eyes twinkling with joy. “I’d hope you’d think I’m better than to just snog any demon in the lobby, drunk or not.”

Alastor’s grin turned sly, humming in satisfaction at your words. You gasped as he pushed you down onto the bed, your body bouncing gently as you found yourself now facing upwards. Your mind blanked at the sight of Alastor popping off his shoes, rolling off the leather harness with practiced ease. He climbed onto the bed alongside you, draping a casual arm around your body as he laid beside you. 

“Oh, I knew your kiss seemed too passionate for me to be just a passing fancy,” Alastor teased, “Good news is that I’ve found a lasting obsession with having your lips on mine.”

He didn’t wait for you to react as he leaned in to kiss you once more, this time harder. You sighed into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you closer. His hand found the side of your waist, firm but not forceful, fingers splaying like he was grounding himself in the moment. His lips were warm, steady, moving against yours with a relaxed confidence that stood in sharp contrast to the rushed, sloppy kisses from the night before.

And oh, the effect it had on you.

You shifted instinctively, hand coming up to bury your fingers into the trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. He hummed at the contact, the sound reverberating against your lips—low and pleased, a static buzz of delight that thrummed in your chest.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, nose brushing yours, and for a fleeting second you forgot what air was. His lips parted slightly, inviting you to meet him halfway, and when your tongues brushed, your breath hitched. That was all he needed to hear.

“Mmm… positively divine,” Alastor murmured as he pulled away just enough to catch your dazed expression. His smile was lazy now, lopsided and glowing with something deeper than amusement. “You make the air taste sweeter, chérie.”

“Flatter me more, why don’t you,” you teased breathlessly, though your voice came out more of a whimper than anything else. He chuckled, deep and velvety, as he leaned in again—no room left for anything between you now but fabric and heat.

This time, it was slower. 

Less fire, more honey. His kisses dragged along your lips like he had all the time in Hell to savor you—and damn, it felt like he would. He brushed his nose along your cheekbone, feathered kisses down to your jaw, then up again as you curled into his touch, the edge of your thigh sliding along his leg. His velveteen hand traced gentle circles at your hip, occasionally slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie just far enough to let you feel the scalding contact of skin against skin. But he never pushed. Never rushed.

Instead, he lingered like a melody stuck on a loop, exploring the shape of your lips with his own, pressing kisses that grew longer, needier, then softer again. He was addicted, drunk on your taste, his usual collected composure starting to become carnally hungry as he continued his kisses.

“You’re… you’re really not gonna stop, huh?” you asked, giggling between kisses as you tried to catch your breath.

Alastor nipped at your lower lip, grinning devilishly. “Darling,” he whispered, his voice dipping into a fond growl, “not unless you ask me to. But I do hope you won’t, because I am utterly enchanted.”

Again and again, he kissed you, each one a little different than the last—some chaste, some daring, all brimming with a dangerous kind of tenderness that made your body warm up. And in between those kisses, he whispered little nothings: praises, teases, threats of affection so sweet they made your toes curl.

By the time he finally pulled away, just barely, your lips were swollen, your face flushed, and your heart? Utterly, stupidly his.

“Stars above,” you mumbled, dazed and breathless. “You really do like kissing me.”

He laughed, brushing his nose against yours once more, eyes sparkling. “You’d be surprised how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

You were going to fire back something clever—something cocky, maybe flirty—but the words fizzled out the moment his hand slipped beneath your hoodie.

Fingertips ghosted over your waist, your body shivering at how soft his hands were. The contrast of his sharp claws against your delicate skin made your spine tense, a soft gasp slipping from your parted lips—and Alastor felt it. He smirked against your mouth, already chasing another kiss before you could even process the last one. He shifted beside you, rolling slowly until he was caging you in from above with his large frame.

Teeth grazed your bottom lip, not rough—teasing. His tongue slipped past your lips, curling against yours with surprising precision, like he was memorizing the shape of your hunger. You moaned before you could stop yourself, thighs instinctively shifting beneath him. He groaned in response, low and guttural, barely restrained, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest like thunder waiting to crack open the sky.

“Dearest,” he purred, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your chin, then your throat, then just above your collarbone. “Those little noises of yours are going to drive me mad very easily.” He pulled away for a second, looking down at you as his red locks surrounded your peripheral vision—it was just you and him in this moment. 

“Is… is this something you want?”

You felt his hand rub circles into your stomach soothingly, his eyes searching yours to make sure every bit of your being wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You can’t help but laugh at the uncharacteristic sweetness of it all, shaking your head gently beneath him. “Who would have thought the Radio Demon was so respectful in bed?”

“Why, I am a Southern gentleman after all, sweetheart!” He drawled, his smile widening at your teasing remark. “But tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop immediately. No matter how hard it’ll be to—quell my hunger.” He finished his sentence with a sharp nip at your neck, making you involuntarily squeak at the pinch.

You hummed, intertwining your hands into his hair. “Thank you for the concerns, but I promise this is everything I want.” 

He groaned at the way you scratched his scalp, his ears twitching from the feeling. You smirked at the starry look he gave you, his lips once more meeting yours. Your eyelids shut as you mewled into the kiss, Alastor’s hands returning to underneath your hoodie with more need. Your breath started to shorten as his hands hesitantly reached higher and higher, your chest rising and lowering faster.

His hands cupped your breasts, your thighs instinctively pushing together as you felt your head spin from the contact. You had to withdraw from the kiss, gasping for air as Alastor watched you with half-lidded eyes. He leaned down to kiss your neck instead, his fangs nibbling softly as he fondled your chest with such tenderness. You gasped when his thumbs rubbed against your nipples, and you felt Alastor grin against your skin as they peaked under his touch. 

Every caress of his sent a jolt of fire straight to your core, the heat between your legs growing. You were sure you were starting to seep through your panties, the room a thousand degrees hotter with how Alastor was groping your body. 

“You feel like sin,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I could get drunk off the heat of you alone.”

Before you could reply, Alastor removed his hands from your breasts, leaning back on his knees to pull you forward in a searing kiss. You were temporarily winded from the sudden movement, sitting up as you desperately tried to match his pace. His hands gripped the hem of your hoodie, lifting it up over your head as goosebumps littered your skin from the sudden exposure. He discarded the material somewhere off the bed, pushing you down once more as his hungry mouth met the skin of your chest.

You moaned out his name, your hands carding through his locks again as his tongue swirled around your left nipple. His thumb stimulated your right nipple in similar fashion, your eyes glazing over as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure.

His mouth detached from your mound, going lower and lower as he continued to fondle your breasts. Wet kisses were placed in a trail down your stomach, his mouth hesitating right at the top of your shorts. He glanced up at you, your core clenching at the way he locked eyes with you before pulling down your shorts and panties in one steady go.

Alastor wasted no time pulling your thighs apart, your cheeks suddenly warm at being completely exposed to him. He had you spread out like a decadent offering, laid bare before him, your body instinctively trying to fight the vulnerable position. You struggled in his grip, his strong hands holding the bottom of your thighs steady as you tried to push them together once more. Your stomach coiled in embarrassment when he took a deep breath in, his nostrils flaring at the scent of your arousal. “Alastor—”

Your complaint was lodged in your throat as your eyes landed on his expression. His pupils were blown wide, grin parted, as though the image of you—dripping, glistening with need—was something sacred. One of his hands moved to gently spread your lips, and his thumb ghosted over your clit with maddening care, pulling a soft gasp from your throat.

“My, my…” he breathed. “So wet already. And all for me.”

And then, without further warning—he devoured you.

His mouth latched onto you with terrifying precision, tongue flicking in fast, deliberate strokes against your clit while his hands gripped your thighs, keeping you pinned to the bed. The sensation was immediate—sharp, electric, almost as if a wire had been connected straight from your core to your spine. You cried out, hips bucking, but he held you, kept you right where he wanted you.

“Easy now,” he murmured against you, voice muffled but amused. “Let me take my time.”

You were soaked—and he seemed to love it, moaning softly as his tongue dipped down to taste everything. He licked up your arousal like it was nectar, slow and indulgent, before circling back to your clit and sucking, gently at first—then harder. The lewd sounds of Alastor’s mouth mixed with the faint love song crackling from the radio, your eyes rolling to the back of your head from the pleasure overwhelming your body.

Your back arched. Your hands tugged on hair behind his ears, desperate for more. He groaned when you pulled on him—deep and vibrating against your sensitive flesh. The sensation made you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“Th-that—Alastor—fuck—” You lifted one of your arms to cover your eyes, your face burning hot from the shameful sounds Alastor was eliciting from you. 

A shadowy tendril wrapped around your wrist, pulling your forearm off of your eyes. He pulled away only briefly, his mouth slick with your juices, a feral grin splitting his lips.

“Oh darling,” he purred, voice thick, eyes gleaming. “Don’t shy away from me.”

Then he buried himself in you once more.

His tongue moved with devilish skill—flicking, circling, pressing in just the right rhythm, while his fingers slipped lower, teasing at your entrance before easing inside you. One. Then two. Slow, curling motions that had your entire body clenching around him. You felt Alastor finger you with precision, the faint reminder of his pointed nails against your walls made your head spin. He could tear you apart in an instant, and yet here he was, devoting himself to giving you nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He fucked you with his fingers and licked you like a man starved—like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. He’d groan when you moaned. Chuckle darkly when you cursed. Murmur “that’s it, my sweet, give in” when your hips started grinding against his mouth.

You were unraveling—gasping, writhing, begging for something you couldn’t name. The pressure was building exponentially, and you could barely form a thought beyond more more please don’t stop—

And he didn’t.

He knew. He felt the way your body tensed, the way your cries grew higher, the way your legs tried to close around his head—he pressed his free hand to your stomach, grounding you, keeping you open and his.

“Come for me, chère,” he whispered into your skin, voice thick and reverent. “Let me taste it.”

His words pushed you over the edge, snapping the invisible rubber band inside your stomach. You shattered with a cry, your orgasm hitting you like a storm, thighs trembling violently as your entire body curved off the bed. Alastor held you through it, lapping up every drop, groaning with delight as he worked you through the high with soft, slow licks until you were twitching, sensitive, your hands weakly trying to push him away. 

“Al—Alastor, too much,” You whimpered pathetically, your hands softly pushing him away from your overstimulated core. He finally pulled back, chin dripping with a mix of his saliva and your wetness, eyes black and gleaming.

And he smiled.

That big, sharp, genuine smile.

“So sweet,” he sighed, voice dreamy as he kissed your trembling thigh. “I could gorge myself on you for hours and still crave more, dearest.”

You were too blissed out to answer—just a panting, whimpering mess beneath him.

He crawled up your body slowly, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your chest. And when he finally reached your lips again, he kissed you with the same mouth that had just ruined you—and you didn’t even hesitate to return it.

You could taste yourself on him.

Alastor cradled your face in his hand, brushing your sweaty hair back gently, his voice a soft murmur against your lips. “Still with me, ma douce?” 

His voice vibrated against your lips, his hands coming up to his neck to quickly unbutton his shirt. His hands moved with practiced accuracy, your body still regaining strength from your orgasm. You glanced down at the strain in his slacks, your mouth watering at the sight of just how badly he needed relief. Withdrawing only enough to stand at the foot of the bed, he dragged his belt open with a snap that made your stomach flip.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?” he asked, even as he slid his trousers down his hips, freeing himself.

You nodded instantly, but your breath caught in your throat once your gaze landed on his member. He was long. Thick. Already dripping at the tip from how hard he was, how worked up you’d made him just from tasting you. His cock curved slightly upward, pulsing with anticipation as he crawled back over you, guiding himself to your entrance with one slow, grinding drag of his tip along your still-sensitive folds.

“Alastor, stop teasing.” You hissed as he continued brushing the head of his cock against your wet slit. A deep hum of amusement escaped his chest, his eyes fluttering shut as he relished the way your lips invited him in.

When he pushed in—it was slow. Torturously slow. Stretching you inch by inch, making your mouth fall open with a sound that bordered on a sob. You were still so aroused, your walls fluttering, clenching down on him as he eased deeper.

“Ohhh, fuck—” you gasped, legs trembling.

Alastor groaned—really groaned—his voice breaking for just a moment as your warmth enveloped him fully. You clenched around him as he hissed out your name like a prayer.

“You feel—divine,” he growled, his composure splintering as his hips finally pressed flush against yours. “Like you were made to take me.”

He stayed there for a moment buried to the hilt, before pulling back and thrusting in again with a force that made your body jolt up the bed. The rhythm started hard and deep—slow but intentional, like he was trying to imprint himself into every inch of you. There was no frantic rutting, no careless pace. Every thrust was a symphony of tension and release. Your moans came unbidden, rising with every grind of his hips, every brush of his pelvis against your overstimulated clit.

And Alastor loved it.

He drank up your reactions as if it were ambrosia, glowing red eyes fixed on your face, on the way you gasped and cried out, on the way your nails clawed at his back. Your sounds were music to his ears, your blissed out expression making his dick twitch. You looked thoroughly fucked, Alastor’s chest swelling with pride as he felt his antlers start to grow ever so slowly. You bucked beneath him, hips grinding up to meet his thrusts, and he groaned again—sharper this time. The sound shot straight through you, and your hands flew to his hair, yanking him down into another kiss that had your teeth clashing, your tongues tangling.

“This pussy—fuck,” he mewled into your mouth, “this perfect little pussy—clinging to me like she doesn’t want me to leave.”

His voice was fraying now, strained, unraveling at the edges. “Is that it, darling?” he rasped, still kissing you between words. “You want me to stay right here? Fill you until you can’t think?”

“Y-yes—please, don’t stop, Alastor—”

One hand suddenly snaked beneath your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder. The angle changed—oh God, the angle changed!—and you cried out, your back arching as he hit deeper, harder, grinding against that sweet, devastating spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“There,” he smirked, voice low and breathless. “There it is.”

He continued to pound into you until you were sobbing his name, clutching the sheets, tears brimming in your lashes from the sheer overwhelm of it. Alastor's smile turned feral as he saw your tears, his pace faltering as he kissed your tears as they fell.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispered, soft between the pounding thrusts. “So good for me. Taking me so well. You were meant for this. Meant for me.”

You whimpered at his praises, cumming again without warning—your body locking up, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave breaking against stone. Alastor groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, pulsing, twitching, milking him as he drove in deep one final time.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a growl—deep, guttural, almost animalistic—his cock twitching as he filled you, spilling inside you with a heat that made your thighs quiver. You felt him pulse inside you, bury himself deeper, hips twitching with the last few, slow thrusts.

Alastor collapsed beside you with a sigh that was more satisfied than smug for once, his arm immediately curling around your waist to tug you flush against him. His skin was slick with sweat, his breath still uneven, but his smile—that damned smile—was gentler now. Calmer. Like some longing ache inside him had finally eased.

The two of you lay there in silence for a moment, your body still twitching with the occasional aftershock as your breath steadied. Your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, warm and safe as your hands gently played with the soft fur of his chest. He sighed at the feeling, inhaling deeply as he relaxed.

Then, with absolutely zero shame in his tone, he spoke.

“So,” he drawled lazily, voice low and playful, “did I cure your hangover?”

You tensed, lifting your head just enough to blink at him, eyes wide and incredulous. You paused for a moment to focus on your head, realizing your headache was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, laughter flowed out of you, your head thrown back as you giggled at his question—of course he still remembered.

“You know what…” you breathed, grinning at him like he’d just said the funniest thing. “Surprisingly, you did.”

Alastor chuckled, eyes glittering with delight. He merely leaned down to kiss your forehead, brushing away the hair stuck to your forehead. Cuddling closer, you dropped your head once more to the crook of his neck, his fingers stroking lazy circles on your back, and the silence that followed was heavy with comfort. After a pause, you tilted your head to glance up at him again.

“...Did you get me drunk because you knew I’d kiss you?”

Alastor gasped dramatically at your questioning. Hand pressed to his chest, all mock offense and theatrical flourish. “Oh contraire, chérie!” he insisted. “I was trying to get us both drunk so I could confess my affections for you—never did I expect you to do something so scandalous.” 

He paused, grin widening into its usual smirk. “But alas, it ended in my favor… so I must thank you for it.”

You groaned into his shoulder, rolling your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He laughed—a full, rich sound that rumbled against your cheek as he kissed the top of your head once more.

“Perhaps,” he whispered. “But I’m your idiot now.”

Your POV

When you woke up delirious and exhausted one day, your boyfriend practically panicked. It was odd to see him fret, so unsure and unsettled over a cold. It’s not like dying from illness in Hell would be permanent either so his frittering about was completely uncalled for.

Darling, have some soup. Darling, drink some water. Darling, I brought some medicine. Between your fuzzy senses and bleary awareness throughout the last couple of days, these moments of attention and care piled up into memory. Ah, but he really was sweet even when his worry was unnecessary. When you were better, you would pay him back.

That said, for the first time in days, you felt somewhat clear headed, the fog of sleep no longer clinging to you in moments of consciousness. You tried to remember how long you’d been out. Three days? Four? Alastor would know but the deer man wasn’t here. Weakly, you searched for his presence. The house was silent except for the sounds of the bayou where your shared home stood, no footsteps on creaking floorboards or humming as he went about his routine. You did, however, sense his power. It was faint compared to what he exuded but it was there, not too far from you. Turning to the side, you found his staff leaning neatly on the nightstand.

Right. He had business to attend to at the hotel. You vaguely remember him telling you that earlier along with how he’d leave his microphone here just in case you needed to contact him. Why he refused to get even just a pager, you really didn’t understand. But you weren’t complaining right now. The faint trace of his magic from the microphone was comforting in the absence of the man himself.

Sluggishly, you crawled to the edge of the bed and reached for the staff to bring into bed with you.

“Al?” You called weakly hoping to hear your boyfriend’s voice but only received silence as a response. So he was too busy. Unfortunate, though it’s probably for the best as you only wanted to hear him and that wasn’t a good enough reason to interrupt his work.

Still…

Closing your eyes, a few memories flitted through your mind. A calming hand, and sweet murmurs asking if you were feeling better, what did you need? Your lover had always been good at caring for you but it was never with quite the amount of tenderness your faint memories provided. He’d sounded so unbelievably sweet that you regretted not being able to see him through most of it, fighting for consciousness as you were. Your heart clenched and stuttered thinking of your tall menace of a gentleman actually being a gentle man.

It could have been your fever or just your imagination trying to fill in the blanks of what face your usually chipper lover looked like as he cared for you but you felt flush as you laid in bed. Alastor…

He usually grinned a toothy smile meant to intimidate or fool anyone into thinking he was always having a jolly good time. But on occasion, you’d caught him with a small one, eyes half-lidded, lost in a soft sweet song from yesteryear, oblivious to the world. Sometimes those eyes would be looking at you, something electric lighting them up when you looked back at him.

Had he looked at you with that tired and lazy stare? Waiting patiently for you to get better as he took care of all your needs from changing your clothes to even bathing your body.

Heat pulsed down your body to between your legs. That wasn’t the fever. 

With a groan you turned to your side, the faint wave of arousal heating you up as it passed through you. Should you? Shouldn’t you? If you waited long enough, it would go away on its own. But then again, this was a rare opportunity to help yourself since Alastor was out and left you alone for once. 

Your throat felt dry as the arousal continued its slow but blaring spike. Ahh fuck it. You blamed your still feverish mind for giving in to quick relief.

Reaching into your pants, you fondled your sex through your underwear, gentle and slow, almost shy. When Alastor touched you, it was always urgent and demanding, his dominant personality on full display even as he was servicing your body. But what you wanted right now was that soft Alastor.

One faint memory in particular came to mind. Your body had been burning hotter than it was right now.

“Oh dear. You’re sweating so much, darling. Let me wipe you down.”

His ungloved hand reached out to help you sit up against the headboard, careful not to jolt you too harshly. There was a faint sloshing of water. With your eyes still sleepy, you didn’t see him but he must’ve rolled his sleeves up, coat put away somewhere since he was home.

“Easy there. Let me take off your shirt, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat picked up as you remembered the faint brushes of his fingers as he unbuttoned your sleepwear. With your free hand, you imitated your imaginary lover. Those long fingers peppered little touches on your chest, on your sternum and down your belly, another wave of heat following their path down but never quite reaching where you’d wanted them to go. He was always a tease.

Your breath hitched as you imagined him looking at your bare chest, one strong hand firmly keeping you in place against the headboard as the other went to grab a washcloth. Did he rub little circles on your clavicle with his thumb while he was at it? You’d like to think he did as you replicated his motions, rubbing your thumb in light circles over your sex.

This soft Alastor didn’t speak much, not wanting to disturb your rest more than he already was. Instead, he crooned a soft melody, keeping you teetering in limbo between wakefulness and sleep as your body grew hotter. 

A cold cloth passed over your shoulder causing you to keen, your nipples hardening in response to the imaginary chill, something your lover probably noticed. With firm yet gentle strokes, he patted the wet cloth against your sweaty body, each touch so gentle that it stoked a fire in your belly. Every time the cloth was washed, wrung and brought back to your body, you hissed, the cool sensation a stark contrast against your heated skin and heated core.

“Almost done, sweetheart.”

He was talking in a lower tone, almost whispering, voice turning the slightest bit gravelly. This was supposed to cool you down so why was it getting you hotter? And did he notice that the flush creeping up your chest had nothing to do with your cold? 

Finally, he’d finished wiping your back and arms, tossing the washcloth into the basin with a loud splash.

In reality, he’d dressed you up in a new shirt and you went back to sleep but not this imaginary deer man.

“Oh darling, you still look so flushed.”

Clawed hands gently cupped your heated cheeks, their coolness shooting straight to your aroused sex in a way that was a little embarrassing given that your man was only trying to clean you up. And even with your eyes closed, you knew he noticed, his stare feeling electric on your exposed skin.

“Oh I might have missed a spot.”

There was a light teasing in his voice, only masked by the rough murmur it had turned to. You heard the water slosh again. A cold and slightly rough sensation brushed against your erect nipple. You moaned in shocked pleasure as it jolted lighting through your body. A similarly shocked gasp came from your imaginary Alastor, a light break in his static as his hand lightly clenched.

You felt boneless as his other hand guided you to lay back down as he cooed softly. 

“Your fever is back up, darling. Let me try to cool you down.”

The washcloth rubbed lightly against your other nipple and your stomach clenched. It felt so good. He kept at it, playing with one or the other until you were a writhing mess. You tried to open your eyes but they were too heavy. 

“Shhh sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” 

One claw tip, razor sharp, lightly flicked your nipple, rubbing on it just a bit before tracing a line down your navel, down your bellybutton and stopping just at the waistband of your pajamas before ghosting over your sex.

He said nothing but the sound of his chuckles transformed that sweet face into his usual smug one. Arrogant prick. He was planning to tease you til you begged, wasn’t he? You were almost tempted to let him play with you until you got to that point. A wicked smile stretched in his face.

“Don’t tease me, Al.”

“Tease you, dear? I’m just trying to clean you up. Sit up so I can put a new shirt on you.”

You wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face. Fueled by arousal and spite, you imagined pulling the deer man into bed with you, tossing him over until you had him under you. You imagined straddling his skinny waist and letting him feel the results of his ‘cleaning up.’ With your hand still cupping your heated sex, you ground down on it only to gasp when something cool bumped into the back of your hand.

Breaking away from your fantasy, you spot Alastor’s staff under you, faintly buzzing with your lover’s magic. Again, you blamed it on your fever but having something of his right there as you imagined topping your arrogant radio man was too delicious to resist.

Taking your hand away from your sex, you positioned the length of the staff to align with your core and then lowered yourself down. The cold metal glided against your sex as you rubbed yourself on it. It was too thin but if you closed your eyes, you could imagine that you were holding your skinny deer man, rubbing yourself against his equally hard cock.

Fuck. It shouldn’t feel so good but it did. You swung your hips a bit to feel more of that length, the harsh metal rubbing at just the right places to send pleasure up and down your spine. The fantasy in your head shattered as something else replaced it. 

You held onto the microphone tighter, pulling it closer to you as you imagined your Alastor walking in on this display. Coming in from a hard day’s work only to find you so desperately chasing release against his microphone. Could he hear the sounds you were making?

A moan escaped your lips. He would be so stunned. He didn’t know that you were this horny. He was always so proper and only recently accepted intimate contact. How could you tell him that you just wanted to rub yourself all over him? Feel the hard planes of his body against your skin. Push him down and ride his cock until he was a mess of screams and broken radio static. He was so sensitive, so new to sex. You wanted to ruin him for anyone else.

He’d never let you be on top though, too busy wanting to fuck you into the mattress. Gods, he was rough. He’d thrust with all his lithe body, wringing screams of want and desperate pleasure from you until you skull banged against the headboard. Then he’d kiss you to pin you in place. 

Of course you wanted to do the same to him so why not start with this part of him? The mic had a capped bottom, giving you a lovely ridge to play with. Pushing the staff under you, you desperately humped against that ridge, delicious friction sending unimaginable thrills up your spine and all the way to your head until it was empty except for that pleasure.

“Alastor.” 

The microphone head pressed into your chest, its ridges lightly rubbing against your skin and your nipples with each roll of your hips, shooting little jolts of ticklish pleasure through you. Ohh it felt so good. You gasped and moaned as you reached higher and higher peaks. Could Alastor hear what you were doing? The thing was always on so he probably could. Was he listening to you fuck yourself against his mic while sitting in a meeting, unable to leave? Were your cries throwing off his focus? Was he itching to come back home to you and see exactly what you were doing?

“Allll—“

Could he feel your heated sex as you pressed it against the length of his staff? The thing was a part of him after all. If so, how was he feeling right now? Scandalized? Aroused? Horrified? If he were here, would he push you away or take his microphone’s place? Either way, his clawed hand would have to grab you by your hips as you continued to gyrate against his staff. The ghostly sensations of his hands on you fueling the fire coursing through your veins. Fuck! You were so close. 

You pinched your nipple as you ground down hard, your fingers joining the staff in teasing your sensitive sex, the pleasure building up until you tipped over the edge.

“Al! I—I’m coming!” You moaned into the microphone, wanting your lover to hear your pleasured cries, all cares gone with the wind as you rode your high into unconsciousness.

Alastor's POV

A meeting with the Princess of Hell was the last thing on his mind right now. A sick lover awaited him at home, needing to be cared for, but he was forced to come to this useless meeting instead. So very unfortunate. Given, the recent announcement of the new extermination timeline was a huge concern for the girl but that was honestly not his problem to worry about so long as the hotel and his business partner remained unscathed.

Needless to say, the princess was determined to ‘speed up’ what progress she could on getting their two guests to achieve redemption.

“Volunteer work idea! We can do volunteer work as part of our redemption path. Doing good deeds is part of being a good person, right? Well, we should help out some of the sinners in the territorial war districts.” Charlie raised up one of her hand drawn illustrations showing what he assumed to be the said territorial war zone. It depicted the hotel crew helping clean and bandage the wounded and helpless.

All so very trivial given those souls would respawn in time unless they were faced with Carmine weaponry. In that case, and in all cases really, those souls should have known what they were getting themselves into when battling for territory. He’d thought of a hundred ways the princess’ idea could go wrong and was about to suggest them when he heard a familiar voice ringing through his mind. He picked up the signal from his microphone.

“Al?” Voice hoarse from disuse, his little darling called out to him once you had woken up. How he wished he could come to your side right at that moment. The few times you had been coherent during this whole ordeal had been far too few and short. A hellish flu was so uncommon and there had been no ways to heal from it other than to wait it out. 

He reevaluated what he needed to do. On one hand, he could be helpful and plan this whole redemption exercise for Charlie to ensure no trouble occurred. However, the princess took a very hands-on approach to things. Bringing up any problems would only prolong the meeting…He sighed internally. What to do?

With half an ear to the chattering princess, he focused the other half of his attention to whatever sounds his microphone could pick up. If anything alarming was transmitted, he was ready to shadow home as quickly as possible.

“…We can implement a buddy system. It’s a little dangerous to just go alone and…” Ah. For once, the princess recognized a flaw in her plan before he even had to mention it. Wonderful. She was learning to be a bet—

“Ah…oh..”

Any admiration he might have had for the princess’ awareness of the dangers her plan posed was halted by a breathy moan in his mind’s ear. Had you gotten hurt trying to move around? From how delirious you had been prior, he could imagine you falling off the bed trying to look for him or care for yourself. But he hadn't heard any noises indicating an accident.

Immediately, all his focus moved to his microphone, magick at the ready to bring him back. Charlie’s plans would have to wait. He was about to apologize to the princess and leave when another sound, a soft sigh of pleasure entered his mind.

What?

It was soft, so very soft, but your rhythmic breathing was steadily increasing in pace, dotted with little sighs and shy moans. He knew those sounds all too familiarly, aimed to bring them out as he played with your body most evenings. Surely…it wasn’t what he thought it was? 

A high keening sound, muffled slightly and marred by the transmission’s static pierced his mind and smothered any doubt he had about exactly what he was hearing. 

The sound of your whines rang in his ear, reverberating through his head like a dinner bell and awakening a hunger he’d only ever felt with you. Sinful little thing. You had to know that he could hear you with his microphone so close to you. You were doing this on purpose! His static crackled as your noises picked up.

Your muffled cries increased in volume and urgency as he could now hear the subtle rustling of bedsheets moving with you. Whatever fantasy had brought you to touch yourself, you were currently lost in.

He twitched as tendrils of arousal slithered their way into his veins. His wicked lover was casting a siren call, delirious, weak, deliciously vulnerable and obviously asking to be fucked. 

He took a slow breath to cool the heat starting to rise in his body. Why did you start this now, of all times? He’d been with you for days before this! Your timing was terrible. Or maybe you had planned this, wanting him to come rushing to you as soon as possible. His teeth clenched in his smile.

Why was it that the first thing you did when you finally had the energy was to crave sexual fulfillment? To pleasure yourself when he wouldn’t be there to assist you? 

It was debased and primitive of you. He wasn’t sure whether to be irritated by your lewd behavior or proud. But he did know that your little act was stirring things south of where was appropriate in front of the princess and her girlfriend. Keeping a neutral expression on his face, he shifted slightly where he stood by the princess’ desk. He needed to get them out.

In a bid to keep his composure, he played a little jig from his chest, something light and cheerful, a complete and total clash to the heat building below his belly. If he waited just a bit more…but Charlie looked ready to burst into song. He couldn’t have that.

“An excellent idea!” He chimed, cutting off whatever Charlie was saying. Both women turned to him, one in pleasant surprise and the other curious.

“Really?” Charlie sparkled at his half-serious agreement, throwing beams of sunshine from her eyes that only served to irritate him further. The heat running up and down his body made him even more impatient with the princess’ inane suggestions. 

“Yes. Why don’t you scout out the perfect area for us to do this little venture. Have to ensure the safety of our guests, after all.” Before the women could get their bearings together, he was already gently pushing Charlie out the door, with her tail of a lover sure to follow. “Make a day trip of it, even. I’m sure there’s lots to see.”

“H..hnnnggh..!” 

His smile almost cracked at the delicious whine that poured from your darling mouth. He wished he could be there to drink it up right at that moment. But composure. Composure. Disguising the sense of urgency pumping through his system with enthusiastic chatter about casualty statistics and needing to ensure they didn’t overstep into Overlord territories, he managed to get the two women out of the shared office space in record time. 

“Have fun now, you two.” He waved them off, their faces a little bewildered but they didn’t really have much of a choice after he’d closed the door on their faces.

The door rattled in his haste but he managed to lock it quickly. He once again tried to summon his magick to bring him away when a croon reverberated through his chest.

“Alastorrrr…”

His breath caught. 

Static ran up his spine to the roll of those pleasured r’s. He’d never admit to how his knees buckled at the sound, a unique quality he could only attribute to his darling. But it was different somehow. A wicked idea popped into his mind, the static filter in his love’s voice adding a certain flavor he’d never associated with sex before.

Making sure to seal the room so that not even a speck of dust could get in or out, he sat down on his chair. With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the transmission from his mind to the radio sitting at his desk. From there, your voice played.

“Don’t tease me, Al.” 

“Oh but aren’t you doing the teasing here, darling?” He smiled deviously, imagining your face as he said so. You wouldn’t have heard him muse back. For what he had in mind, he’d made it a one-way broadcast purposefully.

Another sigh escaped your lips sending heat down to his already aching member. With deft hands, he unbuckled his belt, slowly easing himself out of his slacks. The hair of his navel stood on end at the rush of cold air hitting the sensitive skin. His cock stood ready and weeping from just the sounds of your debauchery. It was truly pathetic but you had that effect on him. He palmed himself briefly, imagining it was your hands taking him out of his clothes. Shy and careful. You were always very gentle with him. And it drove him mad with want.

Grabbing his cock, he started to stroke, slow at first, getting a bit faster as more of his precum leaked out. From the radio, he heard rustling. He could picture it then, your skin gliding in the sheets of your bed, a thin layer of sweat giving your flushed face a delectable shine. You writhed with want, unfulfilled and calling for him. Your labored breathing sounded lovely and lewdly through the radio.

He groaned, eyes closed as he pictured being there with you as you crawled over to him, hands greedy to stroke his member. The sheets rustled as they tugged at your knees, too eager to disentangle yourself from the blankets. Your hands delicately wrapped around his cock, face aglow as you admired it. You looked so ready to take it into your little mouth.

He hissed and stroked, slower this time to match his image of you. He licked his lips as his breathing quickened.

He’d never understood the appeal of listening to such filthy broadcasts. Saw it as a distasteful use of air time that could have been used for news, jazz or something else. He’d tried it once and could only grimace at the theatrical moaning of the actors at the station. The storylines were ridiculously shallow too.

But with you on the other side, a broadcast exclusive for his ears only…He shuddered, ears twitching to catch the lightest of sounds for his mind to work into fantasy. His hips thrust up into his hand, presenting you with a prize you so very much wanted. Naughty little thing.

The broadcast buzzed sharply, sending a jolt through his chest in shock. Something had hit the microphone. For a moment, his heart stopped, thinking that you did end up over extending yourself and collapsed. But just as quickly, a new sensation started.

“Fuck!”

His free hand rushed to gripped the armrest of his chair tightly. It was the only way he could channel the sudden rush that overtook his body, lest the hand squeezing his cock tighten too much. Something hot and moist pressed against his extension and he nearly choked at the sudden pressure.

He could feel it! A silky glide. He could feel you, your hot sex rubbing up and down against the shaft of his staff, his mind directing that sensation to his crotch. A shiver ran up his spine, the ghost sensations of your hands trailing along his staff being mirrored onto his body. 

“Fuck.” 

A similar curse whispered huskily through the radio. So he wasn’t the only one feeling sensitive. You moaned as he felt the corresponding brush of your sex against his staff, against him. Sweat collected on his brow as his body grew hotter in response. It was as if you were there with him.

“Ah—Alastor!”

“Yes, darling? Come and rut yourself on me. Let me feel you.” His free hand traced up his chest, claws mimicking the way you would slowly and intentionally trail your fingers up his body when you were being intimate. Tugging at his shirt teasingly, your hands lightly splayed against his chest. He arched his back into the touch. You knew how much he liked your touch. Always tracing lines along his shoulders, counting his ribs. 

“Oh..” He groaned, hand moving faster along his cock as you found a steady rhythm to pleasure yourself to. He could feel the ghostly heat and slick of your fluids starting to smear and make a mess of his microphone. His thumb brushed the weeping red tip, paying close attention to smear his precum, imagining it was yours starting to coat his cock.

“Hmnngh. Al—feels good.”

“Does it, darling? Hn. You’re making a mess. I’ll have you clean that up, you know.” As if you could hear him, another pathetic whine squeaked through his radio feed. His static broke at the sound. “Yes. You’ll have to take responsibility for making it so filthy.”

He could feel his extension get crushed between your body and the mattress, your body heat getting relayed onto his own. You were so desperate to bed him, keening and moaning sloppily to a fantasy him of your own design. He did the same. His mental image of you bent down, face close to his cock, breath brushing teasingly over the sensitive tip, waiting for his command. He smirked through the buzz that ran through his body at the pathetic sight, concentration going blurry as lust took over.

“Use your mouth.” 

Another high pitched whine. You bent low, static-filtered breathing feeling so close and warm on his cock. He summoned a tentacle to join his hand in working his member, its slimy texture a poor replacement for your tongue but…he growled at the first lick of it…good enough. As long as he thought it was you, it would be good enough. His teeth dug into his lip, stifling his groans as he guided ‘your tongue.’ A slow lick on each of his balls, up the underside of his cock, teasing the vein there that you knew he liked. 

“That’s good, dear. Ah! So good. Let me reward you.”

His free hand twitched, imagining reaching for your hole, working you open slowly with his fingers. The silky walls of your cavern were a familiar sensation his brain provided in the absence of the actual thing. His fingers pushed in and out slowly, tracing the outer edges before dipping back in. Your moans were constant now, a never ending chant of your pleasure and his name. His head swam with sensations, imagined and transmitted. A part of him reveled in this pleasure you gave him, that you didn’t know he was partaking in. 

“That’s it, darling. My darling doe. Take your pleasure…” He gasped, the muscles in his stomach growing taut as the coils of ecstasy wound themselves layer after layer. “…give me mine too. Make me cum with your mouth.”

From your sounds and the rough brushes of heat ghosting along his body, he could tell you were close, riding that fantasy of yours without reservation.

“Not yet, dear. Hnngh. Not..yet.” It was getting harder to breathe as his heart pounded, trying to reach that high while you were still going. He needed the stimuli. He craved it. He was so close. The wet heat from your body transmitted from his staff to his cock, your voice garbled pleasured sounds from his radio. So close. So close.

“Al! I—I’m coming!”

“Wait, darling. You can take a little more. Just a bit—”

But his plea didn’t reach you. He heard you scream directly into the microphone, so loud and amorous that his mind stuttered, worried that the sound ringing through the room would somehow escape and be heard by some passerby. 

All at once, he lost the rhythmic strokes against his body as your undulating stopped. Your salacious broadcast had ended.

He rutted up into his hand furiously. He hadn’t finished yet, but he was so close, a bit feral as he tried to reach his own high now that you had achieved yours. But it was no use. His tentacle stroked precum and slime-slick pumps against his cock but without your voice, or even your ghostly touch, it felt like nothing. He growled, frustrated, slamming his hands against the armrests as he leaned back into his chair, defeated.

“Fuck!” What a tease! An absolute menace! He cursed you as he tried to calm himself, scrubbing his clean hand down his face. Massaging his temples, a realization dawned on him, reaching his orgasm was next to impossible now. He breathed deep.

But his blood still pumped in his veins, hot and wanting. He couldn’t regain his composure, too worked up. His hand reached to pull off his bow tie and free his neck to get some air. It didn’t help. You damned sinful temptation. He never had to suffer such irritating incidents like this before you. He growled and hissed, a primal aggression taking over. 

This was why he had been happy to never feel these urges. It was crude, having his mind controlled by his lower body. 

No matter, he would get you to fix it.

With one final deep breath, he stood and tidied his desk, making sure to leave nothing amiss. There was no point in tidying himself up. Not when he intended to make a mess of you in just a moment. At the thought, he decided to let you see the proud work you’d done on him. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. You liked seeing him disheveled, more casual as you put it. Your heartbeat always picked up at every little show of his skin.

It was with this appearance, top buttons undone and slacks clinging onto his hips by some work of demon magick that wasn’t his, that he teleported back home to you. He was ready to see your surprised face, flushed still from your orgasm and slightly disoriented. Then he’d fuck you back into your coma for daring to pull such a stunt in the middle of the day. He buzzed at the plan, cock aching once again.

When he’d stepped foot into your bedroom, the sight that greeted him was a disheveled lover, hand still in clutching onto his microphone as you dozed. Seeing you weak and asleep, the urgency in his body cooled slightly, worry taking its place. Immediately, he’d made it to the bedside, checking to see if you were alright. 

Light breaths. A small sigh of relief escaped his lips before his stomach clenched to remind him of his current predicament. His eyes roamed your body, making sure you were alright. When nothing seemed amiss, his eyes narrowed in irritation. He’d suspected the possibility that you had passed out after your performance but the disappointment in seeing you unconscious still stung. 

Up close, he could see you, feel you, smell you. You reeked of cum, having fainted as soon as you’d climaxed. How filthy. How divine. The scent was wonderful, heady and musky, traces of your activity still lingering in the air and on his microphone. The fire in his belly roiled to life once again. Stupid little thing. Making his life just that much more difficult and wonderful than it already was.

Precious, lewd little thing. His heartbeat quickened as the rush of lust came back. He’d had all intentions of taking out his frustrations on your more than willing body but seeing you like this, needing your rest, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t get his end. With one knee on the bed, he approached you, wanting to be as close as he could without disturbing your slumber. His hand found his needy cock once again, palm warm and inviting as he stroked from the base to tip. His other hand wound itself in your hair, gently petting you and relishing your warmth as his hand worked his member over your sleeping form.

His ears picked up the sound of your breathing, gentle and soft, just like everything about you. And you let someone like him defile that softness. He swallowed, drool already pooling in his mouth at the meal in front of him that he could not devour as he wished to.

The smell of your shared bed, your sex, your cum, your want lingering in the air. It enveloped him completely. This was his home. His den. His lover. His mate. While the little broadcast was exquisite, the live thing would always be better.

And he can wait for you to get better. Oh, all the things he would do to you once you were well. Just, he needed to take the edge off a little. He breathed in and let himself get lost in the feeling, the heat of his body rising and he got close to his climax again. His hips bucked into his hand, chasing that high as he watched your peaceful face. Shudders racked his body. He was so close. If only he could hear you call his name with that pretty voice of yours.

“Alastor?” His breath hitched. His hand had unconsciously clenched in your hair, not enough to hurt but it did stir you awake. His eyes met yours and his climax finally hit him under your stare. The knot in his stomach unwound and he watched his cum spurt without his control. Some of it splattered onto your bewildered face, causing you to flinch. 

“D-did you just…?” A small hand went up to the new stains on your face, wiping the smear onto your fingers as you studied it as if you couldn’t comprehend exactly what it was. Fair enough. This wasn’t behavior he ever would have done before he met you. He was slightly embarrassed by that but there was something satisfying about seeing his cum on your cheek.

“Well, you did too, didn’t you?” A clawed hand carded through your hair, slightly smearing it with his spend though you were still too bewildered to notice. His voice was husky, still riding high as his body sang in completion. You blushed madly as you remembered what you’d done and why he was here, like this.

“T-that’s—“ 

“Hush. Don’t worry about it, darling. Though it did get me a little worked up.” With a few snaps of his fingers, you were both cleaned up and the bed made around you. It took more effort to do as all he wanted to was collapse next to you but no. He had to make sure you were comfortable before he did. As lovely a sight that you made, he wouldn’t let you rest in filth.

Neither of you spoke as he climbed to his side of the bed, sitting against the headboard while you looked at him from where you laid. Perhaps your stillness slowed your brain processes as well. You still seemed tense, shocked. He started petting your head, an action that calmed you just as much as it did him. He needed just a few moments. 

When complete clarity finally returned to him, he faced you, a teasing grin on his lips as his eyes narrowed.

“I hope you know…” He leaned down to peer into your eyes, holding your gaze and relishing his lone figure reflected in its shine. His eyes roamed over your body, a slow take that he was sure you caught before he looked into your eyes and continued. Despite having only just finished, electric lust still buzzed in his chest, vibrating through his voice as he growled low a promise to the little troublemaker. “…that when you’ve fully recovered, darling, you shouldn’t expect to get out of this bed for a long while.” 

Beneath his palm, you trembled, your little shakes traveling from his fingertips to his cock. Your eyes switched from confusion to dread, sensing the underlying threat and seduction in his tone. He traced a lazy pattern on your cheek, cupping the supple flesh to feel the fever induced heat. Like a demure little creature, you leaned into his touch. 

And like the wretched little thing you were, you casually drew his thumb into your hot mouth, all of that sweet dread replaced by even sweeter confidence. With eyes never leaving his own, you gave his thumb a bold slow lick. He held back the urge to press his thumb down into that lascivious tongue. 

“Looking forward to it…” The tease had the gall to smirk at him, teeth lightly prickling his captured appendage. Clarity and mirth sparkled in your eyes. “Lover.”