same time next year? | 2•9 | alastor mating season fic
this is part two of an nine part mini series, and can also be found on my ao3
pairing: alastor x wife!reader
divider credit: @steviebbboi
series content: fem!doe!reader, alastor is down bad and needy, male! masturbation, bickering, temporary angst, fast burn, courting, mating season, dom/sub dynamic and undertones, body worship, praise kink, biting, scent marking, knotting, soft-top!Alastor/power-bottom!reader, non-sex repulsed alastor, fluffy spice
summary: Alastor can feel his mating season approaching, creeping over his limbs like an unwelcome, burning frost. And it's all the fault of the immovable object to his unstoppable force.
His estranged wife. His better half. The only other deer demon that seemed to both illicit and satiate the sudden spike of hormones and arousal of his annual rut.
Unfortunately for him, she's as stubborn as he is, and is still pissed at him for disappearing without a word for the past seven years.
And for the first time in a long time, Alastor has to rely on his ability to woo her to convince her to spend the duration of his rut with him.
TLDR: actions speak louder than words, and Alastor attempts to seduce his estranged wife over the course of a week leading up to his impending rut.
author's note: wow, the concept post for this fic blew up lol, ngl this is the first time l've actually felt the pressure to produce something great since it seems so many people like the concept, hopefully it's met expectations, and like always with me, this story kind of got away from me and it looks like it's going to be eight chapters of longing and horniness
plot notes: the mc is a doe demoness, she is also an established small-time overlord who specializes in theatre and is a semi-famous showgirl in hell, and while her appearance is mostly left ambiguous, she does wear a porcelain half mask over her right eye, her stay at the hotel occurs only because she knows alastor doesn't want her there, she's a petty woman and he loves it, she will be featured more prominently in all of the other parts, we just need alastor being stubborn and horny alone first
Of that, she was certain.
And the question of just who was responsible for the newly constructed theory didn’t go unanswered for much longer than the time it took for her mind to concoct it.
She knew her husband better than anybody. And, loathe as he was to admit, or perhaps, he was simply far too stubbornly ignorant to the fact, she knew him better than even himself sometimes.
She knew he didn’t realize that he lingered around her like an old cologne. That he leaned into her when she spoke. That, even when she wasn’t speaking to him, she noticed out of the corners of her vision that the fluff of his ears twitched to catch each and every syllable. That his eyes itched familiar journeys along her spine, that his stare lingered just a little too long to be subtle on her mouth whenever she met his scathing taunts with biting remarks of her own.
She knew he wasn’t fully aware of just how often the sentience of his silhouette unstitched the constricting threads tying it to him and sought her out. Interrupting the tranquility of her lonesome bedroom, or grinning down at her from the rafters of her theater during glittering shows and dimly lit practices.
What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t begin to theorize a plausible explanation or reasoning for, was why. Why now?
She’d always known her husband was a strange man, and, perhaps to her own detriment, she’d loved him to pieces for it. That he’d been an unconventional man in life, and had only grown less so with time. But, even as the sole arbiter of everything Alastor and his unusual whimsy, even she could only hope to dwell on the strange doings of her estranged spouse.
She ruminated through the stormy bewilderment, the steel of her umbrella twirling under practiced gloved fingers, interrupting the heavy cascade of acid rain sizzling through into the streets of Pentagram City. She stood on a street corner among the dwindling population of the Entertainment District, bottom lip jutted in a thoughtful pout as her wide eyes lifted from the screeching disarrayed sinners fleeing from the burn of hellish rainfall to watch for the indicative change of light hithering her across the rush of the street.
“Don’t ya just love the smell of melting flesh in the morning?”
The voice made her jolt, unfamiliar and low, knuckles whitening under the satin enveloping her fingers as she tightened her grip on the stem of her umbrella. She kept her eyes forward, fixed to the light and watching the blur of cars before her, sidestepping the forced intrusion upon her space when the sinner toed the curve next to her, larger arm brushing her own.
“I prefer the sound of tortured screams to start my day,” she snipped.
He barked a laugh, loud, boisterous, and painfully fake. It made her limbs tense slightly. And, almost as quick as the humored noise left his lips,
“So, what’s a little thing like you doin’ out in this weather?”
“Waiting for the lights to change,” she drawled flatly, rolling the handle of her umbrella between her fingers to send a twirling spray of acidic water out around her, hitting the stranger’s arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he jerked his arm, other hand instinctively clamping down around the spot where his shirt fizzled with a hiss, and she realized belatedly just how big the sinner was.
It probably should have been intimidating, but his smarmy down talk had only ignited an ancient righteous fury. She made a small noise of contemplation before adding with a shrug; “Same as a ‘little thing’ like you.”
“Ain’t nothing little ‘bout me, dollface,” he corrected quickly and lowly.
Her upper lip twisted with poorly restrained disgust at the insinuation.
“So, how’s bout it?” Out of the edge of her peripherals, large fingers curled around the edge of the umbrella, tilting the metal frame up until his imposing leer came into view. “Wanna get outta the rain with me?”
“No, thank you,” she chirped, lifting off of her heels with a faux playful and insolent dismissal of his advances. She brought her free hand up to block his face from hers, wiggling her satin clad fingers with an exaggerated bend of her ring finger. “I’m married.”
It made her heart pang a little, made her throat bob around the word as she felt a shallow furrow settle between her brows at the inadvertent mention of her husband.
“Oh, sweetheart,” the sinner crooned, lids lowering obsequiously. Hot breaths fanned across the masked side of her face, and he kept his hand on the rim of her protective parasol as he leaned down to murmur huskily into the twitching fluff of her ears. “He doesn’t have to know.”
“Trust me, he will,” she assured, tonality flat and eyes fixed forward, jerking her wrist to force him to relinquish the hold he had on her umbrella.
The sinner made a small sound of annoyance.
“And I’ve already said no,” she griped before he could make another bid to convince her, flicking her finger sharply without making contact with the tip of his crooked nose. Instead, the gesture sent a flurry of petals and scarlet puffs of magic into the incessant man’s visage. “So kindly, fuck off.”
He coughed around the petals that had invaded his mouth, tears glistening on his waterline as her magic dissipated around his face.
“Jesus, lady,” he wheezed, scrambling away from her with the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. “Lighten up. Christ.”
And, as he fumbled his way around her, vision impeded by a blurry filter of water, cursing her blind under his breath, she felt her shoulder droop. Her ears twitched at every uttered swear aimed for her between heady coughs and gasps for air. But with every grumbled demeaning word, his voice sounded quieter and more distant.
And suddenly she was alone again, still waiting for the lights to change.
“I can kill him for you, dear.”
Alastor’s voice came with a warble of static, a fog of darkness rolling off of him in dissipating waves until he solidified beside her. He kept himself at a preserved distance, the corners of his ever present grin sharpening when she regarded him with an arching brow and a lidded gaze.
She didn’t otherwise acknowledge him with her physicality. And he couldn’t be certain if the breath he let out in response to her lack thereof was one of flooding relief or immense disappointment. Either way, his ears perked and flicked towards her when she finally acknowledged him through an assertive quip. “I can kill him myself.”
“Still so independent,” the buck mused, reaching up to catch one of the petals still spiraling through the air where she’d sent a burst of flowers and magic between his fingertips.
“Not like you gave me much of a choice,” she grumbled, chewing on her bottom lip.
Alastor reached out to pinch her cheek between his thumb and forefinger, giving her head a gentle little shake. “And still so antagonistic.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t go radio silent on me for almost a decade and expect me not to be pissed off at you,” she snipped, elbowing him between the ribs and batting the offending hand away with a riled noise of exasperation at his handsy teasing.
Alastor stilled beside her, the petal he’d caught between his claws wilting under a tensing grip at her words.
“Besides, you need someone to give you a bit of lip,” she added, sending him a flat look over the curve of her shoulder that was instantly undercut by the sly smirk tempting the corner of glossy lips. She broke the gaze with a roll of her eyes and a loose lift of her shoulder. “Keeps you in your place.”
Alastor hummed, standing his staff upright and bending by the waist to rest his forearm on the microphone, a sanguine hitch at the corner of his lips as he leaned under the edge of her umbrella to catch the corner of her eye. He tilted his head at her. It was a subtle motion. Not enough to draw the curious eye of another intrudingly nosey sinner, but enough to snag her attention, his grin broadening when her iris twitched to watch him out of the corner of her eye. “And where would that be?”
Under you; his traitorously incensed mind provided unhelpfully, and he stiffened a little when a creeping stretch of heat fanned across his cheekbones as she turned to face him properly.
His breath caught behind his teeth, and if it wasn’t for his hellbound physiology maintaining his omnipresent grin, he was sure it would have wobbled and collapsed under her attention. It felt as though she’d heard his innermost thoughts, like she could see right through his aloofness and straight into the endless void of his hungering longing for her.
He had to force his ears to stay upright, fighting the urging instinct to flatten them against his scalp and keep whatever teasing remarks she could possibly utter at his pathetic expense at a muffled distance.
But instead of ridicule and derision, instead of a mean admonishment of the shameful thoughts echoing throughout his mindscape that he really should have known better than to fear she’d resort to, even if she could read his mind, he was met with a tired little smile.
“Under the umbrella for a start,” she urged quietly, so unlike what he deserved. After seven years of silence and nothing, no nightly affections or morning murmurs. No reaching out and seeking contact when he’d finally returned. Just a soft, unfettered humorous offering of the shadow of her umbrella as she lifted her arm just enough to accommodate for his height.
When he didn’t make a move to slip under the shelter of her umbrella, she made a short noise of halfhearted exasperation, eyes rolling as her head lulled before she closed the space between them herself. Her free hand reached out and hooked onto his belt loop, dragging him in just a little closer and making him stumble as if she’d jerked him violently under the protective slope of the umbrella. “You want your face to melt?”
Alastor felt his brows twitch, the corners of his mouth quivering as he bit down on his tongue to halt the rising keen ruminating the back of his throat as her knuckles subsequently skirted the waistline of his slacks. He straightened suddenly, sucking in a sharp intake of hot air when she retracted her hand at the sudden change of posture.
He missed it instantly. The emanating warmth of her knuckles. The familiar tug on his belt loop, born from a habit originating from long before they’d even been wed. Her eyes on him when she glanced toward the dwindling rush of the road before them.
Alastor’s eyes didn’t falter, didn’t drift from her face, just to different anchor points in her visage. From the gentle curve of her porcelain mask, concealing one of her eyes from him forever. From the slight pinch in her brow as her exposed eye narrowed in on the traffic lights. To the shadow below her jawline, or the contours of her nose, or the tufts of fluff sitting pretty atop her head, flicking to catch every little noise vibrating around them. Or, to the subtle jut of her bottom of lip.
She didn’t notice his staring. Or perhaps, she did, and chose not to make any commentary on it. So, she nodded head towards the street and stepped down from the footpath.
Alastor followed like a dutiful shadow, keeping closer to her than he should have. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.
He should have apparated away in a flurry of shadow and wit. Then, he wouldn’t have had to worry about the tightening at his waistline, of his newly excitable manhood hardening where he kept it tucked behind his belt. He wouldn’t have to subject himself to the listless urge to touch her, to take her umbrella from her smaller hands only so that he could slip his fingers between hers. He wouldn’t have to resist the wistful craving to cradle her jaw and tilted her mouth towards his.
The words tumbled from his mouth before pride and stubborn refusal to acknowledge the lightheaded weightlessness her floral aroma bestowed upon him could alter his decision making.
“Would you leave me if it did?”
He clamped his mouth shut as soon as the final syllable parted from his tongue, a small, embarrassed, needy whine ruminating beneath the slope of his sternum. And when she paused midstep, cocking her head up at him and arching a curious brow at the question, the Overlord braced himself for a laugh. He prepared himself to joke along, to play off his genuine disquietude at the internally tumultuous prospect of her moving on and leaving him behind.
His ears clamped down over his scalp, and his shoulders hiked up by his jawline. He wanted to step out into the downpour and let the acidic falls melt him down into nothing more than an ashamed, flustered heap of atoms.
But then, she considered him with a sweep of her eyes up and down his posture, and through an amused hum and around a coquettish grin; “Depends on how you behave.”
Alastor felt like a freak.
He knew it was probably the most apt description of his psychology.
He supposed he’d known he was crazy for as long as his heart had beat, that it had only been cemented within his very soul when it had halted.
He'd been informed of such by the furious snarls of his father when a fifteen-year-old version of himself hit him back for the first time. Had been forced to bear it, grin, and listen to the naysayers of his early twenties when they’d procured the knowledge of what occupation he wished to pursue. Garbled between desperate pleas for mercy from the men he’d secluded and slaughtered, all trying to retaliate in the only manner viable before he’d slit their throats and silenced their derision.
Through a girlish laugh and a wide smile when he’d whisked his newlywed off of her kitten-heeled feet and into his arms to cross the threshold of their home for the first time after their marital union.
He’d taken it in stride every time it had been uttered to undermine him. And he’d blossomed under the lighthearted admonishments of his wife’s playful chastisement.
But he’d never truly felt the shame that came along with such a characterization.
Not until he was sitting in the center of a nest of blankets and sheets in the distant heart of his bayou.
It wasn’t a new routine. To form a protective alcove in which he and his beloved could copulate and reside for the duration of his rut. His hellish physiology bound him to the incessant need to provide for his mate. To comprise a nest of warm sheets and cozy blankets within the confines of his four-poster bed. Anything so that she’d be content to lie with him.
He had barely even noticed he was doing it. That he’d spent the past week collecting soft fabrics and hoarding them for safekeeping on a bed he didn’t even use. He hadn’t given his newfound habit of rearranging and fluffing up pillows and cushions a second thought. Hadn’t questioned why it bothered him so when duvets he wouldn’t be lying on that night were wrinkled or in disarray. It wasn’t until he caught himself meticulously arranging the vast selection of sheets and fluffed-up pillows that he froze and recognized just what his primitive instincts were instructing him to do.
The nest wasn’t anything new.
The theft of her garments was.
He’d snatched the tee from his silhouetted counterpart out of sheer instinct to guard it, of having something that smelled so like her in a place that only smelled of him. His cheeks burned as he knelt at the center of his unoffered gesture of longing, haloed by a neatly tucked array of blankets and keeping the shirt hugged to his chest.
Breaths came in short huffs, fingers nearly trembling where they curled into the fabric of his wife’s sleepwear as he let his carmine glare twitch from corner to corner of his bed.
He should have given it back. Should have shoved it back into his shadow’s hands and admonished the theft with a punctuating command to return it before she noticed.
He shouldn’t have snuck into her suite in the first place.
Because now he was stuck. Stuck with a wistful desire to eradicate the distance between him and his beloved. Stuck with an affronting t-shirt as he slipped it beneath one of the pillows at the head of the bed. Stuck with the dawning realization that he was losing his mind.
That he was finally going crazy.
That he’d only spiral further down into the depths of his lustrous torment if he didn’t fix it.
Every morning since her impromptu arrival at Hazbin Hotel, she’d woken to find her estranged spouse lounging by her side.
Sometimes, he woke her up with a startlingly cheerful greeting, watching with a broad grin as she jolted awake before he allowed himself to bellow a laugh at her panting expense. It was days that were prologued by her husband’s mean, chaotic whimsy that he chose to follow her like a bothersome shadow. Disturbing her peace in the most innocuous of ways, teasing and goading her into a battle of wits and verbal jousting.
Other times, she was roused from her slumber by the cautious hand of her spouse fiddling with her sleep-slackened fingers, twisting the golden band haloing her ring finger with an unusually quiet countenance. On mornings like those, he chose not to speak to her, to vanish into the shadows of the morning glow as soon as she began to stir. To avoid her until Hell’s moon rose over the Pentagram and she retired to bed with no notion of what she was going to wake up to in the morning.
The only constant to be procured from the dichotomous routines was that his shadow acted as though it were her own, chasing her down every busy street and winding hallway. Offering little confectionaries and a helping hand, just like a lightless manifestation of the gentleman her husband could be when he wanted to.
It confused the ever-loving fuck out of her.
Yesterday had been a quiet morning. The only difference was that he had actually spoken to her, voice low and wispy as he ran his thumb over her knuckles. Like he was exhausted in a way that bled into his static, like he’d been screaming, yelling, crying his throat raw.
He’d asked her what her plans were for the day, and she, a little caught off guard, had stumbled over her response. He’d nodded astutely, and she could feel the tickle of his gaze on her face as she closed her eyes momentarily and sleepily settled back down onto her pillow. The emanating warmth of his hand had tightened around her fingers briefly before it had vanished completely.
She’d ignored the ebbing disappointment weighing down upon her chest when she cracked an eye open and found nothing but rumpled sheets and dissipating shadowy wisps.
She’d assumed that would be the extent of their interaction for the day.
That was until he’d appeared to interrupt the constant fall of rain and greet her with an offer of mercenary assistance.
He’d walked her back to the hotel, relieving her of the umbrella at some point during the journey and holding it above them himself. He’d bantered with her, had shared a burst of laughter with her. He’d spoken to her. Not with short quips and goading remarks. No, he’d asked about her day, wondered aloud if she’d chosen to walk home in detrimental downpours because she loved the rainy weather of home so much, inquired about her evening plans.
And when she’d bid him a goodnight, she shut the door and let her back hit the wood, a wistfully bewildered sigh left her lips.
She’d banged her head against the door. Once, twice. Soft enough for the impact to come silently. Hard enough to rattle her poor, bemused brain before she settled under her covers.
She’d also set an alarm to bellow a distant ten minutes before the time her estranged spouse usually arrived in the dawning hours.
And when he’d appeared the next morning in a smoky pool of wisping shadows, reposing across the uneven terrain of her mattress with his ever-present grin poised and sharpened, she was awake and ready.
The cushioned impact shoved the air out of him, eyes wide and chest stuttering. His scarlet gaze found hers instantly, and whatever bravado he’d corralled and sequestered inside himself was burnt and vanquished by the weight of her sitting on his stomach. His breath hitched, caught, and choked, heart lurching within the cage of his chest cavity when her hands caught his wrists as he made a short-lived bid to sit himself up and pinned them either side of his head on her pillow.
He swallowed thickly when she leaned down over him with a sleepy glare, bottom lip jutted in an exasperated pout when he forced the corners of his mouth into a sharp upward quirk. She tilted a knowing brow at him, head cocking with an amused sort of arrogance that served only to make his hormone-addled mind long to twist his hips and flip her onto her back and take her as she was.
The temptation hit him like the flowery scent that invaded his mind with every huffed intake of breath. It made him want to steal her away in a burst of shadow and green luminosity. He wanted to pull her into him and keep her for as long as she’d let him. It made him want to ask her forgiveness, to kiss her senseless and speak of his devotion.
To beg for her company for the agonizing, drawn-out week to come.
And, if he hadn’t been acutely aware of the warmth of her muscular thighs, of the careful press of her thumbs to his pulse points, or of the instantaneous stiffening within the dark confines of his slacks, he might have let out a disbelieving laugh.
Because she was unknowingly giving him exactly what he wanted.
Because she was innocently fulfilling the lustrously concocted fantasy he’d indulged himself in two nights before. Of the warmth of her thighs pressing into his ribs, the familiar weight of her settling onto his midsection. Of the little scrunch between her brows as she inched closer to him, of the enticing shallow dip in her bottom lip as she stifled a grin at his expense.
It made nostalgic panic surge through his bones in a rippling tremor.
So he did what he’d been doing since the first unwitting stirrings in his loins.
Distracted himself with deflecting her attention.
“You’re up early,” he chirped, overly chipper and mutely praying to whichever God had damned him to such torment that she wouldn’t lean back, lest she brush up against the beginnings of an erection. His fingers twitched to touch her when her hands tightened around his wrists, and like the gradual soak of rainwater into the threads of his clothes, her touch lit a burning line across his skin.
His gaze twitched to the plump flesh of her lips as she chewed listlessly on her bottom lip, brows flattening into a playfully unenthused scowl before she questioned him through her teeth. “Don’t you have other guests to bother every morning?”
“None as fascinatingly tantalizing as you, dear,” he crooned, the uttered affection tumbling from his lips before his consciousness could stumble to catch up to his mouth.
“You-” She pulled away from him, the fingers shackled around his wrists twitched, and Alastor could do little but watch with rapt awe as an awfully endearing look of bemusement filtered across her masked visage. Her brow pinched slightly, the edge of her smile wobbling as uncertain consternation bled into her expression before she questioned him through a huff of laughter; “What?”
“How’d you sleep?” He detracted quickly. “Sweet dreams?”
She hummed dubiously, eye narrowing dangerously as her eyes flicked across his visage.
“Thoughts about me?” Alastor asked with a teasing lilt. Despite the sardonic amusement lacing his tonality, the Overlord could only hope that her exclusive insight into his vocal habits didn’t collect the evidential pitch of his voice. That she didn’t notice the insecure little warble that edged his static.
“Yep,” she affirmed with a pop, tilting her head to squint down at him, a petulant grin crinkling the corners of her eye. “Thinkin’ of all the ways I could snap your slutty little waist.”
And divinely, that seemed to shut him up, if only for a few short-lived seconds. She watched with gleeful satisfaction as he blinked slowly, his open-mouthed smile frozen in uncertain consternation. “…My what?”
Mentally she had to stifle the urge to coo at his uncharacteristic doltishness.
“Never mind.” Instead, she groaned at his cluelessness, eyes fluttering up to glance at the ceiling before she rolled off of him. She clambered to the edge of her bed, letting her hooves settle on the carpeted floor of her suite as she interlocked her fingers and stretched her arms above her head.
Alastor, chest collapsing as he let out a relieved breath and limb-locked, quickly shook his head free from the hazy thoughts plaguing his mind and made quick work of tightening his belt. Cinching it just a little closer to his skin, a little more secure across his trapped manhood, hiding the would-be protrusion.
His fingers retreated from the buckle as soon as his peripheral vision caught his wife’s face turning to peer at him from over the gentle curve of her shoulder. And in the time it took for her eye to meet his, the buck managed to readjust his positioning, reclining on his side with his jaw perched on his fist.
And though he’d managed to evade her scrutinous gaze from latching onto his roaming fingertips, he was certain that she had caught the sharp twitch of his dilated pupils as his fiery gaze skittered down the enticingly arched column of her clothed spine. Down until he could fixate over the plume of fluff sitting pretty and perked between where he knew a pair of delightful, shallow dimples resided.
His wife’s question, careful and probing, dismantled the ensuing silence, shattering every mouthwatering, hankering desire to puzzle his thumbs over the slight dips at the base of her spine.
“Ah, right to the point like always, dear,” he cheered with an exaggerated swing of his elbow, voice a little terse, head wordlessly pondering just why he was entertaining the question.
Because he knew exactly why he was there, why he couldn’t seem to stay away.
His tongue clicked, watching as she rose from the edge of her bed and sauntered over to her wardrobe, throwing the doors open with a small sound of agreement.
He took the noise and ran away with it, dissipating into a cloud of wispy darkness and almost instantaneously reappearing behind her as he slipped into an unpracticed ramble.
“I realize that I’ve been a little hostile since your impromptu arrival at this fine establishment,” he offered, hooves guiding him on a repetitive back and forth on the roughly threaded carpet behind her. Arms folded behind his back, his fingers tapped an incessant rhythm against the opposing elbow.
He briefly wondered if that was what nerves felt like.
“I must apologize for my previous propensity. I was simply caught unawares. It’s been so long since we last…” Somewhere between his confessional regret and uncharacteristically pledged apology, she stilled in her efforts to procure an outfit for the day, fingertips stalled upon cascading fabrics as she glanced over her shoulder at him. Despite his ceaseless pacing, his gaze found hers, like it always seemed to, and made his voice waver and slow, trailing off before he could shake his head violently and begin anew. “You see, I have a proposition for you. I would like to make up for my initial indiscretion by offering the opportunity for us to reach a sort of…”
Alastor’s wrist twisted, hand making a rolling motion as if to conjure the correct conclusion to his little soliloquy. “Modus vivendi.”
“And you couldn’t wait ‘til I was out of bed?” She remarked, combing her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair and wincing slightly when they snagged. “Or made up?”
Alastor paused mid-step, correcting her with a limp bend of his wrist and a light shake of his head; “I think you look ethereal.”
So casual and earnest, the complimentary assurance almost made her allow the garments she’d scooped into her arms to fall victim to gravity. Her lips parted wordlessly, blinking slow and breath stuttering as heat bloomed across her cheekbones.
“But, I thought it to be pertinent,” he breezed on, hand perched above his heart as if he hadn’t just sent hers stumbling. “Besides, we’re married, dear. I’ve spent countless nights lying next to you.”
That rattled her from her stupefied stillness, head cocking to the side as she rounded on him and closed whatever distance remained between them. “Yeah, and you were invited all those times.”
“And…” He began, slow and thoughtful as he drew out the syllable. His eyes flicked between her face and the newly fascinating patterns of her wallpaper as he tensely avoided her gaze. “How would one go about attaining an invitation into your bed now?”
“Al! Wha-?! What? You—you can’t just say that.”
The buck only hummed in response, pretending to inspect the shine of his claws with a contemplative purse of his lips.
“Are you even listening?”
“I’ll listen to an answer,” Alastor chirped, gently nudging at her cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles.
She snatched his wrist, and it sent a tremulous thrill through his bones.
“Fine,” she snarked with a playfully defeated sigh and an exaggerated roll of her eyes, head lulling back in time with the upward toss of her gaze. Her hands acquainted themselves with the broad slope of his shoulders, shoving him in the direction of her door, fingers drumming against his jacket as she listed off a litany of falsified requirements with a grumble. “Dinner. Flowers. Serenade Me. Whatever. You happy?”
“Ecstatic!” Alastor exclaimed, the solidity of his figure clouding under her palms as he disappeared in a short slither of shadows and reappeared cross-legged on the end of her bed.
She stared at him flatly, he stared back with lowered lids and an impish grin.
Her mouth twisted into a skeptical pout, brow arching above a narrowed gaze, drawing out the single syllable of her one-worded inquiry when he met her gaze with a blank smile. “Well…?”
“I need to get dressed…” She enunciated slowly, gesturing with a dazed confusion at his near-innocent cluelessness to the clothes in her arms. The arch of her eyebrow deepened into a baffled frown when he failed to follow the overtone of her implication. “So you need to leave.”
“Oh…” he said, eyes widening just a fraction as realization settled over his bones. Heat fizzled over his cheekbones in a way he hadn’t felt for years, and he was eternally grateful that the grayish coloration of his demon form’s skin didn’t tint red. The momentary lapse in his usual lackadaisical grinning expression was masked almost immediately with an exaggeration of his smile. Invisible stitching pulled harshly on the corners of his mouth as he grabbed the hand she was pointing to her wardrobe with, and raised it over her head, twisting her arm and forcing her into a slow spin so that she was facing him.
Whatever blazing remark stood poised on the sharpened tip of her tongue was extinguished as Alastor threw an arm loosely over the sloped curve of her shoulders. He jostled her stiff figure with a sprightly laugh, avoiding her glare so that he could inspect the points of his claws as he added slyly; “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, dear.”
The bow of her shoulders drew tight, her arm falling by her side with an annoyed huff. She ducked under his arm, and he let her, content with the exasperation rolling off of her in hot waves. She spun on her heel, hoof stomping with a muffled sound into the carpet as her arm shot out to point at the door to her room.
She didn’t otherwise grace him with a response. And at the prolonged silence, Alastor peered over the sharp angle of his shoulder, his tight-lipped smile parting slightly with the intention of breaking it.
The demoness beat him to the punch.
“Fine,” she chirped, teeth scraping her bottom lip as she bit the word out. A sanguine simper tugged at the corners of her mouth as something petulant and vindictive stirred in her gut. “Stay.”
Alastor turned to face her fully, smile fixed, though his brows dipped into a diminutive frown at her newfound acceptance of his presence. And she reveled in the moment that Alastor’s confusion morphed into flustered stupefaction when her hands crossed over her midsection, fingers curling around the hem of her t-shirt as she yanked the oversized garment up and over her head.
The sudden screech of stuttering static spoke a thousand distressed words.
And in the split second that Alastor disappeared from her sight, when the dark fabric slipped over her face and blocked out her vision, he also disappeared from her bedroom in a confounded cloud of shadow.
She was left bare-chested and satisfied, a wide grin stretching her face as she tossed the scrunched-up ball of fabric into the residual plume of dissipating shadows, the shirt unfurling right where Alastor had stood just seconds before. “Coward.”
And, as she turned away to parse through her the garments hanging listlessly in her closet, a cautiously amused smile tempting the corners of her lips into an upward quirk, she missed the sight of nabbing, shadowy claws reaching out from the dark abyss beneath her bedframe.
And she certainly didn’t notice when sly, shadowed fingertips snagged the cottony fabric of another t-shirt and dragged the sleep garment into the cover of darkness offered by the suspension of her mattress.
notes: ah mutual pining, my beloved. no smut this chapter because unfortunately for us, stubbornly avoiding his feelings is alastor’s foreplay of choice but he’s a romantic at heart so he’s not gonna leap straight into jumping your bones lol
let me know what you think, comments and reblogs are my life force. the next part shouldn’t take as long as this one did. this chapter just got way too long and i had to split it into two.
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