#stny

3 | Sweet ‘N Sour

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

part one | part two

pairing: alastor x wife!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

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

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

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

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

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

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

wc: 5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do believe we’ve already met.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you requested,” he reminded.

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

Then, she huffed a small laugh through her nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Angel!”

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

And then.

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

“My darling!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was being sarcastic,” she said slowly.

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

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

She pushed herself away from him on the emphasis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you!” Alastor beamed.

“Angel…” his wife warned.

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

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

“Dinner reservations!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was tempting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her roaming eyes came up with nothing.

No lingering shadows or skulking husbands.

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

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

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

Her favorite, she mused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear

Still cravin’ your kiss

I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear

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

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

“You’re not subtle.”

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

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

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

Dream a little dream of me

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

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

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

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always

thanks for reading

- route

next part

4 | Wine ‘N Dine

part one | part two | part three

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

pairing: alastor x wife!reader

divider credit: @steviebbboi

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

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

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

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

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

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

wc: 4.8k

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

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

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

Angel

Sooo???

What he say?

You

I look ravenous, apparently.

Angel

Told ya.

He wants to eat ya ;)

You

…

I’m blocking you.

Angel

You don’t know how to do that.

Old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’d you hear about this place?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this place?”

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

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

“What-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Al?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t say anything to counter her bafflement.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh…”

It was all she could say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t, so she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He downed the beverage in one fell swig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that lady?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends on how you behave.”

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

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

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

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

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

next part coming soon…

Don't.

I cannot begin to stress how incredibly poorly this service works. Do yourself a favor and if you see it somewhere look away, if somebody suggests it tell them no thank you, and walk away.