#x reader commisions

She pressed her hooves together, ears flattening slightly. Her tail gave a nervous little puff, unnoticed by most—but he saw. He always saw.

“You have a very… delicate muzzle,” he continued, circling her as though inspecting a rare artifact. “And those black eyes… almost hypnotic. Though I daresay, you might vanish if anyone sneezed too hard in your direction.”

She let out a small, almost inaudible bark—her protest, though tiny, sharp.

He laughed, a rich, musical sound that made her stomach flip. “Ah! Such a spirited little thing! I do enjoy a sinner who tries to stand their ground.” He leaned closer, and she could smell the faint tang of electricity and old wood that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. “Though, I must admit…” He smirked, tilting his head, “you are positively adorable when flustered.”

Her ears twitched, tail puffing again despite her efforts to keep calm. She wanted to protest, to stomp and turn away, but… something about the way he carried himself, that dangerous confidence, made her heart thump like a drum. He was hot. Hot and infuriating all at once.And he knew it.

Over the next few weeks, he made it his personal mission to tease her. Small jabs at her size, little quips about her solitary habits, and the occasional dramatic impersonation of her tiny bark. He would hover near her during dinners, whisper biting comments with that infuriating grin.

“You know, most roe deer are… rather plain,” he said one evening, watching her quietly from across the room. “Yet here you are, trying so hard to look… interesting. Charming, even.”

She bristled, ears twitching in irritation—and maybe, just maybe, something else. Her tail puffed again, her tiny body betraying her fluttering pulse. Every insult, every jab, seemed to carry a hidden weight, a curiosity, an attention that no one else in the hotel dared offer.

And secretly—though she would never admit it—she found herself drawn to him. His arrogance, the sharpness of his gaze, the way his grin promised both trouble and… something else. Something dangerously enticing.

She barked again, sharper this time, a small spark of defiance. He chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied tilt of his head. “Ah, my little roe… you do amuse me.”

And though he teased, mocked, and bullied her endlessly, a part of him—the part he refused to acknowledge even to himself—watched every delicate move she made, every nervous twitch, every tiny puff of her tail, and thought… inconceivably, infuriatingly… adorable.

-----

The lobby was quieter than usual that afternoon, but her presence didn’t go unnoticed. Not by him. Of course it didn’t.

Alastor lounged in his usual spot, tapping his cane against the floor with theatrical impatience as he spotted her timid steps. “Ah! There she is again,” he mused aloud, his grin sharp. “My little roe deer, tiptoeing through the chaos of this charming little hotel. I do hope you didn’t get lost, tiny one.”

She froze, ears flattening instinctively. Her tail puffed in irritation—or maybe in nervousness, she couldn’t quite tell. She gave a tiny bark, almost apologetic, and tried to slip past without drawing attention.

“Lost? Oh, heavens no,” he continued, rising with a flourish that made her stumble slightly backward. “No, no… you’re just… delightfully small. So fragile, so delicate! I can’t help but wonder… do you even reach the doorknobs?”

She pressed her hooves together, wishing she could vanish into the floor. Every word, every smirk, felt like a spotlight on her tiny form. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

And yet.He was too close. Too impossibly close, with that grin, those sharp, teasing eyes that somehow, maddeningly, made her heartbeat stutter.

“Ah, but you do try,” he added after a moment, tilting his head. “I see the effort in your… petite stance. It’s almost—” he leaned forward dramatically, “—endearing.”

She barked again, more out of frustration than defiance this time, tail puffing as she bolted past him toward the stairs.

Alastor froze mid-sentence, tilting his head. Ah.Later, in the quiet of his study, Angel perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, looking more annoyed than usual.

“You know,” Angel said, voice pointed, “girls… don’t really like it when men make fun of them all the time.”

Alastor blinked, the grin faltering. “Don’t like… what?”

“You’re making her uncomfortable,” Angel continued. “She doesn’t want to be around you, and it’s obvious. You’re… teasing her, but it’s… too much.”

Alastor’s mind raced. Too much? But—he hadn’t meant to hurt her. At first, yes… he had mocked her to see her flustered, to make her a bit insecure—but then… then something changed.

He thought of her quiet little barks, the way her tail puffed indignantly, the way her delicate body moved with such hesitant grace. And the truth hit him like a thunderclap in the quiet of his study: he liked her. He actually… cared for her.

And he had been a complete, arrogant ass.“Angel…” he muttered, voice lower than usual. “I… I did not realize.”

Angel gave a small shrug, unamused. “Yeah, well, some realization now would be nice. She’s not just any little deer to tease for fun, you know. She’s… special. And you’re being a complete monster.”

Alastor’s grin flickered, replaced by something a little more… uncertain. “A monster…” he echoed, almost to himself. “Yes… yes, I suppose I have been. But… what am I to do now? She—she is… delicate, fragile… and yet…” His gaze softened involuntarily. “I do find her… irresistible.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to fix this, pal. Fast. Or she’s gone before you even realize it.”

Alastor’s sharp grin returned, though tempered by a faint blush of acknowledgment. “Fix this… yes. I must. She cannot remain unaware of my… affections.”

And for the first time in weeks, he genuinely felt the pang of guilt—not for his teasing, but for letting his desire to see her flustered turn into something that pushed her away.

She was too charming, too lovely, too infuriatingly sweet to lose over… his own folly.

-----

Alastor had never thought silence could be so loud.

The absence of her small, careful footsteps in the lobby; the way her gentle presence used to hum in the background of his routines—it had become noticeable. Aggravatingly so.

He twirled his cane between gloved fingers, pretending not to look toward the stairwell where she sometimes appeared mid-morning. She didn’t anymore. Not since he’d… gone too far.

He hadn’t meant to. Truly, he hadn’t.At first, his teasing had been simple entertainment—an easy target in a world that bored him endlessly. But then she started smiling at others. She started smiling at him, too, before he said something sharp enough to wipe it away. And lately, whenever she smiled at someone else, it did something awful to his chest.

And when she avoided him? That was worse.

Now, whenever she crossed the lobby, she kept her head down. Her ears twitched, her small tail barely visible beneath her coat. She’d pass him without a word, and he’d pretend it didn’t sting.

But it did.

And yet—every time she spoke to someone else, it was always with that same gentle tone, that same kindness that had wormed its way under his skin. She offered help without hesitation, even to those who didn’t deserve it. She laughed quietly when Angel told her something stupid. She offered Vaggie tea when she looked tired.

Kindness. In Hell.

It was absurd. It was… fascinating.He found himself watching her more than he’d ever admit. Watching her fingers curl around a teacup, her small, delicate movements when she set the table, the way her tail puffed slightly when she was startled but she always tried to play it off with dignity.

The guilt festered quietly inside him. Every charming thing she did made it worse.He couldn’t say sorry. The word stuck somewhere behind his teeth, strangled by pride and habit. Alastor didn’t apologize. It wasn’t in his nature.

But he could… do things. Small things.The first was when he noticed her favorite chair in the lounge had a loose leg. It had been wobbling for days. One night, while everyone slept, he repaired it himself—perfectly, silently, without leaving a trace.

The next morning, he pretended to read while she sat in it, surprised by the new steadiness. Her tiny smile when she settled in—he caught it, stored it, replayed it later in his mind like a record he couldn’t stop spinning.

Then came the tea. She had a particular blend she liked, some faint floral thing he found cloying, but he started leaving a fresh tin of it in the kitchen whenever it ran low. He’d hear her soft little “oh!” when she discovered it, that sweet note of delight that made his grin ache at the edges.

He told himself these gestures weren’t apologies. They were simply… good manners.

But when she smiled at him—hesitant, cautious, like she didn’t quite trust the warmth in his tone yet—it nearly brought him to his knees.

He had stopped mocking her entirely now. Oh, he still teased—he couldn’t help himself—but the edges were softer. The venom gone. He caught himself complimenting her sometimes, cloaked in his usual charm:

“How industrious you are today, my dear. Why, you’re practically glowing!”

Or,

“Ah, you’ve such a steady hand. I must say, that’s rather impressive for someone so… dainty.”

She’d blink at him in surprise, uncertain if he meant it. And he’d grin as if he hadn’t just said something utterly foreign to his nature.And at night, when he sat alone, he’d stare at the phonograph spinning a static tune and think of her small, kind smile—the one he’d broken and was now, carefully, trying to mend without admitting it.

He couldn’t say I’m sorry.But maybe, if he tried hard enough, she’d start to understand anyway.

Gonna stop it right here because this is still a free commission. Paid commissions are much more detailed and much more filthy🩷🩷

She scoffed, flicking a bit of hair out of her face. “And you lack basic social skills. You can’t just call someone incompetent because they didn’t fold napkins like you do!”

Lucifer leaned against the doorframe, tuning out their voices for a moment as he sipped from the coffee Charlie had made him. It wasn’t bad — but the sight before him was far more energizing than any caffeine could manage.

Alastor and the girl had been going at it for nearly fifteen minutes. Over what? Napkins. Napkins and seating arrangements. The rest of the hotel staff had long since fled the scene — Husk muttering something about needing a drink, Angel Dust dramatically fake-gagging on his way out, and Vaggie quietly ushering Charlie upstairs before she could try to “mediate.”

Lucifer, on the other hand, was delighted.“My, my, my…” he hummed, tail flicking lazily behind him as his grin grew. “You two are like an old married couple, aren’t you?”

That shut them both up.Alastor turned to glare, expression still perfectly polite but eyes burning like static behind glass. The woman’s face flushed, caught between outrage and embarrassment.

“We are not—!” they said in perfect unison.

Lucifer cackled, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, this is too good! Charlie was right — you do bring out something special in each other.”

She groaned, muttering under her breath, “Yeah, a migraine.”

Alastor’s grin didn’t falter, though his twitching ear betrayed him. “I find the accusation of matrimony quite laughable, my good sir. I merely find our dear friend’s… incompetence, shall we say, endearing.”

“Endearing, huh?” she shot back. “Funny, ‘cause I find your personality repellent.”

Lucifer practically vibrated with amusement. They were adorable. Irritating, loud, and clearly in denial — but adorable nonetheless.

And yet… after watching the same bickering pattern play out for the fifth day in a row, something mischievous sparked in his mind.

He had always fancied himself a bit of a showman. And if there was one thing Lucifer Morningstar couldn’t resist, it was stirring the pot when the ingredients were this entertaining.

He glanced toward the kitchen doorway, where Charlie peeked out nervously. “Daddy… please don’t—”

“Don’t what, Char Char?” he said innocently, wings flaring just a bit as that familiar glint filled his eye. “Mediate? Motivate? Magically facilitate an exercise in empathy?”

“Lucifer,” Vaggie warned from somewhere down the hall.

“Oh, relax!” he said, rolling his eyes with a smirk. “I’m only going to help them see each other’s perspective!”

He turned back toward the arguing pair, who hadn’t even noticed the quiet hum of magic starting to build between his fingers.

“Tell me, you two—” he interrupted cheerfully, clasping his hands together. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could understand each other completely? See life through the other’s eyes, so to speak?”

They both froze, exchanging wary looks.“That sounds… like a trap,” she said flatly.

“And coming from him,” Alastor added, voice dripping with suspicion, “I’d say it most certainly is.”

Lucifer’s grin widened. “Oh, ye of little faith! I promise, it’ll be enlightening!”

He snapped his fingers.

The room filled with golden smoke. It crackled and shimmered like fireworks before settling in a lazy cloud that smelled faintly of ozone and caramelized sugar.

Lucifer stood in the center of it, grinning ear to ear, brushing dust from his gloved hands. “Ahh, there!” he announced proudly. “Now, tell me—how do you two feel? More connected, perhaps?”

Silence.

Then—Alastor blinked. Slowly. He smoothed down the front of his… blouse?

He tilted his head, noticing that his field of view seemed oddly lower to the ground. “I don’t feel particularly—”

He froze.

The voice that came out wasn’t his. It was softer. Higher. Her voice.

Lucifer’s grin faltered slightly. “Er… is that—”

But Alastor wasn’t listening. His gaze darted downward, and the color drained from his borrowed face. There were breasts. Breasts attached to him. And no suit. No tie. Just the unmistakably mortal form of the woman who had been yelling at him not three minutes ago.

“What in the name of—!” He stumbled backward, clutching his new chest like it might explode. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!”

Lucifer blinked, then looked mildly impressed. “Oh, you can hit those higher notes now. Lovely range!”

Meanwhile, across from him, the woman—who now stood in his tall, sharp, deer-eared frame—stared down at her long, clawed fingers in awe.

“...Oh. Oh fuck, I’m tall.”

Lucifer snorted into his hand.

She turned her head slightly, catching her reflection in a cracked mirror behind the bar. “What the—holy shit, I have antlers.”

Her new ears flicked instinctively when she touched them, and she jerked back, eyes wide. “Oh my God, they move—”

“Stop that this instant!”

Alastor’s shrill voice—her voice—cut across the room. He spun on his heel (a motion that felt terrifyingly unfamiliar in heels, by the way) and pointed furiously at the towering, antlered figure.

“Quit using such vulgarities in my body! And hands off!” he barked, horror painting every syllable.

She blinked, then raised both clawed hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t look at me! I’m not the one who thought playing with cosmic magic was a fun bonding exercise!”

Lucifer watched them bicker with all the satisfaction of a man watching his favorite soap opera. “Oh, this is delightful. You see? You’re already learning empathy!”

“Empathy?!” Alastor’s voice cracked in indignation—again, her voice, which made it worse. “I am in her body! I have flesh!

”He pinched his own arm and gasped. “It hurts!”

Lucifer clapped once, gleeful. “Great discovery! Pain is an excellent teacher.”

The woman-in-Alastor’s-body crossed her arms, tail flicking with mild annoyance. “Relax, you drama queen. We’ll just have Charlie fix it.” She tried to grin—but the sharp teeth that flashed back at her in the mirror made her pause. “Okay, wow, that’s unsettling.”

She tilted her head experimentally, watching the static flicker faintly around her shoulders. “...I’m kinda hot like this, though.”

Alastor’s jaw dropped. “Do not— I repeat, do not—flirt with yourself while inhabiting my body!”

Lucifer howled with laughter, nearly doubling over. “Oh, this was so worth it.”

The girl huffed, brushing one of Alastor’s coattails aside with her clawed hand. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before insulting my napkin-folding skills, Mister Radio Star.”

He sputtered, face red (or at least, as red as her mortal skin could get). “You—! I—! That’s irrelevant!”

Lucifer wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, wings twitching behind him. “I’d call that progress, wouldn’t you? A change in perspective always does wonders for one’s humility.”

“Change it back!” Alastor demanded. “At once!”

“Hmm…” Lucifer tapped his chin theatrically. “Oh, I would, but alas—magic of this kind requires a recharge period! Say… twenty-four hours?”

Both of them shouted in unison. “TWENTY-FOUR HOURS?!”

Lucifer smiled angelically, spreading his arms. “You’ll thank me tomorrow!”

With that, he vanished in a burst of glittering light, leaving behind two furious demons in the wrong skins—and an empty lobby that would never know peace again.

Alastor stood perfectly still in the middle of the lobby, stiff as a statue, every inch of him screaming discomfort. Shoulders back, chin raised, hands pressed firmly at his sides like he was awaiting military inspection.

The borrowed body was soft, warm, far too alive. Every tiny twitch of muscle felt scandalous. He refused—refused—to move unnecessarily.

Meanwhile, across the room, his own tall frame had made itself very comfortable. Legs sprawled across the couch, coat discarded carelessly over the armrest, a glass of whiskey dangling from clawed fingers that were far too casual for their owner’s taste.

“Oh, come on,” she drawled in his voice, swirling the glass lazily. “You didn’t tell me your coat was this heavy. You’re practically baking in this thing.”

“Put. That. Back. On.”

“Why? You never take it off—” She tugged the collar of his undershirt, eyeing the cut of the fabric, the way it stretched over his chest and shoulders. A slow smirk formed. “Oh. Oh, this is hot as hell.”

Alastor—small, mortal, horrified—turned an alarming shade of red. “That is indecent! Cease gawking at myself!”

She ignored him entirely, standing to inspect her reflection in a nearby mirror. His ears twitched at her movements, that fluid, casual sway that felt wrong in his body. Then—

“Wait… what the fuck—”

“Language!” he snapped automatically.

“Is this a tail?!” She twisted around, grabbing the striped appendage that swayed behind her, eyes lighting up with delight. “Oh, this is so weird! It moves when I think about it! Alastor, look, look—!”

“Don’t touch that!” he barked, mortified. “That is a very personal—oh for pity’s sake, stop playing with it!”

She laughed—his own laugh, distorted and melodic—and plopped back onto the couch. “Relax, grandpa. I’m just exploring! You’ve been hiding all this from everyone, it’s criminal.”

“I do not hide—”

“Oh please, you’re always buttoned to the neck like some kind of fancy corpse.” She pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, admiring the wiry muscle underneath. The forearms alone made her whistle low. “Damn. Didn’t think you actually had any muscle under all those clothes.”

“I—well—of course I do! How dare you insinuate I’m frail!”

She flexed one arm experimentally, watching the way his biceps pressed against the fabric of the undershirt. “Oh my god, it moves! I thought you were just… y’know. Skin and bones with a radio signal.”

He looked personally offended. “I’ll have you know I’m in excellent condition! I simply prefer refinement to brutish displays!”

“Uh-huh.” She took another sip of whiskey, perfectly at ease. “Refinement my ass. You could’ve been pulling with this body if you ever took off the suit.”

His eyes nearly popped out of her smaller head. “Stop saying such horrendous things with my mouth!”

She grinned, teeth flashing sharp and far too pleased. “Can’t help it. Your mouth’s got nice teeth. Kinda want to see what else it can do.”

Alastor made a strangled noise somewhere between a shriek and a broken transmission, clutching at his borrowed chest like he might faint.

“Lucifer help me,” he muttered weakly.

From somewhere upstairs, Lucifer’s voice called down, utterly unbothered. “You’re welcome!”

Flames burst to life with a pop! and a puff of static.

“OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—!”

Alastor—currently trapped in a small, thoroughly mortal body—threw himself at the smoldering curtain, frantically smacking it with one of her slippers. “Stop touching things!”

Across the room, his much taller, antlered frame watched gleefully, claws sparking faintly with the crimson haze of unstable radio energy. “I was just trying to do the… flicky thing! You know, with your hands! How do you even control this?!”

“You don’t!” he yelped, batting the last ember out. “You think! You focus! You don’t just wave your hands like a lunatic!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Well, excuse me, Mister Static—maybe your magic’s just dramatic.”

“It’s precise,” he snapped, clutching at his chest as he glared at her. “Unlike you!”

“Oh, lighten up—” she started, then snorted, “—get it? Lighten—”

He pointed a finger at her. “Not. Another. Word.”

But she was already laughing, shoulders shaking in his broad frame. Her laughter echoed off the walls, warped by his deep, resonant tone. It was infuriatingly charming.

Alastor groaned, dragging a hand down his borrowed face. “How do you live like this? You’re exhausting.”

“Funny,” she shot back, “because I feel great! I could probably run a marathon.” She stretched experimentally, ears flicking as her spine popped. “Do you ever get tired in this body?”

His hands paused mid-adjustment of her hair, and a faint look of realization crossed his—her—features. “...I haven’t felt fatigue in… decades,” he said quietly. “But now…” He trailed off, swaying slightly, and pressed a palm to his temple. “I’m… tired. Good grief, I’d forgotten what that feels like.”

She grinned, tail flicking lazily. “Aww, poor thing. Can’t handle a day in my body?”

He shot her a withering look that lacked his usual intensity, mostly because he was too busy yawning. “This—this is humiliating.”

Lucifer’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere upstairs, far too amused: “Oh, and do try to get some rest, children! It’ll be so much easier to fix you if you haven’t burned the hotel down!”

Alastor scowled up at the ceiling. “I loathe him.”

“Same,” she said cheerfully, grabbing his coat and tossing it over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go see where you sleep.”

His jaw dropped. “Absolutely not!”

But she was already halfway up the grand staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.He sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course she would.”

By the time he reached the base of his tower, he was panting—actually panting. His chest ached, and his legs felt like jelly. The human heart thudded against his ribs in a way he hadn’t felt since before his death.“Oh, splendid,” he muttered bitterly, gripping the railing. “I’ve regressed to mortality.”

He dragged himself up the remaining stairs and shoved open the tower door—only to find her rummaging through his meticulously organized belongings.

The tall demon turned at the creak of the door, his grin spreading across her face. “Hey! You didn’t tell me you had a whole library up here! And—oh my god, is that an old record player?!”

Alastor froze in the doorway, half from exhaustion and half from horror. “Stop touching my things!”

“Relax, I’m not gonna break anything,” she said, turning one of his microphones over in her hand, examining the engraving. “You keep it so clean up here it’s like a museum.”

“That’s the point!” He stomped forward, or tried to—her shorter legs didn’t make for an intimidating stride. “Everything in here is perfectly arranged! Those recordings are chronological! And—oh no, not that drawer—”

She pulled it open. “Huh. You label your ties? Wow.”

“Those are color-coded by emotional tone!”

She blinked, staring at him. “You assign emotions to colors of ties?”

“Of course I do!” he sputtered. “What kind of monster doesn’t?”

She set the tie back neatly, lips twitching. “You’re a whole new level of weird, y’know that?”

He huffed, cheeks flushed. “And you, my dear, are a nightmare.”

She smirked, stepping closer until his broad frame nearly filled the space between them. “Maybe. But I make it look good.”

Alastor stiffened immediately. “Personal space! Boundaries! Do not invade either while occupying my body!”

Her grin only widened as she leaned back, tail flicking in amusement. “You’re no fun.”

“No manners!” he shot back.

The argument might have continued indefinitely, but her laugh broke it apart, rolling through the tower like warm static. For a split second, he almost smiled—before catching himself and turning away sharply, muttering about “improper behavior” under his breath.

Alastor was pacing by the window with his arms crossed—every movement stiff and awkward, as though the very act of existing in her skin offended him. She, on the other hand, reclined in his chair behind the desk, legs kicked up, his long coat draped haphazardly around her shoulders like a cape. She was still adjusting to the weight of his form—the power thrumming under his skin, the static hum of magic that lingered in his veins.

“Alastor,” she began lightly, resting his—well, her—hands behind his head. “Since Lucifer’s not fixing this tonight, I need you to do me a favor.”

He didn’t look up from inspecting her nails, which he’d been staring at with visible disdain. “A favor?” he asked, her voice clipped and polite, though there was a nervous edge to it.

“Yeah. You should probably take a shower for me.”

That snapped his attention up. His—her—eyes widened in horror. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, it’s my hair wash day,” she said casually, picking invisible lint from his sleeve. “You’ll have to deal with it eventually. I’m not about to let my scalp get all gross because you’re squeamish.”

He gaped at her as though she’d suggested murder. “You expect me to undress—to bathe—in your body?”

“Well, yeah,” she teased, lips curving into a wicked smile. “Unless you’d rather I do it in your body.”

He sputtered so violently she thought he might combust. “That is utterly indecent! I refuse to take part in such debauchery!”

She smirked, leaning back further in the chair, amused by how flustered he was—she was, technically—his cheeks red and voice cracking at the edges. “Oh, come on. Stop acting like such a virgin.”

The room went quiet.

She blinked. He froze mid-rant, back straightening. For a heartbeat, there was only the faint buzz of the phonograph in the corner. Then, instead of protesting or denying it, Alastor simply turned on his heel and snapped, “Get your feet off my desk!”

Her eyebrows rose. That was… interesting. “Oh? Avoiding, are we?”

“I am not avoiding anything,” he snapped, though the tremor in her voice betrayed him.

“Right,” she drawled, folding his hands over his chest. “Most people would’ve said ‘I’m not a virgin’ right away. You didn’t.”

He stiffened. His—her—eyes darted anywhere but her.

Her grin widened. “Wait. You actually are one, aren’t you?”

The tips of her ears—his ears—flushed a deep red. “That is none of your concern!”

She laughed. Full, genuine laughter that filled the tower and made his body’s chest shake. “Oh my god, the great Radio Demon, the most feared overlord in Hell… has never gotten laid?”

He glared, cheeks flaming. “I simply never had time for such… trivial matters! Nor any inclination!”

“Never wanted it?” she teased, cocking his head. “Not even once?”He faltered. “No,” he admitted finally, tone quieter, uncomfortable. “There was never… anyone worth wanting.”

Her laughter softened, becoming something gentler. She studied him for a moment—him standing there awkwardly in her form, clutching her own arms as if afraid to move wrong. Then, after a pause, she tilted his head. “I could help you, you know.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “I—excuse me?”

She raised a brow. “You heard me.”

He stammered, visibly flustered, stepping back as if distance could undo her words. “You—you can’t possibly mean—”

“Oh, but I do.” She stood slowly, stretching in his taller frame, watching the faint panic flicker across her own borrowed face. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me sometimes. Don’t deny it. You might think you’re subtle, but you’re not.”

“I—absolutely not—I’ve never—!”

“Alastor,” she interrupted, voice low now, amusement fading into something softer, more deliberate. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve been alive. I know when someone’s attracted to me.”

He froze, all words leaving him.

She took a step closer, close enough that the static hum between their swapped bodies became tangible. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” she murmured, “to actually touch me? To feel what I feel?”

He blinked. The words seemed to rattle through him like a shock.

“You’re in my body, I’m in yours,” she went on, her tone teasing but threaded with sincerity. “If you’re that curious, this might be your only chance to know what it’s like. To know what I feel like.”

He swallowed hard, unable to look away. His—her—hands flexed uselessly at his sides, the mortal body trembling faintly with adrenaline and embarrassment.

“You… truly have no shame,” he managed finally, though the edge of his voice wavered.

She smirked faintly. “Maybe not. But you’re curious, aren’t you?”

He hesitated. Then, despite himself, his eyes flickered down—just once—before he wrenched them back up again.She smiled knowingly, and the air between them grew heavy.

Alastor began pacing, the motion sharp and agitated, her body trembling slightly as he dragged a hand down his face. “This is utterly absurd,” he muttered, glaring at the floor as though it might swallow him and spare him this humiliation. “Even if—hypothetically—I entertained your ridiculous proposal, I don’t even know how such a thing would work! I am not attracted to—” He gestured wildly at her tall, suited frame. “—myself!”

She snorted, leaning casually against his desk, eyes glinting with mischief.

“If I saw myself looming over me,” he continued, voice rising in indignant disbelief, “I would hardly be aroused! I’d be horrified!”

She nodded thoughtfully, crossing her arms. “That’s fair. I don’t really like looking at myself either.”

That actually made him pause mid-rant. His—her—brows furrowed. “You don’t?”

“Nah,” she said lightly, tapping his chin as she thought. “Not like that anyway…” Then, after a beat, her face lit up. “Wait. What about a mirror?”

Alastor blinked, thrown off. “A… what?”

“A mirror,” she repeated, eyes sparkling with the idea. “If we had a mirror by the bed, you could see yourself. Which means you’d actually be looking at me—and I’d be looking at you. Problem solved.”

He froze. For a brief, fleeting moment, her suggestion clicked somewhere in his mind—and he hated that it made sense.Her grin widened when he didn’t immediately reject it. “See? You like the idea.”

“I most certainly do not!” he snapped, though it came out weaker than intended.

“Oh, you do,” she teased, already turning away. “I can see the gears turning, Alastor.”

Before he could protest further, she raised one gloved hand dramatically and concentrated, squinting a little as the static hum of his magic crackled faintly around her fingers.

He stiffened instantly. “What—what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Making a mirror, obviously,” she said, utterly unbothered.

“You can’t just summon things with my power! There’s a method to it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your suspenders in a twist.” She squinted harder, sparks flickering weakly from her palm. “I just… what, snap or something?”

“Yes, but it’s not just—”

She snapped her fingers.

A bright burst of static energy shot across the tower, the air thick with ozone—and then, with a loud shoom, a massive mirror materialized beside his bed.

Alastor threw his hands up in exasperation. “You see?! This is exactly what I meant about your reckless—”

“Oh my god,” she interrupted, grinning wide. “It worked.”

She was already rushing over, long coat flaring behind her, boots clicking against the floor as she approached the mirror. The thing was enormous, tall as the ceiling, framed in black wood that shimmered faintly with radio static.

Alastor followed, fuming. “You could have destroyed something—!”

“Relax,” she cut him off, running his long fingers over the surface. Then she laughed—a bright, delighted sound—as her hand passed straight through the glass.

“What on earth—?”

“It’s like… not a normal mirror,” she said excitedly, moving her hand in and out of it. “It’s got this weird, holographic feel. Like the reflection’s real, but not?”

Alastor’s expression tightened. He opened his mouth to scold her, but she turned and gave him such a smug, self-satisfied grin that he faltered.

“It’s pretty damn cool, right?” she said, clearly fishing for validation.

He drew himself up, glaring at her with every ounce of indignation her mortal frame could muster. “I will not give you the satisfaction of hearing me say that.”

She smirked, turning back to the mirror, voice lilting with amusement. “So you do think it’s cool.”

His jaw clenched, a faint twitch betraying him.“Absolutely not,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Sure, sure.” She ran her hand over the glowing frame one more time, admiring her handiwork. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Alastor sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her body’s smaller frame. The massive mirror across from him gleamed faintly in the lamplight, its surface catching every flicker of movement in the room. He stared at it, transfixed despite himself. There she was—his reflection—but it wasn’t him. It was her. Her face, her expression, her posture. All his… yet not.

It was disorienting, seeing her features move when he frowned, watching her lips purse with his nervous energy. But as the seconds passed, the initial discomfort gave way to something else—something softer. His breath caught quietly in her throat as he leaned forward, tracing her cheek in the reflection with his eyes.

He had always found her pretty—more than he’d ever admit aloud. But to see her so close, to have her image right there, responding to every nervous twitch of his hand—it made his heart stutter. Her face, her lashes, the way the light caught in her hair—it was intoxicating. And for once, he didn’t have to hide the way he looked at her.

Beside him, she hummed as she slipped out of his coat, tossing it carelessly across a chair. “God, this thing’s heavy,” she muttered, before tugging at his tie. “How do you even breathe in all this?”

Alastor tore his eyes from the mirror, trying—and failing—to sound authoritative. “You could at least attempt to treat my attire with some respect.”

“Oh, lighten up,” she shot back, her voice playful. Then she unbuttoned the top of his shirt, catching sight of his bare chest. Her breath hitched, her grin widening. “Well… hello there.”

He froze, color rushing to her cheeks. “W–what on earth are you—!”

“Holy hell,” she interrupted, dragging a claw slowly down the center of his chest, tracing the fur and sinew beneath. “You’re cut. I didn’t think you’d have muscle under all that old-fashioned charm.” Her tone dripped with teasing, her eyes dragging across every inch of him in the mirror.

Alastor stammered something that might have been an attempt at a scolding, but his voice came out far too high, far too flustered. “Must you say such improper things while using my mouth?”

“Improper? Please.” She grinned at his reflection, eyes glinting wickedly. “I’m literally looking at myself and getting turned on. Guess you could say I’m full of myself.”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, stretching. “Now quit being shy and take my clothes off.”

He blinked, whipping his head toward her. “I—excuse me?!”

“Come on,” she said, gesturing impatiently. “We’ve already gotten this far. Don’t make me do everything.”

“I—I am getting there!” he sputtered, trying to sound offended but failing miserably. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the hem of her shirt.

With a shaky breath, he lifted it up and over her head. When her skin met the cool air, his breath hitched—and then, as he turned his gaze toward the mirror, time seemed to stop.

There she was. Bare from the waist up. Her—his—chest exposed, the soft rise and fall of her breathing reflected in perfect detail. Alastor stared, wide-eyed, as if afraid to blink

.“Oh dear…” he whispered before he could stop himself.

For a long, quiet moment, all he could do was stare. It was strange, seeing her body from this angle—every curve, every subtle motion. But stranger still was the feeling. His pulse quickened, a low, foreign warmth curling in his stomach. Her skin tingled, her chest tight. Was this how women experienced desire? It was overwhelming, confusing—different.Tentatively, his—her—hand rose. Fingers brushed over her breast, hesitant, reverent. The soft warmth beneath his palm made his breath falter again. He had seen plenty in his time, but nothing quite compared to this. The sensation was dizzying—too personal, too vivid.

And then—A startled yelp broke through the moment, sharp and echoing in his voice.

Alastor jerked his head up, startled, to find her staring down at herself—his body—with wide eyes and a look of sheer panic. “WHAT THE—OH MY GOD.”

Her hands flew to her lap, horrified. “It—It—It moved!”

He blinked. “What on—”

She pointed frantically down. “ALASTOR, WHAT IS THIS?! Why is it—why is it doing that?!”

He followed her gaze and nearly choked when he saw it—his body’s unmistakable reaction, tenting the front of his slacks.

"Good heavens woman!” he exclaimed, clapping her—his—hands over her eyes on instinct. “Compose yourself!”

“I am composed!” she shouted back, voice cracking. “I can feel it! Oh my god, I can feel what it’s like when you—oh, no, no, no—”

“Stop talking!” he barked, absolutely mortified, cheeks flushed deep crimson.

“I can’t stop talking, this is terrifying!” she yelped again, half laughing, half panicking, looking at him through the mirror. “How do you even walk around with that thing just—doing that?!”

“Because I have self-control!” he snapped, crossing her arms furiously.

“Oh, sure you do,” she muttered, glancing down again and then immediately looking away, face burning. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding about being… equipped.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You are utterly impossible!”

“And you’re huge!” she blurted out, then immediately covered her mouth, horrified at the words that had just escaped.

Alastor’s eyes went wide, her mortified expression mirrored perfectly in the glass. “Stop talking!” he hissed, voice breaking.

Alastor’s face—or rather, her face—flushed a deep, unnatural red as she finally stopped giggling, lips pressed into a thin line as she leaned against the edge of the bed. “You should… take the rest off too,” she murmured, voice low, teasing. “You want to see that, don’t you?”

He froze, staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes. “I—what?!” His tone faltered as the heat in her cheeks betrayed him, betraying that he wasn’t about to deny it.

With a trembling hand, he reached back behind her—her back—and fumbled at the clasps of her bra. His claws, unfamiliar in this delicate form, made the task clumsy, fumbling against the smooth fabric. A frustrated groan escaped her lips, high-pitched and musical, and she laughed softly. “Here, let me help,” she said, stepping closer. Fingers quick, deft, and warm, she unhooked the bra and slid it off her own shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Alastor swallowed hard, taking a deep, steadying breath, then turned his gaze back to the mirror. A quiet curse fell from her lips, barely audible, as he studied the reflection.

Behind him, she slipped forward, moving with a feline grace. He opened his mouth to scold her, but she pressed a finger to his—her—lips, shushing him. “Just… look in the mirror,” she murmured. “I’m going to do something I know this body likes.”

Alastor fixed his gaze on himself. Or rather, on her, in the mirror. Her—his—pretty face, the soft curve of her jaw, her eyes wide and shimmering, and the gentle swell of her now-exposed breasts. She didn’t hesitate. One hand—her own claws, long and precise—slid up behind him and cupped her breasts.He stiffened instantly, a shock running down his spine. It felt… good. Too good. His breath hitched, catching somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Then, her fingers pinched at her—his—nipples, eliciting a small, sharp yelp that came from her mouth, yet carried his voice.

Alastor’s eyes went wide, cheeks burning hotter. “How… how cute are your little sounds,” he murmured, his voice husky, utterly caught off guard. Swallowing hard, he added, almost desperately, “Take… take my pants off.”

She didn’t hesitate, a giddy smile spreading across his—her—face. Her hands moved quickly, fumbling slightly as she undid the belt and unbuttoned the pants. Sliding them down, she hissed softly, amused and reveling in the sensation. “Feels good to… let it out,” she murmured, glancing down at the mirror.Alastor followed her gaze and froze. In his—her—reflection, he saw the boxers clinging tightly, outlining a very hard, undeniable erection. His breath caught in her throat.

He reached down, sliding her leggings along her—his—legs with careful, reverent hands, groaning as her thighs were revealed. A small squeeze followed, lingering on the smooth skin. “Your body… it’s… so pretty,” he muttered, voice low, eyes drinking in every detail, cheeks blazing with the intensity of the forbidden, utterly overwhelming sensation.

Her grin widened, sharp and teasing, hands hovering over him again, eager to explore. Alastor’s heart—or whatever passed for it now—hammered as he struggled to maintain composure, caught between fascination, fear, and a thrill he had never, ever known.

Every second, every touch, every mirrored glance pushed him further into uncharted territory—and yet, despite the shame and fluster, he couldn’t look away.

Alastor’s—her—breath hitched as an unfamiliar, insistent pressure began pressing between his legs. He froze, hand instinctively hovering over her thighs, the sensation strange, confusing… and oddly compelling. “This… this is… peculiar,” he muttered, voice higher than usual, tremulous. “I feel… as though I want something… inside me?”

She laughed, low and teasing, leaning back slightly in his frame. “Oh, come on. You do realize what’s happening, right? I’m not a virgin—my body? It craves dick right now. It’s… insistent.”

Alastor’s cheeks flared crimson. He swallowed, taking in the way the light played across her—his—skin, every curve highlighted in soft shadows. His breath hitched, each inhale shaky as he realized he was genuinely admiring the flush of her body. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, exhaling through his nose. “H-how… do you… want me to… handle this?”

She shrugged lazily, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “You could… you know… ride me. I mean, if you’re gonna do it.”

Alastor shuddered violently, every hair on her body standing on end. “That… that sounds so… wrong. So terribly wrong.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, patting the mattress. Then, with a snap of her fingers, another mirror appeared on the far side of the bed, shimmering faintly with the familiar static glow of his magic.He whipped around, incredulous, eyes widening. “Another mirror?!”

She shrugged, a wicked smile dancing across her lips. “I just… I want to see your face while you ride me. You know… for motivation.” She tilted her head and blinked. “It does sound wrong when I say it out loud.”

He groaned, huffing, caught between indignation and arousal. “It’s… horridly improper,” he muttered, cheeks burning hotter with every passing second.

His hands hesitated for only a moment before sliding her panties down, exposing the soft, glistening folds beneath. He snapped his head up, catching a full view of her cunt, and shivered involuntarily at the sight. His fingers moved on their own, brushing across her slick folds, the warmth of her wetness making his breath hitch audibly.

A small, choked moan escaped her—his—mouth, soft and breathy. His lips parted, and he bit them, a shiver running down her spine at the sound. “H-how… how attractive your… your sounds are,” he murmured, voice trembling in disbelief. “And… and… you’re… so… wet.”

She jolted slightly, gasping when his fingers—her fingers, technically—brushed teasingly against her clit. He shivered violently, startled at the rush of pleasure, but unable to stop.

Meanwhile, she leaned forward, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror, and began stroking the hard length of his cock. Every motion, deliberate and teasing, made him shiver again, her sensitive flesh reacting in ways utterly foreign and overwhelming. She could see the tension in his back, the tremor in his fingers as he pressed against her—herself—watching her own reflection’s arousal.

He gulped, heart hammering, mind spinning. “H-how… how do… I… do this?” he asked, voice cracking with the weight of uncertainty, excitement, and… desire.

She blinked at him, lips parting slightly, before snapping her attention back. Her eyes were clear, bright, commanding even. “Sit on me,” she instructed softly, patting the mattress with one hand. “Sit… on my… lap. I’ll… do the rest.”

Alastor’s—her—heart thundered. Every instinct screamed against this, but the heat between her legs, the sight of herself in the mirror, and the flush of her—his—own cheeks left him unable to argue. Slowly, trembling, she positioned herself carefully, sitting down, his body now hovering over her, every nerve on fire, every heartbeat loud in her chest.

Alastor froze for a moment, the weight of her—his—body beneath him sending a jolt straight through every nerve. His—her—hands trembled as she guided the hard, unyielding length of his cock to her entrance. The moment the blunt, throbbing head nudged her—herself—he shivered violently, a dizzying mix of anticipation, fear, and something altogether new flooding him.

She tilted her head back, hair falling around her face in a halo, letting out a sharp, breathy gasp as he sank fully onto him. The sudden, warm tightness enveloping him was nearly overwhelming. His—her—back arched instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as a strangled moan tore from his—her—throat.

The sound of her own moans, sweet and high, echoed in the mirror, bouncing back at him like a drug. Each gasp, each shiver, each soft squeal made him tremble more, his body reacting instinctively, untrained and raw. Her—his—mouth opened in quiet, reverent awe, the blush on her—his—cheeks deepening as the sensation consumed him.

He pressed down harder, moving with a clumsy, desperate rhythm, utterly unpracticed but desperate to please, desperate to explore this new, burning pleasure. The sound of her—herself—panting and groaning beneath him was intoxicating, a symphony of heat and want that made every nerve in his body hum with electricity.

“Y-yes… just like that…” she moaned, voice shaky and wet, leaning up to glance at him in the mirror. “That’s… perfect… you’re… not a virgin anymore, are you?”

He jerked, startled, her—his—voice echoing in his ears, and let out a choked laugh mixed with a hiss. “I—I’m… I’m learning…!” he stammered, hips trembling, shoving forward again as her—herself—tight warmth clamped around him, dragging out another deep, breathless moan.

She bit her lip, nails raking lightly down his—her—back, panting heavily. “Oh god… that’s so fucking hot… the way you move… like that… ohhh…”

Alastor’s—her—eyes fluttered, teeth gritting as he let himself fall fully into the sensation, every thrust a shock of pure, dizzying ecstasy. The way her—his—moans mingled with his own made him flush hotter, heat pooling low in her—his—stomach. He had never known anything like this—never imagined it, never dared.

Every press of his hips, every quiver of her—his—flesh around him, drove him further past any shred of restraint. She—herself—arched beneath him, biting a trembling hand, whispering, “Harder… you’re doing so good… ohhhh god…”

Alastor moaned again, her—his—voice trembling with heat as she—he—raked her claws lightly down his—her—back. The raw, messy intimacy of it—her—herself moaning in her—his—own voice, seeing him in the mirror, feeling every shudder, every squeeze—made his body hum with a pleasure he had never thought he’d know.

And still, he rode her—herself—slowly, desperately, shivering with every unsteady thrust, every breathless sound, every flick of his—her—tongue over parted lips. The world narrowed to heat, mirrored reflections, and the sweet, sinful sounds of his—hers—moaning, echoing endlessly in his mind, drowning out everything else.

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He’d already tried everything: opening windows, snapping his fingers for a breeze, even threatening the air conditioner when it sputtered out. But nothing worked. The air was hot enough to hum.

Now he was in the bathroom, door open, tie discarded on the counter. The only thing that had helped, even a little, was the sink. The shower’s pipes ran too close to the walls — the water came out nearly boiling. But the sink? The sink was tolerable. Not cold, not warm, just… something.

So he’d bent over it, shoving his head beneath the faucet, letting the water run endlessly over his scalp and down his neck. His hair was drenched, dark curls springing back from the straightened shape he usually kept. His ears hung back in irritation, flicking every time a droplet ran down his temple.

He’d been like that for ten minutes now, jaw tight, water dripping down his bare arms as he muttered under his breath.

“Of all infernal torments, this—this infernal climate!”

But still, he didn’t move. The lukewarm trickle was the only thing keeping him from combusting.

-----

She found his tower hotter than anywhere else in the hotel. The air felt trapped, thick as a furnace. Even her power couldn’t chase the warmth completely away; frost melted on the doorknob before she could turn it.

“Poor thing’s probably melting,” she murmured, amused.

The first two rooms were empty. His office was deserted, the curtains drawn tight. Then she spotted a stripe of light spilling from the half-open bathroom door and heard the low mutter of his voice, rising and falling between the hiss of running water.

Leaning around the doorframe, she nearly laughed out loud.

Alastor was bent over the sink, sleeves rolled, collar undone, head shoved under the faucet like a man begging for mercy. Water ran through his hair and down his neck in thin streams, pattering against the tile. He was grumbling to himself in a steady rhythm, every few words punctuated by a hiss of annoyance.

She bit her lip to hide a smile, stepping quietly across the floor until she stood beside him. Cool mist bled off her skin; the counter chilled beneath her palms.

Her fingers brushed the faucet.

The water turned instantly freezing.

Alastor jolted with a strangled sound, a low, almost reverent groan spilling out before he could stop it. His shoulders slumped, a long breath shuddering through him.

“Christ, finally,” he muttered, voice hoarse with relief. “About time this damned hotel provided something useful.”

He stayed like that for a beat, basking, then started complaining again—about the “incompetent piping,” the “half-melted devils who call themselves maintenance,” every word broken by another satisfied hum.

She let him enjoy it for a moment before lifting her hand. The water warmed immediately.

He growled, a real, guttural sound of frustration that made her stifle a giggle.

That tiny sound gave her away.

Alastor snapped his head up so fast droplets scattered across the mirror. His hair, dark and curling from the water, clung to his temples. Without the usual sharp lines of his suit and slicked hair, he looked… caught.

He blinked once, ears twitching back, and for the first time in recent memory, the grin that slid onto his face was not quite controlled.

“Ah,” he said dryly, voice rough from the heat, “I appear to have been discovered.”

She leaned down just slightly, brushing her warmth against him in a deliberate tease. Alastor’s eyes darted to her, lips parting in a whine that was half indignation, half desperation.

“It’s… it’s so hot,” he complained, voice tight. “It isn’t my fault, I— I’m simply… seeking relief—!”

She giggled, soft and knowing, calling him a “big baby,” the sound curling around him like a caress. Before he could respond, she pressed him closer, hugging his damp face to her chest. The cool press of her body made him shiver, melt, and groan all at once.

“Ah… yes… I’d… forgotten… how nice your frost feels,” he sighed, voice low and satisfied, nuzzling into her.

She hummed softly, letting go, and began to walk toward his bed, leaving him just enough space to stew in his own impatience. His legs moved of their own accord — he was practically running, desperate to catch up, to feel that relief again. He was gone barely ten steps behind her when he reached the threshold of the bedroom.

She sat delicately on the edge of the bed, her frost-kissed hands brushing against the scorching silk sheets, sending a hiss of heat into the room. The contrast of her cold against the hot fabric made the air between them feel electric.

Alastor collapsed beside her without ceremony, wrapping his arms around her torso, burying his nose deep into her chest. His cheeks pressed into her cold skin, and the chill made his body tremble in the most delicious way.

She ran her fingers through his soaked, curling hair, and he shivered again, voice trembling with need.

“So… so good… your frost… it’s… ah… perfect.”

She hummed again, this time cooing with mock sympathy, letting her cold body brush against his warm one.

“Oh my poor baby,” she teased, letting her fingertips trail over his shoulders. “Burning up, are we?”

He nodded eagerly, pressing his entire body against hers, seeking every inch of the cold he could bury himself into, and groaning with relief at the ice-cold comfort she provided.

Gonna stop it right here because this is still a free commission. Paid commissions are much more detailed and much more filthy🩷🩷

He hummed under his breath while he read, a tune that sounded older than the building itself. Every so often his smile widened, like the words on the page were whispering a private joke meant only for him. She watched the curve of that grin over the rim of her book, wondering—as she often did—what, exactly, could make a man like him smile so softly.

Alastor felt her eyes before he saw them. His gaze lifted, red and bright, catching hers across the small circular table. He didn’t speak; he simply tilted his head and offered one of those warm, perfectly measured smiles that meant I see you.

Heat climbed her neck. She ducked her head, pretending to read, though her eyes had stopped following the words.

From the front desk, Charlie’s cheerful voice carried: “You two are up early!”

Alastor answered without looking away from his book. “Good habits die hard, my dear.”

Charlie laughed and went back to her notes. The moment settled again—peaceful, almost domestic. She took a bite of her cookie, the crunch loud in the quiet room. Across the table, Alastor turned a page. Their lives had once been made of noise—shouting, glass breaking, radio static screaming through walls. Now silence itself felt like a luxury.

She leaned back, letting her eyes drift shut for a breath. The hum of Alastor’s tune threaded through the air, the same song he used to whistle when things got bad. It still had the power to steady her heartbeat.

Sometimes she wondered how they had come this far—from the house where every floorboard creaked with danger to this odd, colorful hotel in the heart of Hell. Safety had always been a foreign thing, and yet here it was: two chairs, a table between them, the world temporarily kind.

The memory came unbidden, tugging at her like a shadow she couldn’t outrun. The hazy golden sunlight of the hotel lobby faded, replaced by the dusty, cramped parlor of a house long gone. She could feel the tension again—the constant weight of someone else’s fury pressing down, the sharp sting of words and hands that should never have hurt her.

He had been indifferent at first. Alastor, small with dark ringlets, eyes too old for a boy of nine, had hardly noticed her when she arrived. She had been placed there as part of some cold arrangement, an orphan with no one to claim her. His father’s words had been clipped, businesslike: “She’s staying here. Mind her. It’s easier this way.”

She had curled into herself, shivering in the corner, while the man they called father prowled the halls with his temper and his fists. At first, Alastor had simply watched, curious but detached, as the abuse escalated. But then the marks appeared on her skin, the bruises blooming like dark flowers across her arms, and something snapped in him.

He stepped in the first time quietly, a whisper of teeth and nails, intercepting a blow meant for her. “Leave her alone,” he had said, voice soft but steady. She remembered the shock in her eyes, the disbelief that someone—not just a passing adult—would dare defy him.

From that moment, everything changed. She learned quickly to rely on him; he learned just as quickly to anticipate her needs, to shield her without question. The house became their battlefield and their sanctuary, two children trapped in a war that belonged to adults. They shared glances that spoke more than words ever could, whispered jokes in corners, and leaned on each other when the screaming became unbearable.

Years passed, and the stakes rose with them. Alastor grew stronger, sharper, calculating—a boy forged by necessity and vengeance. She grew into her own, clinging to him with a trust so absolute it terrified her sometimes. And when the moment came—when their father’s depravity had crossed an unspoken line and she shrank into the corner, sobbing and shaking—he was there. Blood smeared across his hands and darkened the collar of his shirt, the aftermath of the violence that had finally stopped him.

He knelt beside her, and for a heartbeat she thought he would just hold her. Then he pressed his lips to her hair, her cheek, a fleeting kiss that carried a promise heavier than any words: I will always protect you. She felt the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against hers, and she let herself believe it, even as the world still burned around them.

It was the start of everything—the silent understanding, the unspoken vows, the codependence that had grown between them like ivy in a ruined building. She would be his anchor, and he hers. Together, they would navigate the darkness, and together they would survive.

And so it began.

The streets became their stage. She learned to move through shadows, to draw eyes and hands that belonged elsewhere, while he followed just out of reach, a storm waiting to strike. The men who underestimated her, who dared to touch what was not theirs, found themselves undone. And afterward, the quiet intimacy returned—shared smiles, soft touches, the knowledge that they had each other and nothing else mattered.

The memory loosened its grip only when something cool brushed her skin. She startled and looked down to find a gloved hand resting lightly over hers. One of Alastor’s claws traced the back of her fingers once, a silent question.

Her breath caught. He was still watching her, head tilted just so, curiosity flickering behind that ever-present smile. “I’m fine,” she murmured, though her pulse said otherwise.

He seemed to accept the answer. With a smooth motion he closed his book, the sound of the cover snapping shut sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. “Well!” His voice brightened, echoing easily through the lobby. “There’s much to be done today, my dear.”

He rose, straightening his coat, every movement deliberate and theatrical. Before she could answer, he leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead—a gesture so quick and practiced it might have been routine, but it still sent warmth crawling up her neck.

She blinked after him as he strode toward the door, already talking about errands: meetings, supplies, a favor owed to someone in the Pentagram City market. The words washed over her like familiar radio static.

Her heart was still racing, the echo of the past beating against the present. It was always like that around him—one moment, she was the frightened girl he’d once saved; the next, she was the woman following the infamous Radio Demon through the streets of Hell.

He had risen fast, faster than anyone thought possible. One by one the old powers had fallen before him, until his name alone was enough to silence a room. She had been there for all of it: the long nights, the sharp laughter, the way blood never seemed to cling to him for long.

And through it all, he had kept her safe. No one touched her, no one dared. The world might have burned around them, but his shadow always fell between her and the flame.

She gathered her book and half-finished cookies, a small smile tugging at her mouth. Maybe safety here was an illusion. Maybe it always had been.

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

The day stretched long and hot beneath Hell’s blood-red sky. The air carried the usual scent of smoke and copper, a strange kind of normal she had learned not to question. Beside her, Alastor walked with his usual bright energy, cane tapping against the uneven cobblestone as if keeping time to a song only he could hear. His grin never faltered—not even when the ground beneath them seemed to moan from the weight of so many restless souls.

They had been running errands since morning, and though he called them “little visits,” she had learned that usually meant checking on the souls he owned. Contracts, debts, the messy bookkeeping of power. Some of those meetings ended with polite conversation, others with screams that echoed through the alleys long after the bodies stopped moving.

She never watched. She couldn’t. Whenever Alastor went to “handle a situation,” she found something to distract herself with. Today it was the dusty ground beneath her boots, the tiny glittering shards of stone that caught Hell’s crimson light. She crouched low, dragging the tip of her finger through the soot, tracing shapes that meant nothing—circles, loops, a heart she quickly smeared away before it could take form.

Behind her, his voice rang out like a broadcast cutting through static. “Come along, my darling!”

She looked up instantly, brushing off her hands and rising to her feet. By the time she turned, he was already striding toward her, that impossible smile in place, his coat swinging with every confident step. There was no blood on him this time—he had cleaned up, as he always did—but the metallic scent still lingered faintly in the air.

She fell into step beside him, as she always did. Her hand brushed his sleeve before resting lightly at his arm. The streets were busy here, full of demons bartering and shouting over one another, the air thick with sound and sin. Alastor clasped his hands neatly behind his back, spine straight, radiating authority. No one dared to touch him, and by extension, no one dared to touch her.

When the crowds thinned, his demeanor softened just slightly. One hand slipped from behind his back and found her hip, the motion so subtle that anyone watching might have thought it accidental. She knew better. It was his quiet way of reminding her she was there, that she was his companion, not his shadow.

They walked like that, through crooked streets lined with flickering neon and half-collapsed buildings. He greeted people with that same cheerful politeness that made most of them flinch, tipping his head to frightened souls who ducked their heads and muttered his name under their breath.

“People do forget their manners so easily,” he said after one particularly quick encounter, his tone light, almost amused.

“They’re scared of you,” she murmured, keeping her gaze on the road.

“They should be,” he replied with a chuckle. “Fear keeps things orderly, my dear. Don’t you think?”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she agreed—but she also knew better than to argue when his mood was so bright. He fed on chaos, but he liked to think it was all a grand performance, a show that only he could conduct. And in a way, it was. He was the Radio Demon, the very name a warning whispered through every alleyway and club.

He was finishing with one of the souls who had dared to test the limits of their contract—a pitiful creature, shrieking and sputtering as static hissed in the air. She’d long since learned to tune it out. The smell of burnt flesh and singed ozone clung to everything, familiar now. She stood off to the side, eyes fixed on the cobblestone under her shoes, waiting. That was what she did best—wait for him to be done.

But something caught her eye. Down the crooked street, there was a small stall—nothing special, just a rickety table draped in red cloth and scattered with trinkets and books. A crooked sign hung from a bent nail: Curios and Keepsakes. It was quaint, out of place in this wretched part of town. The vendor was humming softly, flipping through a dusty novel. She smiled a little.

It wasn’t far. Barely twenty paces. She could still see Alastor from there; he could still see her. It would be fine.

When the static finally died, she looked up to find him brushing off his gloves, the air around him still crackling faintly with residual power. He turned to her with that showman’s grin—the kind that could light up a crowd or freeze a heart—and gestured toward her with his cane. “All finished, my dear! Now then, where to next?”

She hesitated, then nodded toward the stall. “There’s a little shop just over there. I thought I might look around while you… wrap things up.”

He followed her gaze. The grin stayed perfectly in place, but something cold flickered behind his eyes. “Oh? Well then! What delightful timing—you’ll have to show me what caught your eye.”

He began walking toward it.

She blinked, caught off guard. “I was just going to go by myself,” she said, voice gentle, almost apologetic.

It was subtle—so subtle that anyone else might’ve missed it—but the tiniest ripple of panic flashed across his face, behind his polite smile.

Alastor stopped. Slowly, he turned to face her, head tilting just slightly to the side. His expression didn’t change. The smile remained, sharp and shining, but his gaze had gone still and empty, like glass.

“By yourself?” he asked, his tone light, but there was something under it. Something dark and fragile.

She laughed softly, trying to make it sound harmless. “It’s not far. I can still see you from there. I just thought… maybe I should start doing things on my own sometimes. Try to be a little more independent.”

For the first time, she saw something crack behind his grin. Panic again, but this time it lingered. A static hum began to rise faintly in the air, the kind that meant his composure was thinning. He stared at her a moment too long—unblinking, unreadable—and she swore the air itself grew heavier between them.

Then he laughed. It was soft, almost indulgent, and he reached up to tap her chin with one gloved finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. “My darling girl,” he said smoothly, “you don’t need to be independent. You have me.”

The words slid into her like warm honey—sweet, cloying, familiar. Her heart, which had begun to race, slowed again, soothed by the sound of his voice. He looked so sure, so unshakable. He always did. And suddenly, she couldn’t quite remember why she’d wanted to go alone in the first place.

“You’re right,” she said softly, almost on instinct. “That was silly of me.”

“Not silly,” he cooed, squeezing her hand before letting it rest in his own. “Merely… unnecessary.”

And with that, the tension bled out of the moment. He smiled again—radiant, charming, every inch the gentleman as he led her down the street. She followed easily, willingly, her earlier thought dissolving into the background noise of Hell.

He hummed as they walked, an old tune she remembered from their youth. To anyone watching, they looked like the perfect pair: the infamous Radio Demon and his beloved companion, strolling arm-in-arm through the chaos. But beneath the charm, under the hum of the radio static, there was something else.

In his mind, her independence meant distance—and distance meant losing her. He couldn’t lose her. Without her, his world—his purpose—would unravel. So, he squeezed her hand a little tighter, as if daring the world to take her from him.

And she smiled, leaning into him, because it felt right. It felt safe. Even if neither of them realized just how dangerous that safety had become.

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

The hotel was quiet at that hour, the kind of quiet that was almost unnatural in Hell. Even the hum of the city beyond its walls seemed muffled, swallowed by the weight of the night. Moonlight—or what passed for it in this realm—filtered faintly through the window, casting pale stripes across the room, catching the edge of the gramophone, the polished wood of the bedframe, the long curve of her shoulder beneath the sheets.

Alastor sat on the edge of the mattress, fully dressed again, his suspenders loose around his arms, shirt wrinkled from hours prior. The air still smelled faintly of sweat and sweetness, her perfume tangled with his own scent of smoke and static. She was sleeping soundly beside him, breathing slow and shallow, her face half-buried in the pillow. The covers were tangled around her, clinging to her curves in a way that made something soft and aching twist in his chest.

He smiled, faintly at first, watching her. He always smiled when he looked at her—it came as naturally as breathing. But tonight, the edges of it trembled.

Because he couldn’t stop hearing her voice in his head. I just thought… maybe I should start doing things on my own sometimes.

The words echoed, looping endlessly, getting louder the longer he tried to ignore them.

He brought one gloved hand to his mouth, thumb brushing against the corner of his grin, and exhaled through his nose, a quiet static hiss bleeding through his chest. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why she’d want that—independence. Distance. Absence. They had everything they needed. He gave her everything she needed. What could possibly exist outside of him that she could want?

His gaze drifted back to her, and for a moment, he could almost convince himself that nothing was wrong. She looked so peaceful, so trusting, her hand resting where his body had been hours ago. The trust in that gesture hit him harder than he expected.

He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “My darling girl,” he whispered, voice soft, the faintest crackle of static buried beneath the sweetness. “You shouldn’t think such silly things.”

But the more he told himself that, the less it helped. A coil of unease sat heavy in his gut, an unfamiliar feeling—ugly, consuming, something close to fear. He didn’t like fear. He hadn’t felt it since he’d put a knife through his father’s chest. Yet here it was again, coiling around his ribs, whispering that maybe—just maybe—she was slipping away from him.

His fingers tightened on his knee, the fabric of his slacks creasing beneath the grip. Who put that idea in her head?

Vaggie? She was always poking her nose where it didn’t belong. Or that insufferable spider—Angel, the one who dripped innuendo like venom. Perhaps even Charlie, with her naïve idealism and talk of redemption. He could hear her voice already—“Everyone needs to find themselves, Alastor! She can’t depend on you forever!”

He could laugh at that. Dependence was safety. Dependence meant devotion. And devotion meant loyalty. It was the only thing that ever truly lasted.

He glanced toward the window again, eyes narrowing, a low hum vibrating in his throat. If any of them were whispering thoughts into her head, it wouldn’t last long. He would simply… correct them. One by one. Quietly. No one would ever need to know.

He turned his attention back to her, the hum fading. His features softened again.

Without her, there was nothing—no meaning, no rhythm, no melody to fill the silence that followed him everywhere else. She gave him purpose, filled the hollow that had been left behind long ago. If she stopped relying on him, what would he become? Just a monster with no song, no audience, no reason.

He reached out, tracing his gloved knuckles along her jaw, gentle as if afraid she’d vanish if he pressed too hard. The movement earned him a soft sigh from her sleeping form. His smile steadied.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice a soothing lilt, like he was calming a frightened animal. “My sweet girl. My reason to live.”

He brushed a kiss against her temple, lingering for a moment longer than he meant to. The static in his chest quieted, soothed by the sound of her breathing.

Still, even as he lay back beside her and pulled the sheets over them both, his eyes stayed open. He stared into the dark, smiling faintly to himself as he began to hum under his breath—a song from another life, one that always played when he needed to think.

No, he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. He had too much to plan, too much to secure, too much to protect.

After all… if the world dared to pull her away, he would burn it down to keep her close.

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

The smell of butter and cinnamon filled the kitchen before she even opened her eyes. Jazz crackled softly through the radio — an upbeat trumpet overlaid with faint static, the kind of tune Alastor always said “put the pep in one’s step.” Sunlight pooled golden against the tiled floor, catching the edge of his shadow as he moved about, humming in time with the melody.

She blinked sleep from her eyes and rubbed her face with the back of her hand, listening. Pots clinked, a chair scraped, and then the cheerful sound of a spatula tapping against the skillet.

“Good morning, my dear!” came that bright, sing-song voice before she even rounded the corner. “I took the liberty of preparing breakfast — cinnamon toast and poached eggs, your favorite!”

She smiled faintly, stepping into the light. “You didn’t have to, Al—”

“Nonsense,” he said, cutting her off with a smile so wide it almost glowed. “I wanted to. After all, we’ve quite the day ahead!”

Her brows knit faintly as she pulled one of his oversized shirts tighter around herself and sat down. “Day ahead?” she echoed, glancing at him while he plated the food.

“Mhm! We’ve errands, naturally. A meeting with Rosie, a stroll through the Market District, and then — if we’re not too worn out — dinner at the hotel.”

She hesitated, fork halfway to her mouth. “Oh… I thought we were having a free day today. You said that last night, remember? That we could stay in?”

For the briefest instant — just the blink of an eye — the air seemed to shift. His movements stilled, hand resting lightly on the counter. Then, with a chuckle far too smooth to be spontaneous, he looked over his shoulder at her.

“Did I?” he asked, voice laced with pleasant disbelief. “My dear, I don’t recall making such a statement. Perhaps you dreamt it?”

She frowned softly, trying to picture the moment. She remembered him saying it — remembered the warmth of his arm around her, the drowsy promise of a quiet morning. But now, sitting there beneath his steady gaze, she felt foolish.

“Maybe I did,” she murmured.

“Of course,” he said brightly, turning back to his work as though the matter were settled. “You’ve been rather tired lately. Dreams have a way of muddling one’s sense of time, don’t they?”

He placed her plate in front of her with a flourish, then leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Now then, quit your fussing and eat up. We’ve got plenty to do before the afternoon!”

Her lips parted — she almost said something, a faint protest lodged in her throat. But his tone was so cheerful, so sure, that her conviction wavered. He’d never hurt her. Never raised his voice, never laid a hand on her.

It was only that tone — that pleasant, final sort of tone — that always made her feel small when she questioned him.

“Alright,” she said quietly, smiling because she knew it pleased him. “I like running errands with you anyway.”

He beamed, straightening up. “That’s my girl.”

The words warmed her, and yet… something inside her hesitated.

She blinked. Of course she liked running errands with him. She always had, hadn’t she?

Her mind couldn’t seem to hold onto the thought — like smoke slipping through her fingers.

She was pliant again, her tone soft, agreeable. That was good. The tightness that had formed in his chest began to ease. It wasn’t anger that had flared when she questioned him — no, he told himself it wasn’t that. It was… concern.

He’d seen what happened when people began to think too freely down here. They got bold, careless, reckless — and then they got hurt. She didn’t deserve that. He was keeping her safe.

Still, the way she’d looked at him — confused, almost doubtful — lingered in the back of his mind like an unpleasant note in a symphony. He didn’t enjoy being doubted. Not by her.

He adjusted his tie, forcing his grin to stay sharp.

“She only needs guidance,” he murmured under his breath as he wiped the counter clean, the radio hissing softly in the background. “People thrive with direction. That’s all.”

He turned back toward her, the picture of warmth once more.

She looked up at him with that sweet, uncertain smile, and his heart gave a strange, almost painful tug.

He couldn’t lose that softness. He wouldn’t.

So he’d plan the days, the meals, the moments — until she didn’t have to think at all.

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A bit of an ego you say? Tucker also is a bit egotistical, but he absolutely hypes you up, he lives for your confidence and will happily cheer you on!

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He may even buy a shark plushie and name it after you!

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Tucker would 10000% let you do a full skincare routine on him, he also wouldn't mind doing it to you! But he has no idea what goes where so careful he may get the face mask in your eyebrow, he's not exactly careful, but he's trying.

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That's actually when he started falling in love with you.

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Maybe it wasn't instant but he would tell you.

Fully ready to accept you wouldn't wanna date him after finding out.

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