Still not nearly done with skin rendering and even this needs a lot of editing, but I'm exhausted so I'm done for tonight and considering this my birthday present to myself.
he's so unnecessarily pretty this should be ILLEGAL someone please arrest him
summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.
c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, metaphors to rot
Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"
part 5
Uta had been found in a chest like a gift, treasure, and adopted immediately but there once was a time…..
…..when there was only Saram.
Shanks would always keep his eyes on Saram. Always, carmine eyes, always drifting during the days on deck looking for the young child. Seeing her made him smile, seeing her made him feel like he was someone more than a pirate, a filthy criminal.
He paused to see little Saram sitting on a barrel, her hair wild and open, behind her sat Beckman on another barrel, a hair brush in his hand as he combed through her hair. Shanks stopped and watched, a smile blooming on his lips at the sight, Saram was grinning and chattering away as Beckman combed and tied her hair while sitting behind her.
“Seas, seas, wavey wavey we gooo~” Saram would sing as Beckman parted her hair.
He smiled, Beckman always got these cute little bows and hairpins for Saram whenever they docked, trying out new hairstyles on her while at sea — and Saram always enjoyed it, always running to Beckman to tie her hair, to comb her hair. He could not remember the last time she had let someone else touch her hair without protesting or complaining.
“Too harsh!” She would pout if anyone other than Beckman ever touched her hair to work with.
Shanks chuckled at the memory; Saram was as much like Beckman's child as she was Shanks' and everyone knew it. Saram was closer to Lime Juice, but she could never hide her feelings and silent favouritism towards him and Beckman, he knew because he saw, saw how Saram always watched with admiration and awe whenever Beckman would speak.
The crew sometimes would steer clear when Beckman was scolding Saram because only he could get her to listen properly. Because Saram saw Beckman as a parental figure too. Because Beckman’s stern voice was the same soft one that would listen to her stories when he would do her hair. Or the same softness of his eyes when she would hold spoonfuls of food towards Benn, garnering jealousy from Shanks and amusement from the crew.
Beckman loved Saram as his own child, and everyone knew it.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone felt it.
That's why when she was presumed dead, no one questioned why he still bought those bows and hairpins, storing them away in a box.
For all they knew, the First Mate had not done Saram’s hair in years since he began doing Uta’s hair.
For the first time in a long while, Saram felt something stir beneath the surface. She could feel the faint echoes of when he had once looked at her like she was the only person in the room. But those days were gone. He wasn’t that man anymore and neither was she.
His eyes held hers for a long moment, and then, like an invisible string snapped, he shifted. He blinked, once, and turned his gaze elsewhere, back to the conversation he had been having with Beckman.
The quiet returned.
You are dead.
Saram exhaled softly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her plate. She pretended to not notice the burning at the back of her throat. Pretended to not notice the dryness of her mouth. Pretended to not notice how the backs of her eyes ached ever so slightly. Saram looked down, eyes trained on the slight redness of the meat she cut into, red, rouge, carmine. The carmine of blood, the carmine of meat, the carmine of his eyes.
Her throat caved in, instinctively swallowing dryly and harshly as she drank water from her glass. Her ears were ringing, cold seeping her bones, chest aching, her eyes burned slightly. There were no tears, there hadn't been any for twelve years. No one had noticed. They never did. The crew, wrapped up in their own conversations, laughed and ate like nothing had changed.
Licking her lips, she swallowed, ignoring the taste of rot in her mouth. Saram smiled as she excused herself calmly from the table with a small smile, acting as if a simple look from Shanks had not just caused her nervous system to go into overdrive. It reminded her of when she was ten again, when she was twelve again, when she was a child again. She inhaled and exhaled slowly as she headed towards the grooves of trees on the ship, practically hiding her figure as she leaned against a tree, crossed her arms and stared out at the sea.
Staring at the horizon, Saram let her mind unfurl. Disassociating from her thoughts of her father, his gaze and how it completely dismantled her, she spoke to him yesterday and had no problem yet one gaze, one look sent her crumbling. It was laughable how much control Shanks still held over her even though he didn't know, how could he? Shanks believes that Saram hates him, that she does not see him as her father, that all she wants to do is never see him again.
That fool does not even know that every night she would stand on the burned and destroyed roofs of the castle of Elegia, staring at the seas and praying for his safe journey. Didn't know that she always kept updates on the crew. Didn't know that she was the one who made sure that Uta never put up a barrier around the island when she held the concert.
That fool does not know how much she would break if he even held her with a moment of love.
Not as an obligation.
Not as a duty.
Not as a Guardian.
Not as Shanks.
If he ever held her just as her father, Saram feared that she would crumble. Even at twenty four years old, all she craved was for a sliver of love that Shanks so easily gave Uta. How can she still chase after him despite blatantly knowing the truth of her birth?
What Yasopp told her that night, twelve years ago, still echoed in her ears, in her brain, in her sleep.
"You were never supposed to exist.”
Those words had carved themselves into her bones, sunk their teeth into her heart and soul, never letting go.
“Benn! Can we go to the night market tonight?”
Saram tilted her head to the side, watching the seven year old Saram run after Benn with an expectant gaze in her eyes, hair wild and free. She always called him Benn, that name that was something so easy for her. A tie that bound her to him. She was so small, so short, so kind.
“Sure kid. Finish your chores first, then we'll go.” Beckman had a smile, ruffling her hair as she smiled and nodded, running off.
Saram watched as night fell and the little girl walked up to Beckman, eyes excited about going to town only for him to smile regretfully, ruffling her hair, “Next time kid.”
Next time never came and Saram never asked again, because even as a child, she saw it, that flash of something alike to annoyance that glimmered in his eyes before he had ruffled her hair. Because that's who Saram was – she watched and learned, and when she learned something, she remembered it forever.
Saram smiled and the phantoms were gone, at that corner she had learnt to not bother Beckman with going out to town at night. Her smile slowly faded away as she slid down, eyes on the horizon and her head back against the tree, to the deck. With a sigh, she quietly closed her eyes and composed her thoughts before opening them and whispering quietly to herself.
“Welcome home, Saram.”
She had adapted over the course of days, Saram mainly kept to herself, tinkering with her vials in Hongo's infirmary while he worked – Hongo had given a small area to work and she had utilized it pretty well, making potions and medicine, concoctions and some. She spent her days in the infirmary in her quiet little corner, with Uta on and around the deck, staying in her room or in some secluded area of the ship. It would not be a far reach to say that she was actively avoiding direct conversations or contact with the crew, especially her father and Beckman.
If she was not doing anything, then Saram was slipping away in corners and nooks of the ship, in the shadows or places where she had figured out the crew did not patrol as much, not that it bothered her. Her father may seem pretty laid back but his management of his ship was precise, all, if not most, places on deck were arranged in a way that the executives could access them and patrol them while simply walking around. It was simple but meticulous. It reminded her yet again that Shanks was a formidable Captain and Pirate.
Currently, Saram was sitting in the palm tree groove, back against one of the trunks, quietly messing around with her knife lazily, staring at the way she uses her arm to swing the blade. Saram tilted the blade just slightly, the metal catching the sunlight in a flicker, a glint of silver against the warmth of the wood beneath her thighs. She wasn’t even holding it in a combat-ready grip, just letting it roll around her knuckles, flipping the flat of it against her palm, then catching it again and repeating. A muscle memory more than anything.
It was so sharp. Not just in blade but in purpose. In implication. There had been a time when she used to swing it because it made her feel powerful. When her muscles burned from training and her calluses split from overuse, she told herself that if she got good enough—fast enough, precise enough—they would see her. And then there was a time when she swung it simply because it was the only thing she knew how to do.
Because all Saram ever knew back then, was that wielding a blade would get her looks, and she craved those looks.
Her thumb brushed the edge. Not enough to bleed, but just enough to feel the bite. She didn’t fear pain. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Pain had been her constant companion, right from the moment she’d been left behind. Not just the flames—though that was the kind of pain that left a mark even beyond skin—but the kind that sat in your chest like lead. Heavy and unmoving. The kind of pain that made you quiet.
Her gaze flicked up lazily, eyes scanning the ship from where she sat. She could see a portion of the open deck from here—just enough to catch movement. Uta’s laugh rang out faintly from above, probably near the helm again. Lime Juice’s voice boomed in response, lighthearted and warm. A few others—Gab maybe? Or Monster—chuckled as well. Their voices were like wind chimes: soft, familiar, distant. They had all moved on. She had no place in their present, not truly. Not the way Uta did.
The blade flipped again.
No place in their present.
The tip tapped softly against the tree bark beside her thigh.
But then again, she never had much of a place in their past either.
She could still remember the old routes, despite not being on this ship for twelve years—where the crew avoided walking, where Beckman tended to turn left instead of right, the places where Shanks used to stand and lean against the rail with a bottle in hand. None of them had changed much. And it was terrifyingly easy to slide into the shadows they left behind. For how could the memory of her childhood that was seared into her memory ever be thought to be separated from her muscles and habits, from her instincts.
Saram took a breath in. The sea salt burned in her nose just slightly. The wind carried the cry of gulls far overhead, and the sails flapped against the pull of the horizon. The ship was moving. The world was moving. Only she was still. Always watching. Always just outside of the center. She dragged the flat of the blade down her arm — just to feel the smooth metal slide against her skin. She liked knowing it was real. That she was still real. Her voice was quiet, nearly inaudible beneath the wind, “…what a mess, huh?”
Everybody moved on, but Saram was still stuck at the start line, she was too slow to catch up. They were too fast and busy moving to look back. Like a memory long gone, she closed her eyes and thought back to her younger days. They weren’t all bad. If they were, she would not have been alive. Shanks had been kind, She knew he had been. She knows because he had taken her in – a child he had no obligation to raise – people, pirates, men, women, family always left behind their kids or family, he, too, could have done the same.
But he had not and that was why despite the scars marring her skin, the pain in her childlike heart, the ache in her bones – Saram never could quite hate Shanks or blame him, for he had been a father to her once, had shown her the view of the world above his shoulders, held her in warmth and in the cold. Saram would never say it out loud, yet, her bones knew that despite the pain, despite the things she went through – Saram would choose Shanks as her dad over and over, again and again, in every lifetime.
“Well, nothing new.”
Saram frowned, holding the pair of scissors in her hand as she sat on a crate, sighing. Her hair would be a problem, it was already tangling up and any more salt air and water spritz, it would coil into a mess of tangles. And she was not the best at tying her hair, so she came up with one solution, to cut what was there. Plus, it's not like she knew how to do hair anyways.
She paused at the thought, ‘Do hair, huh?’ because there once was a time when large calloused hands would hold her hair and caress and brush and do them with the softest of touches. Saram ponders for a few moments, back at Elegia it was easier to maintain her hair due to the products that Gordon would get her and Uta, well, easier for her because as far as she could remember Uta never really had trouble maintaining her hair.
Saram sighs, now that she thought about it, she never really took much care of her appearance, except her hair, she always wore practical clothing because she always had to be on her feet, moving or working in her workshop, white was always out of the question because she thought it was pointless. She did try wearing dresses, she really did like wearing dresses but then eventually just stopped.
Unlike Uta, Saram didn't have any special abilities so wearing a dress on Elegia hindered her movements. She could almost laugh, so many dresses lay at the back of her cupboard back at Elegia in her room, never to be worn again, never to be seen. The thought felt strangely bitter to her.
It was strange, because, Saram could swear that there was once a time when she enjoyed dressing up, wearing bright coloured dresses and patterns. Pretty bows, clips, pins, bands — everything, pink or blue, every colour. Once she used to take pride in dressing up, maybe when she was young, when she still believed that she was a little girl who could play dress up on a ship. Who could pretend to be a princess.
The thought caused her to let out a small chuckle, ‘A princess? Perhaps an ogre would be more befitting.’ The thought was just there, because Saram didn't see anything princesslike in her. Not with her dull hair and eyes, or her unkept attire and worn out clothes, unlike Uta. Uta was more of a princess, it was her moniker too. Princess Uta. Pretty eyes, hair of white and red, beauty that followed her.
Saram didn't think she was anything like that. Nothing fancy about her, just plain old Saram. Ordinary, forgettable.
A small smile came on her lips as she stares at her worn out leg warmers, as of now she had only the clothes on her back and the extra pair of clothes she always kept with her, stashed away in the sub-space she created from Uta's devil fruit powers stored in her wrist mechanism. For the days she's been here, she was either wearing this or that, one of the two pairs. On the other hand, she smiled whenever she saw Uta wearing a new outfit made from her devil fruit powers, the young girl had offered her too, but Saram refused.
She didn't have a reason to dress up or have another pair of clothes. She wasn't upset either. This was just her being her if she was being honest. Saram, afterall, never needed more than absolutely required. Whether it be clothes or things or even love.
Saram shook her head out of her thoughts and brought the scissors to her hair, maybe, cutting what she had, off, would be better. Besides, she didn't have any attachment to it either so cutting it off wouldn't really affect her.
Bringing the scissors closer she paused, not knowing why, before positioning it so that she would cut off a huge chunk at once, just like always. It was just hair after all.
“You have beautiful hair, Saram.”
It was just hair.
It didn’t mean anything.
Saram had taught herself to not get attached. Never get attached. Not because she was afraid but because getting attached meant having something to lose. And Saram had lost too much already to lose anymore.
Just as she was about to snip off the entire portion up to her ears, a hand engloved her own, her eyes snapping to her side, as her heart ran like a race horse. Large. Calloused. Warm. She turned her head and met Beckman’s stormy eyes, smoke curling from his cigar.
“What are you doing, Saram?”
Suddenly, the hair in her hand felt heavy, no longer light and nothing. Now, it felt like lead and something.
“Just cutting it off.” She said softly, voice firm but quiet, moving her wrist away from his hand, the warmth of his calloused hand that weathered away at sea.
“Why?”
“Huh?”
Why was Beckman suddenly so questionative? She blinks and turns towards him, slightly frowning, she was rather confused.
“Why are you cutting off your hair? It’s nice and doesn’t seem bad.”
“Its not exactly practical.”
“Practical?”
She almost wanted to yell, hair at the sea was not practical, not to mention, she didn’t want to bother herself with tying it again and again.
“Yeah…. I don’t really enjoy messing with my hair or tying it again and again. It’s annoying to comb and brush it. Plus, it's different from back on Elegia.”
There was a moment of silence. So silent. Only the sounds of the seas and the seagulls, the creaking of wood and voices of the crew. Beckman’s eyes felt like they were piercing through her, so she looked away, like always, the first to look away.
“Come on.”
Saram didn’t get a moment before she was guided by Beckman to sit on the barrel, she frowned, about to protest but the hand on her back, so warm, so strangely familiar and new, prevented her from doing so. So, she let him. Let Beckman guide her to the wooden barrel and sit on it. He said something about coming back, she probably nodded, her mind fuddled and all muddy. She didn’t even know why her body had gone into autopilot again — it was almost ironic how around Beckman or Shanks, her body just stopped resisting and went on autopilot.
She stiffened, spine rigid and straight as she felt him sit down behind her, his warmth so close, too close. It frightened her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, the heavy lump that always lingered whenever she talked to this crew, fingers clammy, ears slightly heavy with the beginnings of a ringing in them.
“What… are you doing, Beckman?”
There was a moment of silence, a moment too long.
“You used to always run to me early mornings to do your hair when you were young.”
Her world hands clenched as her eyes widened, all her thoughts coming to a standstill as she stared up, ahead, heart hammering against her ribcage.
What…. was he talking about?
“Every morning, before doing anything, you would run to me to get me to do your hair.”
Why was he saying that now?
“Whenever we docked at islands, you never left the ship without me fixing your hair.”
Saram’s ears rang, her vision tunneled, memories she had locked away. The time of her life that only she was privy to. her most precious memories. He… why was Benn Beckman telling her all this? Her mind jolts up memories from years ago, memories that she had locked away, just as he slowly starts untangling her hair with his hands.
And Saram goes still.
“Saram! At least wear your shoes!”
A frantic LimeJuice runs after a young Saram as she bolts across the damn ship like a rabbit, cutting across the men who watch in amusement as she makes a straight line for the man by the mast, smoking and reading the newspaper. He looks over the paper as the sound of feet appear before the kid in a blue dress turns the corner, barefoot and runs towards him, LimeJuice following close, a pair of white shoes in hand.
“Beck! Hair!”
The man raised an eyebrow in amusement, putting out his cigar and placing the paper down to lean forward to pick her up. She grins widely as she looks up at him, now in his lap, a bright smile on her chubby face. LimeJuice pauses and sighs, slightly out of breath and an irritated look on his face, but everyone knows he could never be mad at Saram.
“To what do I owe the fortune of you so early morning kid?”
“Hair!” She holds up the small box that usually held her ribbons and clips and other hair accessories.
“Yeah, of course.” LimeJuice adds in, “She ran across the whole ship, barefoot, just so you could do her hair. Can you believe this kid, Beckman?”
Beckman cracks a smirk as he ruffles her hair, “Yeah, I can. Kid’s a riot but its a routine.”
Lime Juice only groans.
Saram chuckles.
Saram flinched.
Beckman froze.
She abruptly stood up, her ears ringing, throat constricted, almost unable to breathe, she couldn’t breathe. Her hand went to her chest and rubbed hard as she slowly began walking forward, away from him. The world was caving in as she took sharp breathes in. Beckman called her, frowning slightly and catching up to her with long strides. He reached out his hand towards her to hold her arm but the moment his calloused fingers even brushed against her skin, she flinched away.
“No!”
He froze.
She was facing away but her shoulders were shaking, trembling so slightly that he almost missed it. His eyes narrowed. A pit forming in his gut.
Almost.
“Saram?”
“Don’t do this… whatever you are trying to do. This kindness, this rejogging of memories, you have no right.”
Beckman paused, physically, he could not move. His chest ached, the way he could feel her fear, her anxiety…. It was startling. Beckman could not ever recall Saram being so fearful of him. Ever so afraid of his touch.
“Saram, I just wanted to….” His words died in his throat the moment he caught a glimpse of her eyes, as she turned her head slightly over her shoulder to look at him. The pure rawness in her irises froze him. The numbness of her eyes chilled him.
“Don’t cling to ghosts, Beckman. The Saram you knew, you already mourned her death, did you not? I am not her.”
And she was gone, almost running away, Saram left his sights and went below deck.
“Someday, I will be the world’s best singer!”
Young Uta grinned, her proclamation echoing the walls of the castle as Saram quietly attempted to do her hair, Gordon fed into Uta’s dreams, teasing and joking.
“Well for that you will have to grow up to be a nice lady.”
“Hey! I am already a nice lady!”
Saram simply smiled as she tried to braid her dual toned locks. Uta warmed her hands by the fire as Gordon read the music notes with her.
“You suck at this Saram.” Uta laughed and Saram simply chuckled, “I guess I am.”
“You know Gordon? Saram never, never does her hair! Such a shame, she has such pretty hair too!”
Gordon simply listened, the old King never knowing how to deal with the young singer.
“I like my hair plain, thank you very much.” She tugged her strand intentionally.
“Ow! Mean!”
“Then stop moving!”
“Why don't you ever let any of us do your hair?” Uta whined but was quickly distracted by another music sheet.
Saram didn't answer. Uta and Gordon went back to talking about music sheets. For a moment Saram paused and simply stared at the haphazard braid and then at her own hands. Her thoughts were just flowing and circling in her head as she plays with Uta’s hair.
‘Back then, I never felt the need to learn. I always had Beckman doing it for me. And then you had him. And somewhere along the line….’ Her grip on a clip tightened, the purple of it too similar to his choices of accessories for her, ‘…..I stopped caring for my hair.’
“What design would our bunny like today?”
‘Maybe, because I knew that if it wasn’t him, I never wanted anyone else’s hands in my hair.’
Saram locked the door to her room behind and leaned against it, breathing heavily, her throat constricted as she slid down the door, rubbing her chest. Her ears ringing, vision unfocused as memories, stupid, warm, memories kept appearing and appearing.
“Shut up.” She whispered.
“Shut up.”
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
She squeezed her eyes close as she leaned forward, forehead against the floor as she tugged at her hair in frustration, anger, pain.
“Shut up. They are all gone.”
Soft tugs on her hair, her pouts as Lime Juice teased her, Beckman’s hands separating sections of her hair.
“Its all in the past. Stop it.”
Shanks’ smile, Lucky suggesting to use skewer sticks as rollers.
“Stop. Stop it. Its all gone.”
Flames. Shanks. Beckman. The smell of burning flesh. Her death.
“That’s enough!”
Silence.
A ringing in her ears. The smell of the sea. The smell of the wood. The sting in her palm from her nails.
Drip.
Saram’s hands trembled as she covered her mouth, muffling her voice, hunched over on the ground.
Her childhood.
“I…. I don't want this....”
‘Sweet bunny, you’ll always have a home here as long your crew is alive.’
Saram hunched over, body trembling, her chest tight, as if rot and thorns growing in the crevices that remained unburnt. She screamed into her palm, muffled, body shaking, aching. The burnt, scorched parts of her skin felt as if they were burning again, felt as if she was once again under that debris; once again, she was a child.
‘Saram.’
Once again she was alone on the ship of her dead childhood that was burnt away.
THAT WAS A ROLLER COASTER!! I AM BACKK!! If you see typos, no you did not.
taglist: @thebunnednun @acesdiary @chizu001 @nagislemontea @v1ennie @74zix47 @meerpea @nayshel @whore-of-many-hot-men@therealtopg @tumdlrnewb84 @96jnie @itsjonalyn143 @lhershi @akagami-no-laney @nyarffeu one-piecelover janeety thatanonymouschocolate flora98 froggiesstalks tilldeathripsusapart urinarythreatinfection jdo0340 nirvanaxx1942 itaokko
Just an update, I’m still in transit and don’t have time or energy to write right now (AO3 curse is real) but here’s something to hold you over, from Shamrock’s ‘With Sympathy’
Garling Figarland, ever composed and unflinching, placed a piece of toast on his plate, and fixed his son with a steady gaze.
“Your little Bavette girl,” he said, as if discussing the weather, “do you wish to marry her—or take her as a mistress?”
There was no hesitation in Garling’s voice, no trace of judgment or shame. His father possessed neither when it came to such topics, despite his disinclination towards women. He had ample experience if no desire.
Shamrock raised a brow, though a faint ripple of curiosity crossed his otherwise calm expression.
I wrote a fanfic for this it is set in Nod Krai though.
The Mask - Ghostly_Tragic_Angel - 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]
Lumine wakes up after a night out at the flagship wearing The Doctor's mask with her earring having gone mysteriously missing. She makes her mind up to find Dottore and have him return her earring and to give him his mask back.
Yandere Alastor x Bunny Reader
Dark Romance type shi | He's crazy type shi | He's obsessed with Y/n type shi | Girl you can't fix him type shi |
Eventually, Y/N accepted her fate with the same quiet grace that had always drawn Alastor to her, the kind of dignity that never announced itself yet lingered long after she left a room. When the position at the local university was finalized, she did not rage against the loss of New York or mourn the life that might have been. Instead, she folded the disappointment neatly away, the way she did everything else, and threw herself into her work with renewed focus. She flourished there—students adored her, colleagues respected her, and her lectures quickly became known for their passion and precision.
She even fulfilled the small dream she had once spoken aloud beneath the bayou sky.
She got her bunny.
Cloud was a soft, round little thing with impossibly white fur and dark, intelligent eyes, usually nestled against her chest while she read or hopping about her sitting room as she graded papers late into the night. She adored the creature instantly, speaking to it as if it understood every word, laughing when it twitched its nose or nudged her hand for attention.
Alastor, at first, did not share her enthusiasm.
The animal annoyed him. Profoundly.
Every time he leaned too close to Y/N on the sofa, Cloud would thump, hop forward, and smack his hand away with surprising force, or worse, nip at his fingers before immediately retreating and pretending to be the picture of innocence the moment she looked down. The first time it happened, Alastor had stared at the rabbit in open disbelief, static crackling faintly at the edges of his smile.
“It bit me,” he said calmly.
Cloud twitched its nose.
Y/N blinked. “Cloud? No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s very gentle.”
The rabbit stared back at Alastor, unblinking, unafraid.
Alastor narrowed his eyes. The creature was clever. Worse—it was fearless. Just like its owner.
Over time, something resembling respect settled in his chest. The rabbit was protective, loyal, and utterly devoted to her comfort and safety. It guarded her in its own small way, and Alastor, begrudgingly, accepted that they shared common ground. They never liked one another, but they understood each other perfectly.
To any outsider, they were the picture of a blossoming courtship: the charismatic radio host whose voice filled the city and the brilliant professor whose name was whispered with admiration in academic halls. Alastor was at the height of his power, his secret sacrifices fueling his influence and reach, and his angel was safely tucked under his wing. Slowly, steadily, life seemed to settle into something resembling normalcy again.
They grew closer than ever.
They were always the talk of the town. People smiled when they saw them together, whispered behind gloved hands, nudged one another knowingly as the pair passed by. Elderly couples would chuckle fondly, shaking their heads as they watched Y/N blush furiously under their teasing questions.
“So when’s the wedding?” one old woman asked with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Y/N nearly tripped over her own feet. “Oh—well—we—”
Alastor laughed, smooth and charming. “All in good time, madam.”
Couples would sigh wistfully, murmuring, “I remember when we were young like that,” while children giggled and whispered about the “radio man and the smart lady.” Women still approached Alastor, fluttering lashes and offering coy smiles, but he paid them no mind. Not a second longer than politeness demanded.
And no man dared approach Y/N.
Those foolish enough to try received one look from Alastor—sharp, cold, and promising something far worse than rejection. The braver ones, the bolder ones, the men who did not heed warnings, simply vanished from her orbit altogether.
Yes, everything was perfect. Everything was working in Alastor’s favor once more.
Until the universe, it seemed, decided to remind him that even he could not outrun karma forever.
The evening had been meant as a celebration of her first semester’s end. Alastor stood on the familiar street corner where they always met, the air thick with rain and jasmine, his pocket watch clicking softly as he hummed a jazz tune under his breath. He imagined her smile, the way she would apologize for being late even when she wasn’t, the way she would talk excitedly about her students.
Then came the sound.
A sickening, heavy thunk echoed through the street, followed by the screech of tires and the jagged, panicked screams of bystanders.
“How odd,” Alastor murmured, his smile still fixed, though something cold slid down his spine. “Wait. That’s where—”
His heart did not merely beat. It slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal.
He ran.
He shoved through the forming crowd, breath tearing from his chest in sharp, uneven gasps. People shouted, hands reached out to stop him, but he broke through the circle of onlookers and felt his entire soul turn to ash.
There she was.
Y/N lay on the cold sidewalk, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. Her glasses were shattered several feet away, lenses cracked like spiderwebs, and her hair—usually so carefully pinned—fanned out around her head like a dark halo. Her eyes were open, staring at the dull Louisiana sky, but the light that had once challenged the sun was gone.
She was lifeless.
Nearby, a car lay crumpled against a lamp post, its hood steaming. A man staggered away from it, reeking of cheap gin, voice slurred as he shouted useless denials. “She ran out! I swear! She just ran out!”
But the skid marks told the truth.
The drunk had swerved onto the curb.
“Darling?” Alastor whispered.
He fell to his knees, not caring as blood soaked into his trousers. He gathered her into his arms, her body already cooling, her weight wrong and terrible. His hands trembled as he cupped her face, thumbs brushing blood from her cheek as if he could wipe death away.
“Darling, please,” he begged softly. “Please look at me. It’s Alastor. I’m here. We have dinner reservations, remember? You were teasing me about being late.”
She did not move.
The silence from her was the loudest sound he had ever heard.
A paramedic touched his shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing we can do. She’s gone.”
“No, she’s not!” Alastor roared, his voice distorting with a crackling, static edge that made the crowd recoil. He clutched her tighter, pressing his forehead to hers. “She’s just unconscious. She’s tired. Darling, sweetheart, wake up for me. Please.”
It took four men to pull him away. He fought them with feral strength, screaming her name as the white cloth was drawn over her face. He watched, helpless, as the ambulance doors closed and carried his heart away into the night.
From that day, the gentleman within Alastor died.
The man who valued etiquette, who found restraint amusing, who was reminded of his humanity by soft smiles and earnest eyes, was buried alongside her. What rose in that void was something sharper, crueler, and infinitely more dangerous.
He stood in the rain, soaked to the bone, eyes fixed on the drunk driver as police led the sobbing man away. The driver whined about his misfortune, about how unfair it all was.
Alastor said nothing.
His shadow stretched across the pavement, long and hungry.
The man had snuffed out his light.
Now, Alastor would teach him—and eventually the world—what it meant to live in total, agonizing darkness. Without Y/N to hold him back, he did not restrain himself.
He did not want to.
And even in death, even as she lay cold beneath the earth, Y/N had never failed to remind him of one simple, terrible truth.
He was nothing but a man.
And he had just lost his angel.
The funeral was a hollow, grayscale affair, stripped of warmth and meaning the way winter strips the leaves from the trees. The sky hung low and heavy, clouds pressing down like an unspoken accusation. Alastor stood by the grave as though carved from obsidian, tall and unmoving, his posture immaculate despite the mud clinging to polished shoes. His face was a mask of terrifying, frozen composure, lips fixed in a neutral line that did not tremble even once.
He did not cry when the casket was lowered.
He did not flinch when the first shovel of dirt struck wood with a dull, final thud.
He did not reach for Y/N’s father when the older man’s shoulders shook with quiet, broken sobs, nor did he offer a single word of comfort. What could words possibly do now? Language had failed him when it mattered most.
He simply stood there until the priest’s voice faded, until the murmured condolences dissolved into awkward silence, until the mourners shuffled away one by one, casting pitying glances over their shoulders. When the last footsteps disappeared down the path and the cemetery was left in uneasy stillness, Alastor remained.
Alone.
The fresh mound of earth stared back at him, dark and raw, holding the only thing he had ever truly loved. He stared at it for a long time, eyes unblinking, as if waiting for the ground to reject the lie and give her back.
Nothing happened.
When he finally turned away, it felt as though he was tearing himself free from the last thread anchoring him to the world.
Returning home was worse.
The moment he stepped inside, the silence screamed at him. It pressed in from every corner, from the walls that still remembered laughter and conversation, from the furniture that had once held her presence, from the air that no longer carried her voice. The house was too neat, too still, too wrong.
The violence came without warning.
Alastor snapped.
He tore through the living room like a storm given flesh, static crackling through the air as his composure shattered. Porcelain vases exploded against the walls, crystal decanters were hurled with enough force to pulverize into glittering dust, picture frames splintered, glass raining down like cruel confetti. The walls themselves seemed to hum as his rage vibrated through the structure.
“Gone,” he snarled to no one, to everyone. “Just—gone.”
When there was nothing left to break in his own home, when his hands were shaking and bloodied from shattered glass, he left.
Her apartment greeted him like a mausoleum.
The door creaked open, and the scent hit him immediately—vanilla, old paper, faint traces of ink and tea. It wrapped around his throat and squeezed. His breath hitched, and he laughed, a jagged, broken sound that cracked apart into a sob before he could stop it.
He staggered inside, fingers digging into the doorframe.
“You were supposed to be safe,” he whispered hoarsely. “I kept you safe.”
Books still lay open where she had left them. Notes sat half-finished on her desk, neat handwriting frozen mid-thought. A cardigan hung over the back of a chair. It felt as though she had simply stepped out for a moment, as though she might return any second, glasses sliding down her nose as she apologized for the mess.
He had been the master of her fate, hadn’t he?
He had bent trains and letters and lives to his will. He had reshaped the future with bloodied hands and righteous certainty. And yet he had failed to protect her from something so mundane, so stupid, so utterly human.
A drunk.
“Why?!” he roared, his voice cracking as he drove his fist into the hallway mirror. Glass shattered outward, the impact echoing violently through the apartment. “Why?!”
The fragments slid down the wall and scattered across the floor, each shard reflecting a warped, twisted version of him. A thousand Alastors stared back, all sharp smiles and hollow eyes, all monsters who had tried to play god and lost.
Before Y/N, his life had been a pursuit of cold control, a careful orchestration of power and cruelty. But she had been his air. His warmth. She had made a loneliness he hadn’t even known he carried evaporate without effort.
Without her, he was nothing but a hollow vessel stuffed full of shadows.
He slumped against her desk, breath ragged, his gaze falling upon a thick, leather-bound book tucked carefully beside a stack of papers. At first, he thought it was another research journal. But when he opened it, the handwriting was looser, more intimate.
A diary.
His hands trembled as he read.
Early entries made him scoff softly through tears—her impressions of him from the studio days, calling him egotistical, seemingly arrogant, dangerously charming. She had written that he was “disturbingly good-looking,” followed by an irritated scribble she had clearly tried to cross out.
He laughed weakly. “You always were honest,” he murmured.
As the pages turned, the tone changed. She wrote of his kindness, of the way he remembered small details, of how safe she felt around him. She admitted that she had been wrong to judge him so harshly, that one should never judge a book by its cover.
Then he reached the final entry.
The ink was fresh.
Dated the night before the accident.
“I love him. I love his smile and the way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. I think… I want to confess. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure. I wonder… will he love me back?”
The sound that tore from Alastor’s chest was not human.
The journal slipped from his fingers as he collapsed forward, his laughter and sobs tangling together into something ugly and raw. He had waited too long. He had been so consumed by strategy and control that he had forgotten the simple truth—that love did not need to be conquered.
With her, he hadn’t needed power.
He had just needed to be there.
His gaze snapped to the corner of the room.
Cloud.
The small white bunny sat quietly in its enclosure, nibbling on hay, utterly unaware that its entire world had ended. The sight of it ignited a surge of irrational fury in Alastor’s chest. Why was this fragile, insignificant thing alive when she was not?
He stormed toward the cage, his shadow stretching tall and jagged across the wall, his fist raised.
“You should have been her,” he hissed.
But Cloud did not flee.
The bunny hopped forward, pressing its soft head into Alastor’s palm, eyes closing as it leaned into the contact. It sought comfort. It trusted him.
Alastor’s hand shook violently.
The blow never came.
He felt the warmth beneath his fingers, the tiny, frantic heartbeat of something she had loved. His rage collapsed in on itself, imploding into raw, humiliating grief. He sank to the floor, pulling the rabbit against his chest, burying his face into its fur.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, voice breaking completely. “I’m so sorry.”
He wept then as he never had in his life, body wracked with uncontrollable sobs, clinging to the last living piece of her left in the world. Cloud remained still, pressed against him, as though understanding far more than it should.
From that day on, Cloud never left his side.
The man Alastor had been ceased to exist, making room for something far darker to take its place—the creature who would one day be known as the Radio Demon, born not of ambition or hunger, but of love, loss, and a grief so deep it swallowed his humanity whole.
However, the days following the verdict were not marked by chaos or hysterics, but by something far colder and far more dangerous, a stillness so profound it felt unnatural even to Alastor himself. He descended into madness with a frightening clarity, every step measured, every thought honed by grief into something razor-edged and merciless. He sat in the back of the courtroom as the verdict was read, posture relaxed, his smile fixed in that familiar, unreadable curve that had unnerved audiences for years. To anyone watching, he looked like a man mildly amused by the proceedings, detached and unbothered, as though the outcome held no personal weight.
Inside him, something was quietly dismantling itself piece by piece.
He watched the scales of justice tip, not with thunder or outrage or even surprise, but with the subtle, obscene grace of dirty money sliding across polished wood. A whisper here, a nod there, a technicality stretched thin enough to snap, and suddenly the life of the woman he loved had been reduced to ink on paper and a dismissive shrug.
The drunk driver stood when it was over, smoothing his suit as if he were preparing for dinner rather than walking free from a grave he had dug with his own carelessness. Relief was etched plainly across his face, unashamed and ugly. When he stepped outside into the thick, humid air, he laughed. He actually laughed, clapping his lawyer on the back, head tipped back in careless triumph, grinning as though the death of Y/N were nothing more than a minor inconvenience he had cleverly sidestepped.
That sound followed Alastor out into the street.
It echoed in his ears, burrowed into his skull, followed him like a curse clinging to his shadow.
It was not the verdict that broke him.
It was the laughter.
Something inside Alastor snapped then, clean and sharp, like a violin string pulled too tight and finally giving way. The final illusion he had clung to, that the world might still correct itself, that there might be balance or consequence or meaning, evaporated in an instant. If the law of men would not avenge his angel, then the law of the bayou would. His law. The old rules, whispered and bloody, older than courts and far more honest.
He followed the man easily. There was no rush, no frenzy, only patience sharpened by purpose. The scent of cheap gin and unearned confidence led him to a derelict bar squatting at the edge of town, its flickering sign buzzing weakly like a dying insect. Alastor waited across the street, half-hidden in shadow, listening to the laughter and slurred voices spill out through the cracked windows. Hours later, the man stumbled out, laughing again, nearly tripping over his own feet, oblivious to the quiet figure who straightened as he passed.
It took seconds.
A hand clamped over the man’s mouth, cutting off the start of a protest. A sharp, practiced blow. Darkness claimed him before he could understand what was happening.
When the man woke, the world had changed.
His head throbbed viciously, his mouth tasted of blood and fear, and his arms burned where rough rope bit deep into his wrists. He blinked against the dimness, vision swimming as he tried to orient himself. Warped wooden walls leaned inward, the ceiling sagged low, and the air was thick with damp earth, smoke, and something ancient and watching. The shack groaned softly as if breathing, surrounded by cypress trees whose hanging moss swayed like pale, mourning veils. Somewhere outside, something large slid through water with a slow, patient splash that made his stomach drop.
Alligators.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, its dying embers casting jagged, restless shadows that crawled along the walls and stretched unnaturally long. In the center of the room sat Alastor, relaxed in a high-backed chair, methodically drawing a whetstone along the length of a slender blade. The sound was steady and rhythmic, deliberate in a way that made it intimate, personal.
Shrrk. Shrrk. Shrrk.
“W–who are you?” the man croaked, panic surging as he strained uselessly against his bonds, the chair scraping weakly against the floor. “What is this place? What do you want from me? You want money? I’ve got money. I can get you more money. Just—just name it. Please.”
The sharpening stopped.
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft pop of embers in the hearth and the man’s ragged breathing.
Alastor lifted his gaze slowly, the firelight catching the predatory gleam in his eyes as his smile widened just enough to feel profoundly wrong. “Oh, I don’t need any of that, my friend,” he said softly, his voice a low, velvety hum that seemed to vibrate through the walls themselves. “Gold has never interested me much. It’s terribly fleeting. Power, however… and purpose… those tend to last.”
He stood, boots echoing faintly against the floorboards as he crossed the space between them. The man whimpered when the blade was lifted, its cold edge resting beneath his chin, firm enough to promise pain without delivering it yet.
“Look at me,” Alastor murmured, his tone almost gentle. “I want to be the very last face you ever see.”
The man squinted through the gloom, terror giving way to recognition in slow, creeping horror. “Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I know you. You look familiar. I’ve seen you before. On the radio. You’re—”
Alastor leaned closer, his smile stretching wide and sharp, all civility stripped bare. “I should hope so. I am the man whose life you dismantled with a single turn of a steering wheel. The man who stood in a courtroom and watched you laugh and waltz your way back into the world as though nothing had happened.”
Understanding hit like a physical blow.
The man sobbed then, body shaking violently, words tumbling out in a desperate, incoherent rush. “I’m sorry! I swear, I don’t remember it! I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill that broad, I didn’t mean to kill her—”
The blade moved in a blur.
The scream that followed was raw and animal, the chair rattling violently as pain replaced arrogance, as blood soaked into the ropes binding him. Alastor grabbed him by the collar, forcing his face up, eyes burning with something far worse than anger, something intimate and eternal.
“That woman,” Alastor hissed, his voice trembling with restraint stretched to its breaking point, “was the only thing standing between scum like you and what I truly am. She was kindness. She was mercy. She was light. And you snuffed her out for the sake of a bottle you won’t even remember finishing.”
“I’ll do anything!” the man shrieked, tears streaming freely now, his voice breaking into incoherent pleas. “Anything you want! Please! Don’t kill me!”
Alastor laughed softly, musically, the sound empty of warmth or humor. “Kill you?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Oh no. No, no, no. That would be far too easy. Far too kind.”
He began to circle the chair slowly, boots pacing like a predator measuring every weakness. “I want you awake. I want you aware. I want you to feel every second stretch until time itself becomes meaningless. I want you to remember this moment far better than you remembered her.”
The man screamed again, voice shredding as terror consumed him completely, as hope finally abandoned him.
“Shh,” Alastor whispered, leaning close, his breath cold and intimate against the man’s ear. “Just picture it. Picture how frightened she must have been. Picture how she saw you coming toward her on that sidewalk, and understand that what comes next will hurt so much more than what she felt.”
The bayou swallowed the man’s cries whole, the swamp indifferent and eternal, bearing witness without judgment as Alastor lifted the blade once more.
“And don’t worry about slipping into the comfort of darkness,” he said softly, almost kindly, a smile curving his lips as though sharing a secret. “Every time you begin to drift… I’ll be right here to wake you up.”
Alastor returned to killing the way one returns to a long-abandoned language—slowly at first, carefully, and then with terrifying fluency. What had once been instinct sharpened itself into ritual. For a full decade, the bayous, back alleys, and forgotten roads of Louisiana bore silent witness to his work. Knives, wires, blunt force, patience—he refined every method until his carnage left barely a ripple behind. He learned how to erase footsteps, how to make screams dissolve into night air, how to let bodies vanish as though the earth itself had swallowed them whole.
He told himself he was doing it for her.
Every life he took was an offering, every death a whispered devotion. He convinced himself that this blood was penance, that it was justice, that it was love twisted into a shape the world could finally understand. The scum of the earth fell first—abusers, exploiters, men who preyed on the weak and laughed afterward. He took them with a reverence that bordered on religious, murmuring her name under his breath as if she were watching, as if she approved.
And then there were the others.
The ones who sneered at him, who underestimated him, who looked down their noses and thought him nothing more than a voice on the radio or a strange man with an unsettling smile. Their arrogance offended him. Their certainty that they were untouchable made his fingers itch. He took them too, just as easily, just as thoroughly. He told himself the world was cleaner without them, quieter, more orderly.
He did not deny what he was.
He was a monster. There was no poetry left in pretending otherwise.
Yet through it all, through the blood and the rot and the static humming beneath his skin, he never forgot Y/N. Not for a single day. Her memory followed him everywhere, woven into his thoughts as intimately as his own heartbeat. He still spoke to her in the quiet hours, still imagined her standing just out of sight, watching him with those knowing eyes. He told her what he had done. He told her why. Sometimes he apologized. Sometimes he smiled and said, This one was especially for you, my angel.
And he took care of Cloud.
The little white bunny remained a constant, soft presence in his otherwise brutal existence. Alastor ensured Cloud was fed, groomed, spoken to gently in the evenings when the house grew too quiet. He would sit in his armchair, Cloud tucked against his chest, and read aloud from newspapers or old books, his voice smoothing itself into something almost tender. The animal aged, grew slower, but never stopped trusting him. In Cloud’s small, warm weight, Alastor found the closest thing he had left to mercy.
He saw her in dreams.
Sometimes she was standing in the bayou mist, unharmed, smiling sadly at him. Sometimes she sat at his old table, grading papers, looking up just long enough to tell him he was being ridiculous. He reached for her every time and woke with his hand clutching empty air, his smile fading into something hollow and aching.
He believed he would see her again. He had to.
But not yet.
He knew enough, by then, of the occult and the rules that governed damnation. Power mattered. Souls mattered. Sacrifice mattered. He needed to arrive in Hell not as prey, not as another screaming nobody, but as something feared. Something untouchable. Something worthy of standing beside her, even if only in death. So he continued. More rituals. More blood. More carefully chosen victims offered up to ensure his dominion when he crossed over.
All the while, his radio show thrived.
Alastor remained the perfect gentleman on air, charming, articulate, beloved by the public. His laughter crackled through radios across the state, bright and infectious. No one suspected that the same hands adjusting microphone dials were stained with old, invisible blood. He wore his civility like a tailored suit, immaculate and convincing, even as the monster beneath it stretched and sharpened its teeth.
He enjoyed the killing.
That truth no longer frightened him.
It was his fun, his release, his proof that he still existed in a world that had taken everything else from him. And yet, beneath that enjoyment, coiled deep and quiet, was a single, persistent thought: I must finish this. He had to. For her. For the eternity he planned to claim.
Ten years passed that way.
Then, one night, it ended—not with grandeur or control, but with cruel irony.
He was in the woods, deep and shadowed, the air thick with pine and damp soil. A body lay hidden beneath brush and leaves, his work nearly done. He moved carefully, silently, just another shape among the trees. He did not hear the hunters until it was too late. The sharp bark of dogs shattered the stillness, cutting through the night like a knife.
Alastor froze, confusion flickering across his face as lantern light burst through the darkness.
“Deer!” someone shouted.
He turned just as the gunshot rang out.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, bright and immediate, and then the world tilted. He felt himself falling, felt teeth sink into his limbs as dogs lunged, felt the ground rush up to meet him. The indignity of it struck him harder than the bullet ever could. Shot like an animal, his mind supplied bitterly. Mistaken for prey.
He hated that this was how he died.
But then the pain faded.
The noise dulled.
And clarity, sudden and profound, washed over him.
He was dead.
A slow smile curved his lips as his body slackened, falling backward into the earth he had fed for so long. The sky above blurred into darkness, stars smearing into nothing. With his final breath, he whispered her name, soft and reverent, as if she were standing right there to catch him.
“Y/N…”
And with that his body hit the ground.
When Alastor first arrived in Hell, he spent years searching for her with a patience that bordered on obsession. He did not know what form death would shape her into, nor what sins the afterlife would paint across her skin, so he searched for the only things he trusted not to change. He watched faces in the crowds for a softness that did not belong in Hell. He listened for laughter that did not carry cruelty in its echo. He measured souls by instinct alone, dismissing dozens, then hundreds, of women who might have shared her silhouette or her voice but lacked the quiet gentleness that had once steadied his hands.
None of them were her.
Each failure settled into him like grit beneath the skin, irritating but never enough to stop him. He prowled the Pride Ring relentlessly, his smile sharp and his reputation growing with every sinner who learned too late what it meant to cross his path. Power came easily to him, almost eagerly, but it was hollow without her. He told himself that Hell was vast, that time was meaningless now, that eventually he would find her if he simply kept moving forward.
Then the leash tightened.
The deal he had made with Rosie in life came due, its terms as suffocating as they were unavoidable. He had bargained for strength, for influence, for a place among the apex predators of the Pit, and she had delivered. In exchange, he belonged to her until the task was complete. His soul was hers to tug and command, and when she demanded his attention, everything else—his search included—became secondary. He obeyed. He always did. He was her pet, impeccably groomed and dangerous, forced to heel when she snapped her fingers.
Years passed like that. His broadcasts fell silent. His name faded into rumor. Hell forgot to fear him, and Alastor swallowed the insult with a smile that never cracked. He continued Rosie’s work with meticulous care, containing his rage, burying his longing beneath layers of civility and restraint. Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of someone who made his chest tighten, and for a brief, treacherous second he would think it was her—only for the illusion to dissolve the moment they spoke.
Everything changed when Rosie finally sent him to the Hazbin Hotel.
The battle with Adam tore through Hell like a storm, and Alastor met it head-on, laughter ringing through the chaos as his power surged back into the open. His microphone staff, once shattered, was reforged beneath his hands, humming again with familiar, beloved static. More importantly, the final threads of Rosie’s control snapped. The deal was broken. For the first time since his death, there were no strings pulling him in another direction, no obligations dragging him away from what he wanted.
And then she appeared.
Seeing Y/N again was like drawing breath after decades underwater. The world sharpened into focus around her, sound and color rushing back all at once. Her form had changed—bunny ears crowning her head, eyes a little brighter, a little sadder—but her soul was unmistakable. She looked at him, and for the first time in Hell, his smile became something real. Not calculated. Not predatory. Genuine.
“Alastor,” she had breathed, disbelief and joy tangled together in her voice.
“My dear,” he had replied softly, and for once, the static in his tone trembled.
Now, in the present, Alastor stands on the balcony overlooking the hotel lobby, his posture relaxed as his fingers tap idly against his staff. Below him, Y/N moves through the space with an easy grace, helping new arrivals find their rooms, calming frayed nerves, offering kindness where Hell expects cruelty. She looks different now, but he remembers the woman who once stood between him and danger without hesitation, the one who had faced down a bear with nothing but resolve and faith that he would stand with her.
She is still that woman.
They have grown close again, sharing quiet conversations and lingering glances, but she keeps a careful distance that he does not challenge. She believes in redemption. She believes that Heaven might still open its gates for her if she tries hard enough. She knows Alastor has no desire to ascend, no interest in absolution or salvation, and that knowledge shapes the space she keeps between them.
He watches her with a sharp, possessive grin, entirely unbothered by her aspirations. He knows the truth of souls far better than she ever could. Love is heavier than sin. Love binds deeper than chains. As long as she loves a monster like him, and as long as he refuses to let her go, Heaven will never claim her.
Alastor is content to wait in the shadows of the hotel, to play the patient observer while she reaches for impossible light. He would rather have her at a distance in Hell than lose her to the cold perfection of Heaven. When she glances up and waves, her smile bright and unguarded, something warm and electric hums in his chest. He lifts a hand in return, chuckling softly as the static answers him.
“Enjoy yourself, I'll join in a moment,” he murmurs under his breath as he watches her head toward the bar, settling in beside Angel Dust and Husk.
When she sat down, the bar was alive with the faint hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses, but Y/N’s attention was completely absorbed by the teasing of her two companions. Angel Dust leaned forward, elbows planted on the bar. Husk sat back with his usual gruff demeanor, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, listening to Angel ramble about anything and everything.
“Is there anything you wanna do before you go to Heaven?” Angel suddenly asked, leaning in, the grin on his face equal parts mischievous and earnest. “I mean, it’s probably really strict up there. At least that’s what the daddy of hell says.” He motioned vaguely toward Lucifer, who sat with a glass in hand, perfectly aware of the conversation, yet perfectly unconcerned.
Y/N laughed softly, a delicate sound that carried over the low chatter of the room. “I think I’ve done everything I set out to do,” she replied, eyes glimmering with a mix of amusement and uncertainty.
It was at that moment that Alastor materialized beside her, his presence cutting through the haze of conversation with an electric tension. The soft crackle of static heralded his arrival, and the temperature seemed to dip imperceptibly as his shadow fell across the bar. With a deliberate snap of his fingers, her favorite cocktail appeared in front of her as if summoned from nothing. She turned toward him, warmth blooming in her chest despite the underlying dread of his ever-present scrutiny. “Thank you, hun,” she said, voice sincere, eyes briefly meeting his before darting away.
Alastor leaned back, cane resting lightly against the bar, his grin razor-sharp but composed. “Husker,” he said smoothly, voice cutting through the murmurs, “a whiskey, if you please.” Husk grunted, already reaching for the bottle with a practiced movement.
Angel, of course, was not done. “No one you wanna… you know?” He made the universally understood gesture with his hands, eyes twinkling as he leaned closer, clearly delighted by the blush creeping up her neck.
Y/N’s eyes widened, ears flattening slightly against the back of her head. “Heavens, no! I mean, I—” She quickly stole a glance at Alastor, who had already taken his whiskey from Husk with a polite nod, and immediately looked away, feeling her pulse spike.
Angel was relentless, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Come on, doll, you can’t go up there a virgin.”
Her response was barely a whisper. “I’m not.”
The suddenness of her words sent Alastor into immediate, reflexive reaction. The whiskey he had just taken sprayed across the bar, dousing Husk in a sticky wave of amber liquid.
“What the fuck!” Husk barked, flailing to wipe his face with the nearest towel, glaring daggers at Alastor, whose shadow flickered ever so slightly against the walls.
“Oh my! Alastor, are you alright?” Y/N’s voice was laced with panic, her hands reaching instinctively toward him in concern.
Alastor waved her off, but there was a tremor in his composure, a tiny quiver hidden behind the unchanging grin. “Just… cough… went down the wrong pipe,” he said, clearing his throat with exaggerated politeness, though his fingers flexed tightly around the edge of his glass.
Angel was nearly vibrating with excitement, leaning forward and pointing a finger at her. “This is news to me, doll. Whatcha mean you’re not a virgin?”
Y/N laughed nervously, trying to shrink into her stool. “Well…” She trailed off, eyes fixated on the swirling liquid in her glass.
“Oh no, no,” Angel said firmly, leaning over the counter with a teasing grin. “You’re not escaping this one, doll. Spill it.”
Y/N sighed, cheeks flushing a deep, unrelenting red. “Alright… alright.” She looked down, ears flattened, and her voice was barely audible. “After being down here… I went dancing. At a bar. And… one thing led to another.”
Alastor’s entire body went rigid, fingers tightening around the glass until the ice cracked audibly. His static-hummed pulse thundered in his ears. Another man had touched her. Another had kissed her. The thought was unbearable, gnawing at the edges of his meticulously controlled composure.
“Ooh, a one-night stand!” Angel squealed, practically bouncing on his stool. “Who was it? Handsome? Tall? Was he charming?”
Y/N’s ears twitched, and she cleared her throat nervously. “Well… I guess he definitely has charisma.”
Angel leaned in closer, smirk widening. “Come on… it can’t be that bad.”
She hesitated, and then whispered the name into Angel’s ear. The reaction was immediate. His eyes went wide, jaw nearly hitting the bar. “HOLY SHIT! YOU SLEPT WITH VOX?!” he shouted, sending a ripple of tension through the room.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the low hum of static from Alastor. The temperature seemed to drop sharply, and the shadows along the walls twisted unnaturally, growing long and jagged. Husk muttered something under his breath, unsure whether to be angry or terrified, while Y/N’s ears twitched back nervously, cheeks flaming hotter than the hellfire that surrounded them.
Alastor, seated beside her mere seconds ago, was gone in a flash of inky black shadow. The sudden disappearance sent chills down the spines of everyone at the bar. The air seemed to ripple, thick with the tension of restrained fury and raw, unfiltered obsession. The static in the room crackled faintly, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
Y/N froze, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest. “Alastor?” she whispered, but the voice that returned from the darkness of the bar was not a reply—it was the hum of something immense, something alive with a jealousy and possessiveness that stretched beyond the comprehension of mortal or demon alike.
Angel leaned back, eyes darting nervously to where Alastor had been. “Uh… maybe, uh… maybe we shouldn’t have mentioned Vox,” he muttered, though the edge of thrill in his voice betrayed him.
Husk just shook his head, muttering, “I need a drink,” as he poured himself a fresh whiskey, eyes nervously scanning the shadows, where the unmistakable presence of Alastor lingered, a storm barely contained, waiting, watching, ready to strike or… simply observe, simmering in static-fueled fury.
Y/N’s ears twitched back toward the empty space beside her, a faint tremble running through her as she sipped nervously at her glass.
For days, Alastor had been a specter of repressed fury. He wasn’t angry with Y/N—he could never truly be—but the revelation that her first experience, her first time, had been stolen by that digital parasite Vox had sunk its claws deep into something raw and festering inside him. The mere thought of that flickering screen, that smug, synthetic grin, touching what Alastor had come to regard as sacred made the shadows in the room writhe and claw at the floorboards as though they, too, wanted to tear something apart. The atmosphere in the radio tower was suffocating, thick with the sharp scent of ozone and the jagged, erratic hum of a failing broadcast that never quite resolved into silence.
He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He stood for hours staring out at nothing, fingers white-knuckled around his cane, smile fixed in place like a cracked porcelain mask. The static followed him everywhere, bleeding into the walls, the ceiling, the air itself, as if his fury could no longer be contained within his own form.
Downstairs, the tension had become impossible to ignore. Even Charlie—endlessly patient, relentlessly optimistic—felt the weight of it pressing down on her chest. She hovered near the foot of the stairs, wringing her hands, finally cornering Y/N with a worried frown. She begged her, softly at first and then with growing urgency, to go talk to him before the hotel’s very foundations cracked under the pressure of Alastor’s mood.
Y/N had sighed, long and tired, ears drooping as she adjusted her glasses. She already knew how this would go, and yet she also knew she couldn’t avoid it forever. With a final glance back toward the lobby, she began the long trek up the tower, each step echoing too loudly in the charged air.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
“Alastor,” she called, her voice steady but cautious, echoing through the hollow room. “I know you’re protective, but… is this because of what I told Angel?” She paused, watching his rigid back. “You’ve been acting off ever since the bar. I didn’t know Vox was your enemy.”
“Just drop it, darling,” Alastor replied without turning around. His fingers tightened around his cane, the wood groaning under the pressure, a low, angry sound that seemed to bleed into the static humming around him.
“But Al,” she pressed, taking a few careful steps closer, “we were always honest with each other. We promised—”
“Y/N, just fucking drop it!” His voice distorted violently, bursting into sharp static that rattled the windows and sent a shiver through the tower itself.
Y/N froze, shock flashing across her face before heat flared in her chest. Her nose twitched, ears snapping upright, and she stomped her foot hard against the floor, the crack of it cutting through the static like a gunshot. “Don’t you dare use that voice with me, Alastor!” she snapped, her own voice rising, trembling with anger and hurt. “You don’t get to throw a tantrum because you heard something you didn’t like! I am a grown woman, and you do not own me!”
Alastor spun around so fast the shadows lagged behind him, his eyes glowing like red radio dials stuck between stations. His shadow stretched tall and jagged along the wall, horns and claws exaggerated and monstrous. “And what were we then?!” he demanded, his voice sharp and trembling beneath the distortion. “All those years together? Every late night, every laugh, every promise? Was that nothing to you?!”
“Of course it was something!” she shouted back, fists clenched at her sides. “But I died! I didn’t exactly move on, but we weren’t together, Alastor! We were separated by the grave, and you don’t get to pretend that didn’t matter!”
“Then why can’t we be together now?” he demanded, taking a step closer. The air vibrated with his power, the static growing louder, more erratic, as though reality itself was bracing.
“You know why!” she shot back immediately. “It’s different now! It’s always been different! We’ve always had different paths, and I won’t pretend otherwise just to make this easier for you!”
“Then what about that little diary of yours?” Alastor hissed, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the shadows curl inward. “What about that confession you never meant for me to read? What is holding us back this time, hmm? I have waited more than seventy years to be with you! I love you, Y/N! Did you not feel the same?”
“I do!” she cried, her voice breaking despite herself. Her ears pinned back as she paced the room, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I love you, alright, you fool! I always have! But love doesn’t erase reality! I want to go to Heaven, and I know—I know—you have no intention of ever leaving this pit! For once in my life, I want things to go right! I want things to go according to my plan! What I want!”
Alastor barked out a harsh, static-laced laugh that sounded more like something tearing itself apart. “You think they’ll want you?” he sneered, though his eyes burned with something dangerously close to desperation. “I spent a decade killing the filth of the earth just to make the world worthy of your memory! I made a deal involving my very soul, for fuck’s sake, just to ensure I had the power to find you again! I did everything for you!”
“YOU THINK I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT YOU DID?!” she screamed, stepping right into his space, fearless even as his shadow loomed over her. Her eyes blazed with fury and grief all at once. “I’m not a fool, Alastor! I was a professor! I’m not fucking dumb! I knew you killed! I knew you interfered with my job in New York! I knew you did everything you could to keep me from leaving!” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. “And I knew—the moment I died—that you would hunt down and kill the man who ran me over!”
The static in his mind cut out entirely, like a radio abruptly switched off. Alastor stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, staring at her in naked, stunned disbelief. For decades, he had wrapped his sins in secrecy, convinced himself he was protecting her innocence, her light. Now, standing before him, she shattered that illusion completely.
She had seen him. All of him.
The silence that followed was more agonizing than any frequency Alastor could ever produce. It pressed in on the room from every angle, heavy and unyielding, until even the radio tower itself seemed to hold its breath.
Alastor stood there, staring at her, and for the first time since she had known him, his posture broke entirely. The rigid confidence drained from his limbs, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of decades had finally found somewhere to settle.
“Then… if you knew,” he began slowly, his voice barely more than breath, stripped of its usual radio filter and warped bravado. It sounded frighteningly human. Fragile. “If you knew what I did… what I was…” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Then why?”
Y/N felt her heart screaming inside her chest, every instinct begging her to stop, to reach for him, to take back everything she was about to say. But her mind clung desperately to one singular truth, sharp and merciless: she had to get to Heaven, and Alastor was the anchor dragging her further into the depths. If she was going to save her soul, she had to destroy whatever held it here. Even if it meant shattering him in the process.
“Because I didn’t know you!” she yelled suddenly, the lie tearing out of her throat and tasting like ash the moment it left her mouth. Her hands trembled at her sides. “You were a monster!”
Alastor flinched as if she had struck him. His eyes widened, the red glow flickering erratically. That ever-present smile—the jagged, unnatural thing he wore like armor—never left his face, but now it looked wrong, stretched too tight, like a scar that refused to heal. The silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating, but she didn’t let it take hold.
She kept going, hurling words like stones, desperate to build a wall he couldn’t claw his way through. “You manipulated everything around me,” she continued, her voice shaking despite her effort to steady it. “You decided what was best for me without ever asking! You killed without remorse and called it love!” Her chest burned, her eyes stung, but she forced herself to keep looking at him. She had to see it through.
And then she saw it.
A single, shimmering tear escaped the corner of his eye, catching the dim red light before tracking slowly down his pale cheek. It cut a clean line through the static-stained shadows clinging to his face. It was the first time he had cried since the day he’d found her broken body on the sidewalk, blood pooling beneath her like a cruel halo.
“I’m a monster?” he asked quietly. His voice trembled now, stripped of its sharpness, stripped of its teeth. “Everything I did was for you. Every sin. Every drop of blood. All the love I had…” His breath hitched. “I understand you being angry. I understand you hating what I am.” His eyes searched her face desperately. “But you see me… as a monster?”
“I—I hate what you did,” she stammered, the lie clawing its way out through clenched teeth. “Everything you did for me, knowing what you did…” Her voice wavered, threatening to collapse. “I don’t want to be with you. I never wanted to be with you in that way.”
Alastor took a step back as if the floor had shifted beneath him. “Then why did you yell at me just now?” he demanded, his composure unraveling, desperation bleeding through every word. “Why all this passion? This fury? You don’t fight like that for someone you don’t care about!”
“That was more than seventy years ago!” she snapped, clinging to the lie with everything she had. Her ears pinned flat against her head, her nails digging into her palms. “Feelings change, Alastor! People change! I—I see you as a friend now. Nothing more.”
The word friend hit harder than anything else she’d said.
Alastor moved suddenly, the motion abrupt and ungraceful. One moment he was standing, and the next he was on his knees before her, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the tower. The most feared Overlord in Hell, the Radio Demon himself, the man who had bent empires and sinners alike to his will, was suddenly small at her feet. His hands shook violently as he reached for her, claws cold as they wrapped around her wrists.
“Then look me in the eyes,” he choked out, his voice breaking completely as he gazed up at her. There was no madness there now, no hunger for power—only raw, bleeding devotion. “If you’re going to stab me in the heart, do it while looking at me.” His grip tightened just enough to anchor himself. “You are the only person who can make me like this. The only one I adore. I worship you before I do any god or holy being.” His breath shuddered. “And you think I’m a monster? Tell me.” Tears spilled freely now. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me.”
Her chest tightened until it felt as though her ribs might cave in on themselves. Breathing became an effort. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper, her vision blurring as she stared down into those glowing red eyes that had never once looked at anything the way they looked at her. She had to do this. She had to end it here.
So he can be happy, she told herself, the thought breaking her all over again.
“Alastor,” she said at last, forcing her voice into something flat, something lifeless. “I don’t love you.”
The words landed like a death sentence.
His eyes widened further, disbelief freezing his expression as more tears slipped free. His grip loosened, his hands falling limply from hers as though they no longer remembered what holding something felt like. He didn’t scream. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even speak. He simply stayed there on the floor, hollowed out, staring at nothing.
She slowly withdrew her hands, her skin aching with cold where his touch had been. “I care about you,” she added softly, the words trembling despite her effort to steady them. “I really do. And you’re still… you’re still my friend. Okay?”
Alastor gave no response. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, unfocused, as though he could see ghosts rising through the aged wood—echoes of 1920s New Orleans, of laughter and music and a life that no longer existed.
Y/N couldn’t stay. Not like this. She turned and walked out of the tower, each step heavier than the last, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that tore out of her anyway. She ran blindly to her room, slamming the door behind her before sliding down against it, collapsing as the tears finally came in violent, wracking waves that shook her entire frame.
More days passed, and the radio tower remained silent—an oppressive, unnatural quiet that felt less like peace and more like a breath held too long. The usual hum of Alastor’s broadcasts, the cheerful menace that once bled through the walls of the Hazbin Hotel, was gone entirely. No jaunty tunes crackled through the air. No mocking laughter echoed down the halls. The tower stood like a mausoleum, and inside it, Alastor was slowly unraveling.
He did not come out for meals. He ignored invitations, requests, even thinly veiled demands from the other residents. He didn’t bother taunting his rivals or asserting his presence, as though the very idea of performing for Hell had become repulsive. Instead, he paced the length of his room endlessly, boots grinding into the rug until the once-elegant fabric was worn thin and frayed. Each step fed the static screaming inside his skull, a rising, agonizing feedback loop that never quite broke, never quite resolved.
Monster.
The word replayed in his mind with cruel clarity, always in her voice, always spoken with that mixture of fury and heartbreak that had carved it into him deeper than any blade ever could. He had killed for her without hesitation, destroyed lives with a smile, and traded his very soul for the power to ensure he would be strong enough to find her again. And when she stood before him again—alive, whole, real—she had looked him in the eye and called him a beast.
His pacing slowed, his hand tightening around his cane as memories surfaced unbidden. The way she blushed at the bar when he conjured her favorite drink without asking. The softness in her expression when she called him hun, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The way her ears twitched when she laughed, how her voice warmed when she spoke to him alone. Were those moments lies? Had she been pretending all along?
“No,” he muttered aloud, his voice rough and uneven, echoing uselessly off the walls. “No… I won’t accept that.” His smile twitched, fractured at the edges. “You don’t look at someone like that if there’s nothing there.”
He stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in the darkened window, his shadow stretching unnaturally behind him. It loomed tall and jagged, its glowing eyes burning with a feral, electric intensity that mirrored the storm inside his chest. His breath came slow and controlled, but his hands trembled despite his effort to still them.
“She’s slipping away,” he whispered, the words barely more than a confession to the empty room. His shadow leaned closer, as though listening. “Slipping through my fingers like rain.” He let out a short, humorless laugh that cracked under the weight of the truth. “No… not rain. Acid.” The thought burned, searing through him at the mere idea of her leaving again, of losing her a second time after clawing his way through Hell to find her.
The desperation that had hollowed him out began to rot, thickening into something darker and far more familiar. He had spent her life restraining himself, curating his cruelty, trying—absurdly—to be gentle for her sake. He had worn the mask of a gentleman because he believed that was what she deserved, that if he were careful enough, controlled enough, she would never have to see the full extent of what he was.
And yet she had seen it anyway.
She had looked at the blood on his hands, the bodies in his wake, and turned away.
“If you think I am a monster,” he murmured, his lips stretching into a slow, terrifying grin that did not reach his eyes, “then I shall stop pretending to be anything else.” His monocle glinted as his gaze hardened, distress flickering beneath the surface even as resolve began to settle in. “I tried kindness. I tried patience. And look where that’s gotten me.”
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the white bunny—Cloud. He remembered the weight of that fragile, trembling creature in his hands after she died, how its tiny heart had raced beneath his palms. He had kept it safe, sheltered it from the world, because it was a piece of her he could still protect. Something pure that hadn’t been stolen away. His eyes dropped to his own clawed hands now, stained by memory and sin alike.
“If you want to reach for the light of Heaven,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “if you want to leave me here in the dirt…” His fingers curled slowly. “Then I will simply take away your choice again.”
The memory of the train station surfaced, sharp and undeniable. The mail he had intercepted, the paths he had quietly redirected without her ever knowing. He had done it all before, justified it as love, as necessity. This would be no different. If anything, this was mercy. Heaven would tear her apart with its expectations and rules. Hell, at least, was honest.
“I won’t let you go,” he said aloud, his voice firm now, stripped of uncertainty. “I won’t let you leave my side.” His smile widened, something cold and calculated settling behind it. “If I must break every bone in your spirit to keep you here… then so be it.”
He straightened suddenly, pulling himself together with practiced precision. He smoothed his crimson coat, brushed imaginary dust from his lapel, and adjusted his monocle until it sat just right. The grief that had consumed him only moments before vanished, sealed away behind a mask of calm professionalism. In its place was something far worse—a cold, surgical resolve that left no room for doubt.
His shadows stirred, creeping along the walls and floor, whispering dark suggestions in voices only he could hear. Ideas of containment. Of leverage. Of control. Ways to bind her to him so completely that even the promise of golden gates would lose its pull. He listened to them with interest, nodding faintly as plans began to form with horrifying clarity.
“You’re right, mon ange,” he chuckled at last, the sound distorted and layered with heavy radio static that finally began to bleed back into the air. The tower seemed to hum in response, awakening from its silence. “I am a monster.” His grin sharpened, shadows swelling behind him like a crown. “And it’s high time I started acting like one.”
While Alastor descended into a cold, meticulous madness in the isolation of his tower, Y/N lay awake in her room, staring at the ceiling as if it might collapse under the weight of her thoughts. The dim light from the hallway bled faintly beneath her door, casting a thin line across the floor that she focused on desperately, anything to keep her mind from replaying the sound of his voice when she broke him. Her chest ached with every breath, each inhale feeling shallow and insufficient, as though the air itself had grown too thin to sustain her.
She was hurting—deeply, profoundly, in a way that felt older than this afterlife and just as sharp as the moment she had lost him the first time. Every cruel word she had thrown at him replayed in her head with merciless clarity, each one a hot coal lodged in her throat. Monster. The word made her flinch now, her fingers curling into the sheets. She didn’t believe it. She had never believed it. She knew what he was capable of, knew the blood that stained his past and present, but she also knew—without question—that he was the only soul across two lifetimes who had ever truly cherished her without hesitation or restraint.
She wasn’t afraid of him. She never had been. Not when he stood dripping with violence, not when the shadows bent to his will, not even when Hell itself seemed to recoil at his presence. She trusted him with a certainty that transcended fear, one rooted so deeply in her bones that even death hadn’t shaken it. She knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that he would never lay a hand on her in anger. That truth only made what she had done hurt more.
She had lied to save herself, to claw desperately at the fragile hope of redemption she still believed in, but the distance she created felt like a frozen void stretching endlessly between them. It was quiet in her room, yet her thoughts were unbearably loud, echoing with regret. And the lie about Vox—that one twisted in her chest the worst of all, a foolish, prideful spark that had ignited a fire she never intended to start.
In reality, that night at the bar had been nothing like the story she let Angel run with. It had been clumsy and disjointed, a drunken blur of noise and flashing lights and poor decisions fueled by loneliness. She and Vox had kissed, yes, and things had begun to escalate in a way that left her heart pounding more with panic than desire. When it came to the moment where choice mattered most, she had frozen completely, fear rooting her in place. She had been inexperienced, overwhelmed, and painfully aware of everything she didn’t know.
Vox had noticed, of course. He always noticed when something inconvenienced him. He hadn’t forced her, hadn’t cornered her or pushed past her hesitation. Instead, he had scoffed softly, irritation plain on his face, his interest cooling almost instantly. With a dismissive roll of his eyes, he had settled for her hands, guiding them with a detached, clinical arrogance that made her feel less like a partner and more like an object. It had ended shortly after, unceremoniously and without intimacy, leaving her with a hollow feeling she hadn’t fully understood until much later.
They had never gone all the way. Not even close.
She squeezed her eyes shut now, swallowing hard. She had let Angel believe she wasn’t a virgin out of some foolish, lingering pride, a desperate desire not to seem naive after seventy years in Hell. She hadn’t wanted to be seen as untouched, untested, still waiting. It had felt childish in hindsight, and now the cost of that lie loomed impossibly large. If she had just kept her mouth shut, if she had laughed it off or changed the subject, Alastor wouldn’t have been pushed to the edge. He wouldn’t have spiraled. He wouldn’t have believed she had given something precious away to his greatest rival—something he had waited a century for without complaint.
Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her nightshirt as her eyes burned. “Tomorrow,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice thick and trembling, barely audible even to herself. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to him.” She swallowed, forcing the words out as if saying them aloud would make them real. “I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll apologize for the ‘monster’ comment. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it right.”
The promise was fragile, but it was all she had. She turned onto her side, pulling the blankets tightly around her shoulders as if they could shield her from the ache inside her chest. Her heart throbbed with the need to see him again, to hear his laughter softened just for her, to see that crooked smile she loved despite everything. The thought of his empty tower, of him alone with his pain, made her throat tighten until it hurt to breathe.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. Her body gave in before her mind could follow, and she drifted into a restless, fractured sleep filled with half-formed dreams and aching regrets. She dreamed of apologies and open hands, of words said too late and forgiveness hovering just out of reach. She did not know that while she slept, clinging to the hope of tomorrow, Alastor was already awake—already moving—slowly and methodically piecing together a plan that would change everything.
The next morning, the hotel was unnaturally quiet. The usual chaos was gone—no echo of Angel’s shrill laughter ricocheting down the halls, no sound of Husk’s irritated muttering from behind the bar, no distant, strained optimism in Charlie’s voice as she tried to mediate yet another argument. Even the background hum of the hotel felt muted, as if the building itself had decided to fall silent. In its place lingered a heavy, stagnant stillness that made Y/N’s skin prickle uncomfortably. The lights glowed dimmer than usual, flickering faintly, casting long shadows that clung to the walls as though they had no intention of letting go.
She wandered through the halls slowly, her steps hesitant, the soft thud of her shoes against the floorboards echoing far too loudly in the emptiness. Each turn she took only reinforced the uneasy realization settling deeper in her chest. Charlie wasn’t in the lobby, her usual warmth and anxious determination nowhere to be found. Vaggie’s spear wasn’t propped near the stairs, the spot where it always rested when she was nearby. Lucifer’s presence—normally impossible to miss even when he was attempting to behave—was completely absent, leaving behind a strange, hollow sensation that made the hotel feel less anchored, less protected.
Everyone was gone.
Not scattered casually, not busy elsewhere—gone in a way that felt deliberate, orchestrated by timing that was just a little too perfect. It was as though an invisible hand had swept through the hotel, clearing it of every familiar soul and leaving only her behind.
Her stomach twisted painfully.
She felt awful, the guilt pressing down on her chest with every step she took. She wanted to apologize. No—she needed to apologize. The words she had thrown at Alastor replayed relentlessly in her mind, sharp and cruel and so far from what she truly felt. She needed to find him, to look him in the eyes and tell him the truth, to explain everything she hadn’t been brave enough to say before.
But what would happen then?
What would they be afterward?
Friends?
The thought made her chest ache. Of course, she told herself, that was what she should want now. Friends was safe. Friends was acceptable. Friends meant no expectations, no dangerous emotions, no vulnerability that could be used against either of them. And yet, the truth clawed at her relentlessly—she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms again, to feel that strange, terrifying sense of being completely seen and completely cherished.
She couldn’t, though. Could she?
Doubt seeped into every crack of her resolve. She questioned everything—her feelings, her choices, her fear. Should she tell him the truth? The whole truth, about Vox, about her lies, about her inexperience and the shame she had wrapped around it like armor?
Yes.
She had to.
Because she couldn’t live another lifetime carrying the weight of unsaid words, of apologies left rotting in her throat.
The scent hit her before the sound did.
Rich, warm spices filled the air, thick and unmistakably familiar, cutting through her spiraling thoughts with startling clarity. Gumbo. The smell curled around her like a memory made tangible, tugging at something tender and aching in her chest. It reminded her of warmth, of comfort, of moments when the world hadn’t felt so sharp and dangerous. Her feet moved before she consciously decided to follow it, carrying her down the corridor, past the empty dining area, until she reached the kitchen.
Alastor stood at the stove, his back to her, stirring a large pot with slow, deliberate movements. Steam rose in lazy spirals, fogging the air and softening the edges of the room, lending everything a dreamlike haze. He looked… normal. Composed. Almost cheerful. His posture was relaxed, his movements unhurried, and his light, jaunty humming filled the space as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong between them.
For a moment, she simply stood there, watching him, her heart tightening painfully in her chest.
“Oh… Alastor,” she said softly at last, her voice barely breaking the quiet. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He turned at once, his smile already in place, bright and polished, so warm it made her pause. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the argument in the tower had been nothing more than a nightmare, some cruel invention born of her own guilt and fear. His eyes gleamed with delight, his expression open and welcoming, as though he was genuinely pleased to see her.
“Ah, darling! Just the person I wanted to see!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms slightly as if greeting an old friend.
She blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “I am?”
“Why, of course!” he replied smoothly, his tone light and pleasant. “Please, do sit. You must be exhausted from all that wandering.”
She hesitated, glancing around the empty kitchen, the absence of everyone else pressing in on her again before she looked back at him. “But Al, I actually wanted to talk. I—I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said those things, and I—”
He turned back to the counter before she could finish, humming again as he scooped rice into a bowl with precise, practiced movements. A soft laugh escaped him, light and airy, dismissive in a way that made her stomach tighten. “Water under the bridge, ma chérie! Truly.”
Her ears twitched, unease creeping back in despite his cheerful tone. “I—no, please, I really need to explain—”
“No worries at all!” he interrupted smoothly, his grin widening just enough to reveal a flash of teeth. “What are friends for, after all? We are friends, yes?”
The word friends landed heavily in her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod despite the sharp pang that followed. “Oh. Right. Yes. Friends.”
He turned and set a plate in front of her with a flourish, the steam rising invitingly, carrying the rich aroma straight to her senses. “Here. I made this just for you.”
She shook her head quickly, her instincts flaring. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry right now—”
“I insist,” he said, his voice slipping into a low, persuasive cadence that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned closer, his shadow stretching across the table, looming larger and darker than it should have in the soft lighting. “It’s your favorite, after all. Gumbo, just the way you like it.”
She hesitated, staring down at the bowl. The familiar smell tugged at her defenses, dredging up memories of comfort and safety she hadn’t realized she missed so desperately. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Consider it a peace offering,” he replied smoothly. “A small gesture of reconciliation between friends.”
Against her better judgment, she picked up the spoon and took a bite. The flavors bloomed across her tongue, rich and comforting, exactly as she remembered, wrapping around her senses like a familiar embrace. Her shoulders relaxed despite herself, tension easing from her body. “It’s… it’s really good, Al,” she said softly. “Thank you. I’m still so—”
The words died on her lips.
The edges of the room seemed to blur, the walls stretching and warping as though she were seeing them through rippling water. A strange heaviness settled behind her eyes, her thoughts slowing, slipping out of focus. She blinked, frowning faintly, and rubbed at her temple, trying to steady herself.
“Alastor,” she murmured, her voice unsteady. “I… I think I need some water.”
He was suddenly closer, though she couldn’t remember him moving. His presence filled her senses, overwhelming and inescapable. His voice floated to her ears, distant and muffled, as if carried through layers of cotton. “No need to worry, my dear. You’re simply tired.”
“I—I don’t feel right,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table as the dizziness deepened. The room tilted gently, not painful, but deeply disorienting, as though gravity itself was losing interest in holding her upright.
“Just one more bite,” he coaxed softly, guiding the spoon toward her lips with careful patience. “You hardly ate anything.”
Her body responded before her mind could protest. She swallowed mechanically, the heaviness spreading through her limbs like liquid velvet, warm and numbing. Her eyelids fluttered as he lifted a glass of water to her mouth, and she drank without thinking, desperation overriding the faint flicker of suspicion trying to surface.
“A-Al…” she breathed, her head tipping back as the darkness closed in. Her grip loosened, her strength draining away as if it had never truly been hers to begin with.
The world slipped sideways, then vanished entirely.
The last thing she saw, framed by the narrowing tunnel of her vision, was Alastor’s face hovering above her. His smile was wide and unchanging, his eyes gleaming with a triumphant, almost reverent intensity. His gloved fingers gently lifted her chin as her body slumped forward, utterly helpless in his grasp.
“Oh, dear,” he purred softly, his voice rich and intimate, the only sound left in the silent hotel. “Sleep well, darling.”
His smile faded from her view as darkness finally claimed her.
When Y/N woke up, the sensation was disorienting in a way she couldn’t immediately place. Her head wasn’t light, but it wasn’t heavy either—not like she had been drugged into unconsciousness, not like the bone-deep ache of a hangover. It felt more like she had been pulled out of an impossibly deep sleep, her mind lagging behind her body as awareness crept back in slow, reluctant waves. She rolled onto her side instinctively, the fabric beneath her unfamiliar, softer than the hotel sheets she was used to.
Then memory slammed into her.
The kitchen.
The gumbo.
The way the world had tilted and gone dark beneath Alastor’s smile.
Her eyes snapped open.
Cold air kissed her skin, sharp enough to make her inhale sharply. The room smelled unmistakably of Alastor—rich cologne layered with something darker beneath it, old static and iron and smoke. Her head throbbed faintly as she shifted, her senses dulled, muffled, as though wrapped in cotton. She lifted her hands to rub at her eyes, only to realize her vision was already obscured by something else.
A blindfold.
Thick silk pressed against her eyes, cool and smooth, tied securely behind her head. Her heart rate spiked instantly. She pushed herself upright too fast, the room spinning slightly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The sound stopped her cold.
A heavy, unmistakable clink of metal echoed through the quiet room.
Her breath hitched as she froze, every muscle locking in place. Slowly, carefully, she shifted her weight, and again—metal scraping softly against metal, the sound reverberating far too close to her body. Panic surged, hot and immediate, crawling up her spine. With trembling fingers, she reached up and hooked the edge of the blindfold on her shoulder, dragging it down just enough to see beneath it.
The room swam into focus.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t anywhere she recognized.
The space was dim, lit by a few low, amber lamps that cast long shadows across dark, polished walls. The furniture was elegant and old-fashioned, unmistakably Alastor’s taste, but more intimate than the public spaces of the hotel. This was part of his private suite, tucked away and hidden, a place no one wandered into by accident.
Her gaze dropped instinctively.
Her right ankle was locked in a gleaming black shackle, its surface smooth and immaculate, like it had been crafted with care rather than cruelty. A thick chain extended from it, bolted firmly into the floor beside the bed. She tugged at it once, testing it, and the metal bit into her skin just enough to make her wince.
Her heart began to pound violently against her ribs.
“Alastor?” she called out, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. The sound felt too loud in the enclosed space. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe, to think. “Alastor,” she said again, more firmly this time, her brows knitting together as she straightened her posture. “This isn’t funny. Let me go.”
“I agree, it isn’t, my dear.”
His voice drifted from the shadows, smooth and calm, carrying that familiar radio-like resonance that made her skin prickle. It came from somewhere behind her, somewhere she hadn’t been able to see.
He stepped into the dim light a moment later, his silhouette tall and angular, cutting an imposing figure against the room. He wasn’t wearing his usual polished broadcast persona. His eyes glowed a deep, predatory crimson, burning brighter than the lamps themselves, and his antlers seemed sharper somehow, more pronounced, casting long, twisted shadows that crawled along the walls as he moved.
Fear settled heavy in her chest.
“Alastor, why?” she demanded, her voice shaking despite herself. “Let me go.” She tugged at the chain again, more forcefully this time, the metal clanking loudly as it resisted her. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor, a nervous habit she couldn’t suppress.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he replied calmly.
He began to pace around her in a slow, deliberate circle, his cane clicking rhythmically against the floorboards with each step. The sound echoed in time with her heartbeat, each tap making her more acutely aware of how trapped she was.
“Al, you’re acting—”
“Crazy?” he interrupted sharply, his voice dropping an octave as he bent down until he was eye level with her. “Like a monster?”
Her breath caught in her throat. The air around him felt thick, heavy, vibrating with raw power that pressed against her senses. Instinct took over. She pressed her back against the base of the bed, her ears pinning flat against her head as her tail curled tightly around her leg.
“A-Al, I don’t like this,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re—”
“What am I?” he asked softly, his smile stretching wider, sharper, until it looked almost painful. “Am I scaring you?”
“Y-yes!” she shouted, the word tearing itself from her chest as her eyes flicked desperately toward the door. Her pulse roared in her ears.
“My dear, I would never hurt you,” he said gently, his tone dripping with a sweet affection that made her stomach twist. He reached out, gloved fingers cool as his thumb traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face upward despite her instinct to pull away.
“You just drugged me!” she screamed, fury cutting through the fear as she glared up at him, tears burning at the corners of her eyes.
“Well,” he replied casually, as if they were discussing something trivial, “you were going to leave me.” His smile softened, but his eyes remained sharp. “You were going to walk into that ‘light’ and leave me in the dark. I simply couldn’t have that.”
Y/N sucked in a shaky breath, forcing herself to slow her racing heart. She needed to think. Needed to reach him somehow. “So what?” she demanded quietly. “Are you going to kill me now?”
“Of course not,” Alastor chuckled, the sound warped by a low-frequency hum that vibrated through the room. He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched hers, his glowing eyes boring into her very soul. “I love you. I worship you. I told you that.”
He straightened, looking down at her with an expression of chilling satisfaction, as though everything had finally fallen into place exactly as he wanted. “No, I’m not going to kill you,” he continued smoothly. “As much of a monster as you think I am, I would never bring you harm.”
His smile widened again, slow and deliberate.
“I’m merely teaching you a lesson,” he said softly. “You wanted things to go according to your plan, darling? Well… plans change.”
He gestured around the room with a small, elegant sweep of his hand.
“From now on,” he finished, his voice calm and absolute, “your world begins and ends within these four walls.”
Y/N didn’t give him the satisfaction of tears—not yet. She refused to let him see that fracture, that weakness, not when she could still stand upright and meet his gaze. She was a professor, a woman who had spent her life wielding logic like a blade, and even now, with a shackle on her ankle and fear coiled tight in her chest, she forced herself to hold his eyes. Her stare burned with a fierce, trembling heat, equal parts rage and resolve.
“What about everyone else?” she demanded, her voice ringing sharply through the magically reinforced room. The sound echoed back to her, distorted slightly, as if the walls themselves were listening. “Charlie, Vaggie… they’ll wonder where I am. You can’t just make a person vanish, Alastor. You can’t erase me like that.”
“Nope!” Alastor chirped brightly, the pop of the ‘p’ punctuated by a cheerful little crackle of static. He smiled as though she’d just asked him an amusing question at a dinner party. “I’ve already informed them that you’ve taken a small sabbatical to focus on your… spiritual studies. A private retreat, if you will. Very respectable. Very you.”
Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You can’t do this,” she hissed, her voice dropping into something low and dangerous, the kind of tone that usually made students shrink back in their seats.
“I already have, darling,” he replied easily, spreading his hands as though the matter were settled beyond debate.
She took a step forward, the chain snapping taut and jerking her ankle back with a sharp tug. Pain flared, but she barely noticed it. “People will hear me!” she shouted, her voice rising, raw and furious. “I will scream and yell until the foundation of this hotel shakes. I will not be quiet about this!”
Alastor tilted his head, his radio-dial eyes narrowing with clear amusement as the hum in the air deepened. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” he said lightly. “I’ve placed a sound barrier around this suite. You could scream until your lungs give out, and the only one who will hear your lovely voice… is me.”
She stomped her foot hard, the chain rattling violently as her frustration spilled over. Her nose twitched sharply, a telltale sign he knew all too well, the one that meant she was genuinely furious. “Let me out. Now, Alastor!”
He chuckled, the sound low and crackling, like a warped melody playing on an old radio tuned just slightly wrong. “I always did like that spark,” he murmured, his gaze raking over her with something dark and possessive beneath the smile. “You know, you really do remind me of that little bunny.” In a blur of motion, his hand shot out, fingers closing around her chin, gentle but unyielding. He tilted her face upward, forcing her to look at him. “I’m just being the monster you wanted. Isn’t this how you saw me? How you described me?”
“I—” Her words caught, tangled in her throat.
“No need to lie,” he cut in sharply, his grip tightening just enough to make the point unmistakable. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes burned hotter. “All that time, it was lies, wasn’t it? The smiles, the affection… all of it just a mask you wore for my benefit.”
“No, Al! I—” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady, panic beginning to creep through the anger.
“You continue to lie with that beautiful tongue,” he hissed, leaning closer as his shadow surged forward, looming over her like a tidal wave poised to crash. The room seemed to darken around them, the air thick with static and power.
Her eyes burned, wet with fury and something dangerously close to despair. With a sharp jerk, she yanked her head back, breaking his grip. She didn’t say another word, refusing to give him anything else to twist against her. Her chest heaved as she stared him down, defiant and shaking all at once.
“I see how it is, darling,” Alastor remarked coolly, straightening and smoothing his coat as though the exchange had merely wrinkled his appearance. He turned toward the door with deliberate calm.
“Wait!” she called out, the sudden, sharp spike of panic slicing through her as he reached for the handle. “Don’t just leave me here. Don’t leave me in the dark like this!”
He paused, his hand resting on the brass knob. Slowly, he glanced back over his shoulder. The light from the hallway caught half his face, leaving the other half swallowed by shadow. “Darling,” he said softly, almost gently, “I must do what needs to be done.”
“Al, you don’t need to do this,” she pleaded, her voice faltering as she grasped desperately for the man she knew, the one who had knelt to care for her bunny, the one who brought her flowers and listened to her lectures with genuine interest. “This isn’t you. Please. You’re not like this.”
For a fleeting second, the static in the room died away completely. His shoulders flinched, just barely, as though something inside him had recoiled at her words. He stood there, frozen, and for the briefest moment she thought she’d reached him.
Then the mask slid back into place, colder and sharper than before.
“I must,” he said quietly, without turning fully around. “I will break you, Y/N. I will make it so that you never even think about leaving my side again.”
He stepped out and pulled the door shut with a decisive click.
“ALASTOR!” she screamed, scrambling forward as fast as the chain would allow. She threw her weight against the reinforced wood, pounding on it with her fists. “Let me out! Let me out right now!”
Her shouts echoed uselessly within the room. Rage and desperation boiled over as she grabbed a nearby wooden chair, lifting it with a raw scream of frustration and hurling it at the door. The chair shattered on impact, splintering into useless fragments that clattered to the floor. She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, her hands shaking violently as the adrenaline drained from her system.
Her legs finally gave out. She stumbled back and collapsed into a plush armchair, curling her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as though she could hold herself together by sheer force. A soft, broken sob slipped free before she could stop it, followed by another, and then another, each one tearing out of her chest as the reality of her situation sank in.
Outside the door, Alastor froze.
His hand hovered inches from the handle, fingers twitching as her sobs seeped through the static in his mind. The sound hit him like a physical blow, sharp and crushing, and his chest tightened painfully. His shadows writhed and flickered, stretching toward the door as though they wanted to turn the lock for him, to undo everything.
He lifted his hand, just slightly, torn between the urge to go back to her and the iron grip of his obsession. For a long, agonizing moment, he stood there, caught between love and control.
Then he pulled back.
He straightened his posture, gripped his cane tightly, and forced himself to walk away down the hall. Her weeping followed him, echoing through the static humming in his head, a sound that would haunt him long after he disappeared from sight.
For the next few days, Alastor played the part of the most attentive host with unnerving dedication, as though he were determined to prove—if not to her, then to himself—that this arrangement was something benevolent. Every morning began the same way. She would wake to the soft click of the door unlocking and the faint hum of radio static smoothing itself into a cheerful tune. Breakfast would be waiting on a pristine tray by the time she sat up: food that tasted unmistakably like home, warm and carefully prepared, never a crumb out of place. Biscuits that flaked just right, eggs seasoned exactly the way she preferred, chicory coffee brewed to perfection. It was all too thoughtful, too precise, and it made her chest ache in ways she refused to acknowledge.
By afternoon, new offerings would appear without announcement. Leather-bound books—first editions, rare prints, obscure academic texts she hadn’t thought about in decades—would stack themselves neatly on her nightstand. A television had manifested one day while she was bathing, its screen flickering to life with only her favorite channels, no static, no interruptions. Even the bathroom had become a shrine to her comfort, stocked endlessly with expensive soaps and lotions, all bearing the same floral scent she had loved in life and thought she had long forgotten. He remembered everything. That, more than the chains, made her stomach twist.
Evenings were the worst.
At night, Alastor insisted they dine together at the long dining table he had conjured within her expanded suite. Candles flickered with a warm, golden glow, their flames steady and obedient. The meals were elaborate, indulgent, and plated beautifully, like something out of a high-end restaurant. He would sit across from her, posture immaculate, smile polite and unwavering, and attempt conversation as though this were all perfectly normal.
She, in turn, gave him almost nothing.
Her answers were short, clipped, and deliberately disengaged. She barely touched her food some nights, pushing it around the plate while staring past him, or at the wall, or anywhere that wasn’t his face. When he spoke about hotel affairs or some trivial anecdote from his past, she nodded absently or hummed in acknowledgment, never truly listening. The silence between them grew thick and heavy, punctuated only by the soft clink of cutlery and the faint hiss of static beneath his voice.
To combat what he referred to as her “cabin fever,” Alastor expanded the room’s dimensions further, warping reality with a casual flick of his wrist. One morning she woke to find that the far wall had dissolved into open air, revealing a lush, private corner of the bayou. Cypress trees rose from dark, still water, draped in curtains of pale green moss. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air at dusk, their soft glow mirrored in the water below, while cicadas hummed a low, constant chorus that almost sounded real. The air was warm and damp, scented with earth and vegetation, and for a moment it nearly fooled her.
He even changed the scenery every so often, reshaping the pocket dimension into different landscapes to keep her from growing bored. Sometimes it was a moonlit riverbank, sometimes a quiet forest clearing, once even a sun-drenched veranda that reminded her painfully of summers long gone. It was beautiful. Thoughtfully crafted. And entirely inescapable.
She had everything—comfort, luxury, entertainment, stimulation—everything except a way out.
Y/N, however, refused to make this easy for him.
She met his practiced charm with a wall of icy silence, her defiance manifesting not in screaming or begging, but in deliberate indifference. She ignored him as thoroughly as she could, choosing instead to occupy herself with the one thing in that room that wasn’t designed to please her: his shadow minions. The small, ink-black creatures skittered and watched her from corners, curious and timid, and she took to them almost immediately.
She spoke to them softly, hummed old tunes under her breath, and when boredom crept in, she fashioned tiny clothes for them out of spare fabric and napkins. Little jackets. Tiny scarves. One even wore a crooked bowtie. She treated them with gentle affection, praising them when they brought her things or sat obediently at her feet. She smiled at them. Laughed with them.
She never smiled at him.
When Alastor returned from his so-called “duties” at the hotel, he would often find her draped across a lounge chair in her artificial bayou, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced lazily against her knee. She looked every bit the captive queen, composed and distant, her long bunny ears flicking occasionally as she listened to the ambient sounds of the false wilderness.
“How was the food, my dear?” he asked one evening, his voice smooth and melodic as he stood at the edge of the swampy illusion, cane resting lightly against his shoulder.
“Good,” she replied flatly, not lifting her eyes from the page.
His smile twitched, just barely, but he kept it in place. “And the book I gave you?” he continued, tone light. “A classic, isn’t it? I thought you might appreciate the prose.”
“Fine,” she said, flipping a page with an aggressive snap that betrayed more emotion than her voice ever did. Her ears flicked back in irritation, though she still refused to look at him.
He stepped a little closer, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the ground until it brushed the toes of her shoe. “Is there anything else your heart desires?” he asked softly. “Anything at all I can provide to make your stay more… agreeable?”
“Freedom,” she snapped, finally lifting her gaze to glare at him, eyes sharp and blazing.
Alastor let out a soft, bubbling laugh, static crackling beneath the sound. “Now, now, my dear,” he chided gently. “We can’t be having that. Not when we’re making such wonderful progress as friends!”
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “At least take off the fucking chain, Alastor,” she shot back. “It’s tacky.”
For a split second, something dangerous flickered behind his eyes, the radio dials in his pupils spinning rapidly before settling again. “Mon ange,” he said calmly, though there was an edge beneath the sweetness, “there’s truly no need for such language. A lady of your stature shouldn’t let her tongue go to rot.”
Her ears perked despite herself, a small, traitorous spark of hope lighting her eyes. “So… is that a yes?”
Alastor tilted his head slowly, his grin stretching wider and wider until it became something sharp and impossible. A short, mocking bark of laughter escaped him. “Yeah,” he said lightly, “no.”
The hope vanished instantly.
She turned away from him with a sharp huff, fixing her gaze stubbornly on a nearby cypress tree as though it had personally offended her. Behind her, she could hear the faint hum of his static, thick with satisfaction, and it took every ounce of her restraint not to fling her book at his head.
“I’ll leave you to your reading, then!” he chirped brightly, far too pleased with himself.
The door clicked shut moments later, the sound of magical locks sliding into place echoing through the suite. Y/N slumped back into her chair, exhaustion washing over her in heavy waves. She hated how much she enjoyed the bubble baths. She hated that the gumbo was perfect every single time. She hated the books, the bayou, the way the shadows listened to her like loyal pets.
But most of all, she hated that even in this gilded cage, even with the chains and the lies and the silence, he was the only thing that felt real.
Y/N understood, with a clarity sharpened by fear and desperation, that playing the helpless captive would only cement her place in this gilded cage. Alastor thrived on control, on patience, on watching people exhaust themselves against inevitability. If she cried and begged, he would simply tighten his grip and soothe himself with the certainty that she had nowhere else to go. No—if she wanted to survive this, if she wanted to be free, she had to stop being prey.
She had to become something he underestimated.
Alastor wanted his angel back. Not Heaven’s angel, not redemption’s fragile promise, but his—the woman who once looked at him with warmth instead of fear, who spoke to him like he was a man and not a myth, not a monster, not a weapon wrapped in a smile. He wanted devotion. He wanted softness. He wanted to believe that she would eventually choose him willingly, that he could bend her without breaking her.
That belief would be his weakness.
She couldn’t rush it. If she shifted too quickly, his instincts would flare, sharp and suspicious. The Radio Demon survived by sensing traps long before they snapped shut. She had to move slowly, carefully, like a predator stalking something far deadlier than herself. She reminded herself, over and over, that he wouldn’t hurt her—not truly—but she also knew how easily comfort could turn into another kind of prison. The chain around her ankle wasn’t just metal; it was leverage. And if she wanted it gone, she had to make him loosen it himself.
The first week was almost painfully subtle.
When he entered the room, she no longer glared at him like a cornered animal. Instead, she looked tired. Worn down. Her shoulders slumped slightly, her ears drooped more often than not, and her eyes carried a quiet exhaustion that suggested surrender rather than rebellion. She answered his questions politely, even if briefly. She stopped turning her back on him when he spoke.
And one evening, when he turned to leave after dinner, she didn’t let the silence swallow him whole.
“Wait,” she called out, her voice soft, hesitant, carefully threaded with uncertainty rather than command.
Alastor paused mid-step, his cane hovering just above the floor. He turned slowly, curiosity glinting behind his ever-present smile. “Yes, my dear?”
She hesitated just long enough to make it seem difficult. “I… I was wondering if I could have a notebook. To write in. I think it might help me organize my thoughts.”
Something in his expression shifted, the sharpness easing into something warmer, almost tender. His ears perked slightly, and his grin softened at the edges. “Of course,” he said brightly. “Anything to keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied. I’d hate to see it languish.”
The notebook appeared the next morning, bound in deep red leather, the pages thick and unblemished. She thanked him quietly, fingers brushing the cover like it mattered more than it actually did. He lingered a moment longer than usual before leaving, clearly pleased.
Over the next few days, she built on that foundation.
She asked small, harmless questions. How was the Pride Ring this week? Had the hotel been busy? Was Angel still being insufferable? Her tone was neutral, occasionally curious, never sharp. She let herself sound… normal. Almost comfortable. She even laughed once—softly, briefly—at one of his remarks, and the look on his face nearly made her falter.
Then she asked for something more dangerous.
“Alastor?” she said one evening, standing near the edge of the bayou illusion, her arms wrapped loosely around herself. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. The shadows get… restless at night. I was wondering if I could have something to help. Just until I adjust.”
Concern flickered across his features immediately, genuine and swift. “Oh, my poor darling,” he crooned, stepping closer. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Of course you may. We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.”
The sedatives arrived that same night. Strong. Potent. Far more than she would ever dare take all at once.
She never swallowed a single one.
Instead, she waited. Every night, she listened for the tower to fall into its deepest silence, for the faint hum of his presence to retreat elsewhere. Then she crushed the pills carefully, methodically, until they became a fine, nearly scentless powder. She hid it in the back of her underwear drawer, tucked beneath folded fabric—one of the few places she knew his old-fashioned sense of propriety would never intrude.
Two and a half weeks passed like this, each day a balancing act, each smile a calculated risk. Her nerves felt stretched thin, but her resolve only hardened. The chain around her ankle remained, cold and unyielding, but she could almost feel its weight lessening.
And then, finally, she set the trap.
“Al?” she asked one afternoon as he brought in her tea, porcelain cup steaming gently in his gloved hand.
“Yes, mon chéri?”
“I was thinking,” she began carefully, offering him a shy, almost nostalgic smile. “I’d like to cook tonight. For you. A real dinner, like we used to share. If that’s… alright with you.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then his shadow rippled with barely contained delight, and the warmth in his eyes nearly undid her. “My dear,” he said, voice rich with pleasure, “I would be honored. Truly. Just write down whatever you need, and I shall fetch it immediately.”
She wrote the list with steady hands. A spicy, heavy jambalaya. Strong peppers. Rich roux. Onions, celery, bell peppers. Ingredients bold enough to mask anything bitter or foreign.
As the sun dipped low over Hell’s crimson horizon, Y/N stood alone at the stove in her private bayou kitchen. The air filled with heat and spice as she stirred, her movements practiced, automatic. She watched the clock, counting down the minutes. Five before his arrival, she retrieved the hidden powder and stirred a massive dose into the bowl she had set aside just for him.
When everything was plated, she sat at the table and smoothed her skirt, forcing her breathing to steady. Her heart thundered in her chest, but when the door handle finally turned, she lifted her gaze and smiled.
“Just in time, Alastor,” she said calmly. “Dinner is served.”
synopsis: You are a shrewd apothecary, whose intelligence prioritized safety under the protection of the Yonkou, Akagami no Shanks, who fell for you at first sight. To preserve his freedom and his carnal pleasures, Shanks proposed an open relationship, an agreement he never imagined you would use. However, in his absence, you found genuine love in a gentle merchant, seeking a peaceful life that did not include the Emperor. This emotional "betrayal" ignites Shanks's latent possessiveness. Consumed by overwhelming jealousy, the Yonkou decides that the "freedom" game is over.
Chapter 1: An love at first sight
The scent of burning sage was a familiar comfort, mixed with the salty sea air of the volcanic island where you had docked in search of medicinal herbs. The isolation of the cove, a rocky recess on the coast, was perfect for your work. Your small ship was hidden, and your mission was simple: harvest, study, return home. There was no wind, no voices, only the distant sound of waves breaking.
You were crouched on the damp earth, your fingers wrapped in worn leather gloves, focused on a rare species of herb, its pale leaves being delicately trimmed and stored in your wicker basket. Your thoughts were on the dosage, the mixture, the efficiency of the cure — the essence of your world as an apothecary.
It was the shadow that alerted you.
Suddenly, the sunlight that filtered through the trees and warmed your back was blocked by a tall, incredibly broad silhouette. There was no sound, no warning cry, just the abrupt darkness overhead, followed by an instinctive feeling — the kind of primal alert that tells a lesser being that it is in the presence of a predator at the height of its power.
You had chosen this island for a reason: in the old, reliable maps from your meticulously studied books on exotic herbs, this small patch of land was classified as "Uninhabited and Unsuitable," a safe resting place for anyone wishing to avoid conflict in the New World. The air should have been thin, and the only disturbance, the wind.
However, the scent of tobacco, grilled meat, and alcohol lingered on the breeze, a chemical signature of human presence that was impossible to ignore.
The surprise of discovering that perfect solitude was, in fact, a noisy party was not the only miscalculation; the true strategic failure came the instant you turned around.
You were prepared for bandits or some wild animal; you were not prepared for Him and the weight of that focus error hit you like a blow, freezing your breath in your chest.
He was there, in the center of everything, casually leaning against a coconut tree, his single hand holding a cup of sake that dropped immediately when your body turned towards his. The red hair was fire under the sun, but what captivated you was the massive body, the scar on his eye, and the silent aura of power that belied the atmosphere of false peace. The Red-Haired Captain was right there, just forty feet away, looking directly at you.
You recognized him immediately; only a blind man wouldn't have seen all the wanted posters that covered every town in the New World. Akagami no Shanks, the infamous pirate Yonkou.
Upon seeing your face, Shanks's reaction reached its climax. It was a visual shock that hit him squarely. He was stunned, his mouth slightly ajar, the cup of sake forgotten and fallen at his feet, and his face held an expression that was completely incompatible with the legend of the Red-Haired. It was the vulnerability of a man who saw something he couldn't name, but that he felt he needed more than anything. He was breathless, almost euphoric, but the feeling was so intense it felt like pain.
You barely noticed the other crew members, but they were there, and their reaction to your presence — or, to be more precise, their reaction to the shock your beauty caused the Captain — was even stranger than the island invasion itself. You felt their gazes. They weren't looks of lust or hostility, but of cautious curiosity.
The crew didn't move. Benn Beckman, always the first to react and the last to be surprised, removed the cigarette from his mouth. Lucky Roo stopped chewing. Yasopp, who usually laughed at everything, was serious-faced. They were witnessing a bizarre event, the instant when their King, the freest man in the world, was paralyzed.
As soon as the perception of the situation hit you, you didn't hesitate. In a world governed by masculine force, you were a solitary and unarmed woman in front of one of the most powerful men at sea. You knew your place. Your survival depended on your intelligence.
You acted out of pure survival instinct, a conditioned reflex by the reality of the world you lived in. You knelt rigidly on the ground, bowing into a complete prostration; your hard knees pressing into the earth, and your hands, which had just been harvesting life, stretched out in front of you, palms down, touching the damp ground at the same time as your forehead.
It was the maximum gesture of submission and respect. You made yourself as small as possible, a humble mass of fabric and earth, declaring to yourself, and to him, that you knew who he was, and who you were. You were an apothecary, a woman, and he was an Emperor. In that moment, there was no pride, only the cold intelligence of someone who understands that life in a world dominated by men like him—civilians without name or importance like you—is only spared through the immediate recognition of the superiority of the man, the monster, in front of you.
You kept your head bowed, your gaze fixed on the volcanic earth. The silence was overwhelming. You waited, offering your neck and your life to his discretion, aware that he could end everything with a thought, and no one would dare question it.
He didn't react immediately. His silence stretched, tense, while he watched you bow in total surrender. He was approaching, slowly, like someone approaching a frightened animal, too fascinated to be loud.
"Get up, woman." His voice was hoarse and deep, surprisingly gentle, but with an authority that commanded obedience.
When you raised your gaze, he was close. His red eyes were no longer fixed on you with surprise, but with a warm, possessive intensity, as if he were mapping your face for memory.
"Red-Haired Captain," you murmured, your voice soft and respectful. "I apologize. I did not intend to invade your camp. I am just an apothecary harvesting herbs."
He approached slowly, large and imposing, his steps light. His crew maintained a respectful distance, but their gazes were a mix of curiosity, surprise, and amusement, as if you were the center of a joke that only men could understand, as if you were, somehow, a delicate prey before the Red-Haired Emperor.
"Tell me what you have in that basket," he ordered, but it was the kind of order that invites conversation, not execution. "You came all the way to a Yonkou's island, sneaking like a mouse, because of some plants. They must be very valuable."
You felt minuscule under that gaze.
"They are valuable for healing," you explained, the calmness of your profession returning. "This is Nightfire. It only grows near volcanic activity. It is essential for cauterizing large wounds. It is extremely rare, Red-Haired Captain."
He picked up one of the pale leaves, his large, rough hand making the leaf look even more fragile. He inhaled the aroma and smiled. A wide, sunny smile that included and enveloped you in a way you didn't immediately understand.
"Destiny likes to gift me," he said, more to himself than to you. "I went out looking for fun, and I found something much more useful and beautiful."
He dropped the leaf and looked directly at you, and the lie came with the certainty of an Emperor who knew no one would contradict him.
"We need an apothecary," he declared, and the word 'we need' sounded with the weight of a gentle command. "We, the Red-Haired Pirates, could use a second opinion on health. Hongo, our doctor, keeps losing supplies and needs someone to keep our ship in order with a more... gentle touch. He needs an assistant, and we need a gentle touch, someone who brings a little of that... healing to a bunch of brutes like us."
The crew exchanged looks of immediate complicity. They were Red-Haired Pirates, hardened veterans who shared the same malicious nature as their Captain and prioritized his desire above any morality; truly, one could say that the saying: 'birds of a feather flock together' is true. Did Hongo need an assistant? The lie was laughable to anyone who knew him.
But again, what is a lie and what is the truth? Shanks declared that the Red-Haired Pirates needed an apothecary, so it was fact and law that they needed one.
The reality was that the only truth was that they saw Shanks—the established Emperor, the beloved captain, an older man—taking an interest in you, a young apothecary of low power. Instead of feeling any discomfort or protective impulse for you, they immediately understood the dynamic and supported their leader.
For them, the Captain's satisfaction came first. Shanks's desire was law, and his lie about Hongo was merely the charismatic decree that everyone would execute.
While you were focused on Shanks's overwhelming presence and your own submission, the crew's dark complicity unfolded. Lucky Roo, almost bursting with laughter, subtly elbowed Hongo. Yasopp, with a sneer, made an exaggerated gesture of dropping a medicine bottle, pointing to the ship's doctor with an expression of false pity and solidarity. Benn Beckman, hand on Hongo's shoulder, cast a cold look that didn't hide the amusement he felt, seeming to say: "Stop complaining. Now you have an assistant, and the Captain has what he wants."
They didn't see a job offer; they saw possession at first sight in their Captain's eyes. He was ensuring you remained within his reach, and his crew, loyal to the darkness of their Emperor, merely nodded and played along with Shanks's blatant lie, turning the excuse into an unquestionable fact that the Red Force apparently now needed an apothecary.
However, you were, above all, a woman of routines and responsibilities.
"I appreciate the offer, Red-Haired Captain, but no." You said, tidying the herbs in the basket. "I only left my island to study these species. I have to return to my village. They need me there, and I have my small shop. It is my haven."
His smile flickered for a fraction of a second. It was a subtle change, the flash of something colder, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. It was the first sign that your will could be an obstacle, and he accepted it with the grace of a predator who knows he can wait.
"A pity," he said, sighing exaggeratedly, but his red eyes gleamed with a newly formed plan. "Well, such a talented apothecary should not be rushed. Go back to your haven, sweetie. But don't be surprised if I show up to see what you're going to do with all those mixtures."
As soon as you obtained permission to leave, you returned to your small ship and in the following days, sailing back home, you tried to convince yourself that he was just a charismatic pirate who would soon forget you.
You were wrong.
Their arrival on your quiet island was a cataclysmic event. The Red Force anchored in the main bay, blocking the view of the sea, and the sound of the pirate party that followed filled the calm air of your small village. The Red-Haired Pirates were there, and their presence was the promise of chaos and power.
You were in your small herb shop, grinding dry seeds, when his shadow blocked the light once more.
Shanks entered, and the familiar space of your shop became too small for the energy he brought. He didn't come with violence, but with a targeted bribe. He carried a box of dark, polished wood, which he placed on your counter.
"Think of it as a welcome gift to my stopover," he said, and his smile was pure innocence.
You opened the box, and your breath hitched. Your eyes widened, shining with an almost feverish excitement that he noticed and absorbed. There was no gold. There was a treasure that only you would appreciate: dried and preserved herbs, rare and exotic, harvested in a remote part of West Blue, including samples of the legendary Rainbow Leaf, something you had only read about in old books.
He had appealed directly to your deepest passion.
"You can't study this here," he whispered, his voice seductive and low, exploiting your weakness. "You need time, you need instruments you don't have here. Come to the ship, where the food is better and the danger is fun. You can study all of this, and take care of me."
It was an enchanting pursuit, a subtle use of his power and charm to invade your life. He didn't force you to board. He anchored his ship in your harbor and used your professional passion as bait to seduce you.
In the days that followed, Shanks established himself in your shop and in your life. He returned every day, not as the Captain who demands, but as the man who courts. He drank the tea you made, listened to your theories about antidotes, and sat on your wooden floor, watching you work. He was seducing you, using the tranquility of your island as a backdrop for his conquest.
You yielded to his soft insistence and the power he emanated. It wasn't a threat, but the simple certainty that what he wanted, he would get. You fell in love with the older man, with his passion for the sea, and the way he made you feel seen in your work, even though he was an Emperor.
In a short time, he was no longer a visitor, but a permanent presence in your small shop, and then, in your bed. Shanks's seduction was complete, a master use of his charisma and his understanding of what moved you: the passion for your craft.
You ended up yielding to the soft pressure and the voracious desire to study the rare herb samples he had brought you. With a hesitant heart, you closed the small shop, packed all your apothecary instruments and your personal collection of plants, including those that fascinated you—the poisonous and the rare, stored with the fervor of a specialist. You accepted the position as assistant to Doctor Hongo, which everyone except you knew was a blatant farce orchestrated by the Captain.
Life on the Red Force swallowed you with the efficiency of a wave. You integrated immediately, taking on the role of Hongo's assistant and natural remedies expert. You organized the infirmary, manufactured complex tonics and teas with the precision of a ritual. Hongo, the official doctor, was a practical man, and although the need for an assistant was an internal joke, he quickly benefited from your methodical organization and knowledge of plant-based remedies. You were always busy, always productive, and the crew respected your utility.
And when you weren't in the infirmary, you were with Shanks.
Love was born quickly, driven by the intensity of life at sea and his overwhelming charisma. For him, you had a special treatment. You gave long massages with oils you made yourself, lit natural incense in his cabin, and prepared soothing teas after battles. When you were with him, your attention was total: focused on pampering and loving him, reciprocating the protection and attention he offered you.
He praised you, protected you, and made you laugh with the most absurd stories of the New World. You fell in love with the man, his laugh, and the way his voice dropped low and caring when he asked you about your day.
After the first night he spent in your bed, he became even more attached. His touch, previously warm, gained an almost feverish intensity. He began seeking you out more frequently, his gaze lingering on you with a possession he disguised with charm. Your presence became a physical necessity for him, and your absence made him restless. You were his heart, and the deeper he sank into the love he felt, the more obsessed he became with keeping you always within arm's reach.
He became your lover, and it was at this moment that the reality of the world and your relationship collided.
The intimacy between you was a battlefield and a refuge. Shanks, the Emperor, gave himself to you with a passionate ferocity, an intensity he had never shown before — and that perhaps even he didn't know he possessed. You were the first to awaken this intense and obsessive libido in him. He wanted you, desired you, and your presence in his bed became a physical necessity that surpassed any comfort of healing. He sought you with the passion of a young man, but with the unquestionable possession of a Yonkou.
The problem, however, came when this intensity threatened to turn into commitment.
He was Shanks, the Red-Haired. A man who owned the world, and pirate society — this eternal celebration of strength and masculine freedom — expected him to live up to his power. He should have all the lovers he wanted, enjoying the virility and status that his strength granted. He did not want a single, official commitment, as that would be, for him, not only an love but a limitation of his image of free will. He wanted you to be exclusively his, but without the burden of exclusivity that would oblige him to abandon other women.
The conversation came one night, after a long, warm kiss, while he caressed your face with his single hand. His tone was light, humorous, almost peaceful, but the content was a blow to the chest.
"You are my haven," he whispered, his voice melodious. "My nakama, the one I love. I lovepyour love, I love your dedication, and the fire you bring to my life. And that is why I give you freedom."
He smiled, his red gaze penetrating. "I am a pirate, sweetie. And a Yonkou. I cannot tie you down to one haven, and I also cannot tie myself down to just one person. The sea is too big for me to pretend otherwise. Our connection is stronger than a title. It's not limited to a single touch, is it? You can also enjoy it, if you want. I don't object. I don't want you to feel like you're waiting for me."
You knew what he was proposing: an open relationship.
Your monogamous heart shattered into small pieces inside your chest. It wasn't jealousy of future lovers, it was the deep hurt of being relegated to the status of "favorite," of "main mistress," but never "the only one." You understood his position: Shanks was the Emperor, a man at the top of the world, and you were the apothecary. In a world dominated by masculine force, the truth was painful: he had the right to have all the lovers he wanted, and you did not have the right to demand exclusivity from such a powerful man.
You accepted, because the fear of losing him was greater than the pain of sharing him.
"I understand, Captain," you managed to whisper, the hurt and resignation wrapping around the words. "I won't demand what you cannot give."
You forced the acceptance of that unilateral rule, swallowing your monogamous nature with a tight knot in your throat. The next morning, you immersed yourself in your work in the infirmary, the only safe refuge to ignore the certainty that Shanks, in whatever port he had chosen, was surrounded by the attention and perfume of other women.
While you worked on yet another medicine, your hands found occupation, but your aching heart and restless mind did not. Shanks had imposed a proposal that dismantled your deepest belief: the non-negotiable value of fidelity and marriage that you had always championed. And it was there, in the forced tranquility of the infirmary, that the hurt opened a silent fissure in your love. A cold, unassuming sliver of doubt settled into your core, questioning whether he truly was the man for your future, and as silently as the birth of any plant, a small seed of disillusionment sprouted in your heart.
And as time passed, the planted seed of disillusionment was quick to germinate and flower, for the weight of the "freedom agreement" became a palpable and nauseating reality in the subsequent months. Shanks returned from his trips to exotic islands carrying the proofs of his autonomy: a trace of strange, sugary perfume on his clothes, bite marks on his body, and the subtly different taste of other mouths in his kisses.
You wanted to erect a barrier, force revulsion, maintain the distance your morals required. But how could you sustain ethical rigor when his return was always a hungry, fierce regression? The raw electricity of his touch, the possessive urgency in his kiss, was a magnetic force that dismantled any emotional barricade. Shanks was a pirate at his core, and he used his body—strong, hot, and exuding power—as a weapon. His desire was so overwhelming, so necessary for your body and soul, that you lost yourself in the vertigo of being, for those moments, the irrefutable center of his world.
Drowning the hurt in the pleasure that only he was capable of providing through deep kisses of need, not mere desire; they were warm embraces that tied his soul, and not just his body. The union between you was not an act of casual satisfaction, but an urgent reunion of souls, where passion carried a weight and intent that other women would never have. The parallel was painful: he used other bodies for sex, and returned to you for love, confirming that, despite his debauchery, you were his only emotional center.
Unlike him, you never used your "freedom." The idea of a detached, merely carnal sexual involvement was deeply repulsive to your soul, which longed for romantic connection and meaning. You couldn't separate body from emotion. Therefore, you channeled all repressed energy into your work; the routine of the infirmary, the preparation of complex mixtures, and the creation of new medicines became your impassable wall against the pain imposed by your beloved.
With each day he left, you became more distant, colder, a silent shell clinging to routine like a castaway. You had refused to take lovers, but he continued to have them. This unilateral renunciation was an internalized, corrosive hurt that left you empty, wrapped in a raw loneliness and the humiliating feeling of being secondary—the loved woman who waits, while his freedom and passion belonged to any other woman in port.
It was on a busy port island, where the Red Force was forced to dock for a few months due to urgent hull repairs, that you found a small detour in your routine. Shanks, as always, was in the tavern with the crew, celebrating the break—or perhaps finding the warmth of a big-chested waitress, as he had done on the last island.
You were on the other side of the island, in a humid forest far from the village civilization, crouched in a field of damp mud and tall grass, far from the salty, noisy smell of the bar where the crew was celebrating. You were in your element, patiently harvesting the rare Digitalis Purpurea for new medicinal extracts.
A man emerged hesitantly, consumed by worry. He was calm, devoid of Haki or the arrogance of the New World. His interest was not romantic or malicious, but purely professional and desperate: he was scared, trying to harvest herbs to replace his mother's expensive medicine, and he heard through local gossip that the pirates possessed an efficient apothecary.
He watched you shyly, the hesitation evident in his body language. Unlike the Emperor who stared at you from above at the first meeting, the man cautiously approached and joined you on the dirty ground, crouching down to try and understand what you were doing. His posture was one of humility and need, and you, sensing the sincerity of his desperation, offered guidance on the necessary mixtures. It was in that shared silence, on the dirt ground, in response to an act of kindness, that a genuine friendship emerged.
After that first meeting, the guidance transformed into a genuine sense of companionship. He returned, not just out of fear or desperation for medicine, but out of a humble desire to learn. You taught him about the herbs—their properties, their dangers, and their cures—and, in return, he spoke of trade routes, fair markets, and a future that did not involve war, but rather a peaceful dream where everyone would have access to food and medicine.
The conversations were long, paused, and, somehow, deeply comfortable. He saw you, not as the Red-Haired Emperor's nakama, but as a brilliant apothecary and most importantly: he was yours alone, unarmed and direct in his admiration.
You fell slowly. The intimacy with him was not the fleeting adventure Shanks proposed, nor the possessive explosion of love and passion, but the slow, stable construction of a refuge. With every casual encounter at the fair, every lesson about plants, your monogamous heart grew roots. You were finally being the only one, and the emotional attachment you developed was uncontrollable.
And that is where the true transgression resided.
You were accidentally breaking the unwritten rules of Shanks's agreement. He had granted you the privilege of having other lovers, but the intent behind the open relationship was clear: sexual amusement without the danger of romantic attachment. Shanks could tolerate the flesh, but not the soul. He said he didn't mind if you used your body to seek relief in others, as long as your heart—your loyalty, your care, your professional obsession—remained on his ship.
However, you were not using your privilege for passionate encounters. You were building, without realizing it, a foundation for a romantic relationship with a man who represented the security and exclusivity that Shanks refused to offer.
And the emotional involvement was, for Shanks, an infinitely greater sin than any carnal affair he might have had in the bars of the ports where the Red Force docked. The body, in his view, was a fleeting distraction; but your heart and future were sacred territory. The Merchant was not just stealing sex; he was not just stealing you from the Red-Haired Emperor's bed; he was stealing the stability, the monogamy, and the projection of the future that Shanks, in his arrogance, believed only he could offer.
You were loving the gentle Merchant, and this attachment—pure, unarmed, and reciprocal—was a deeper betrayal than any physical transgression. It was proof that his beloved apothecary was actively building a life that did not include him, and that, in Shanks's mind, was the only crime he could not forgive.
And without realizing it, as your love for the Merchant blossomed, your neglect of the Red Force did too. You began to create an invisible, but undeniable, wall between you and the harsh reality of that pirate ship. The Red Force remained your workplace, but your heart had found another harbor to dock.
Your detachment was slow, subtle, but deeply felt. However, what the crew noticed most clearly was the radiant change in your mood. You smiled with a lightness not seen since before that "freedom agreement"; your steps were faster, and your gaze, though still analytical, shone with a new liveliness.
You were no longer on the railing to welcome the crew back to the pier after a quick outing; Lucky Roo had to fetch his own plate of meat. Doctor Hongo, although not naive about the reason for your presence aboard, noticed the absence of your morning herbal tea, a courtesy that had become a ritual. They saw your happiness, and that happiness meant you were pulling away. Your joy was an alarm that the center of your life was migrating away from the Emperor.
It didn't take long for the crew, always attentive to the ship's silent dynamics, to link the peak of your good humor and the lightness of your step to your outings ashore. The pattern was obvious and relentless: you left with the barely disguised anxiety of someone seeking something essential, but you always returned calmer, more peaceful, and visibly reanimated. Your tranquility, which was once a cold defense, now radiated as a newfound peace. The equation was simple for them: the source of your new happiness was there, on land, and no longer under the Captain's dominance and possession.
And this was a dangerous imbalance for the ship's dynamics. The Red Force operated under a relentless hierarchy of power and loyalty, and everyone knew their exact place. Your uncontrolled happiness, which did not come from Shanks or the pirate life, was a silent virus that threatened to destabilize the Emperor's emotional anchor, and, consequently, the order of the entire ship.
And this imbalance—this change of heart, this diversion of attention—was immediately noticed by Shanks. The Emperor could be indulgent, but he was not blind; he knew your emotional center better than you did yourself.
You canceled the nightly massages, the most intimate ritual you shared. The cabin, which was Shanks's private sanctuary, was always prepared: illuminated only by the amber, flickering glow of thick candles, and scented by the slow, sweet smoke of sandalwood incense, creating an atmosphere of deep relaxation and calm sensuality. It was the only moment where the Emperor lowered his guard so you could take care of his tense muscles, restoring him for the next battle. You canceled under the excuse of exhaustion, but he knew you were denying him the emotional retreat that he valued above all.
The excuse was partially true: your nights of sleep had become rare, filled not by insomnia, but by the passion and comfort stolen in the Merchant's arms, in a small room on land. You were using the "freedom" that Shanks had granted you, and the Red-Haired knew very well that this fact sickened him to the core.
It was the ultimate hypocrisy of an Emperor. He could gorge himself on the diversity of bodies on every island, enjoying the carnal satisfaction that his agreement allowed him. But the mere thought of another man touching your body, enjoying his beloved, was a visceral affront that he could not bear. For him, your body should be untouchable, reserved only for his hungry return. The equality of the rule was a bad joke, and he was being forced to face the cost of his autonomy—a cost he had no intention of paying.
But Shanks was not a foolish boy driven by adolescent jealousy. He was the Red-Haired, the man who faced and won wars, who knew that attacking without a plan was folly. He was the one who proposed the agreement, and he couldn't simply demand answers without destroying the facade of "freedom" he needed to maintain.
And most importantly, Shanks's love for you was genuine and deep, which meant he would never reprimand you directly or make a scene. An Emperor does not beg or fight for attention.
But his possessiveness, the sleeping monster that sustained the Red-Haired legend, began to manifest in a subtle and strategic way. He would not confront you about your new love; he would, coldly and calculatedly, remove the conditions for that new love to prosper.
He began appearing at your workplace at increasingly inconvenient times, preventing you from leaving the ship when docked with ridiculous pretexts: he no longer came with battle wounds, but asked you to deal with minor inconveniences, like a superficial training cut on his finger or an insignificant bruise on his arm that would previously be ignored with a laugh. It was an obvious territorial tactic, forcing you to recognize his presence and dedicate your precious time, now spent on land, to your Emperor, captain, and lover. He was testing how far your heart had already traveled.
The frequency of stops at large, busy ports—those centers of commerce where you found the rarest ingredients—began to become scarce. These were, ironically, the most likely places for you to meet the Merchant, who, with an annoying luck for the Yonkou, seemed to cross the Red Force's path at almost every important pier where the ship docked. The Red-Haired was cutting off the supply route not only of herbs, but of your new love. He was reorganizing the world to eliminate the coincidence that so annoyed him and fueled his jealousy.
Routes you had mapped as ideal for your herb collections were subtly diverted by orders that only Shanks and Benn Beckman knew, but the other crew members seemed to understand very well. Benn, without your knowledge, received new orders: discreet surveillance on land. The Emperor was taking steps, reorganizing the world to isolate you and force your heart to return to the only safe haven: him.
The whole situation came to a head on a quiet afternoon with calm seas and gentle waves. You were boiling a bitter mixture for a new tonic when he entered the infirmary silently and leaned against the doorjamb. The smile was there, charismatic and relaxed, but the way his red eyes searched you, looking for the spark that had disappeared, was cold, almost hurt.
"Where were you, sweetie? Not on my ship, not in my cabin... not even in my bed," he said, his voice soft, playful, but with a subtext of pain and possession. "I barely see you outside of here. Is it your work that's stealing your attention, or is it the freedom I gave you? I miss the way you used to look at me."
He advanced, and you trembled almost imperceptibly, feeling the aura of power invade your safe space. The pressure of a Yonkou, even disguised as familiarity, was overwhelming. He didn't kiss your mouth. Instead, he tilted his head and, with his mouth, sought the vulnerable spot between your neck and shoulder.
The touch was not a caress, but a slow, possessive, deliberate bite. It didn't break the skin, but the pressure of Shanks's hollow teeth was an electric shock. It was an act of primitive love, a desperate attempt to claim the total attention you were denying him. The bite was painfully intimate, forced by the need to make you focus on him and on the point of pain and pleasure that only he could cause.
You were distracted by the sensation, your body responding to the intensity of the forced pain and pleasure, and because of that, you didn't see the hungry, merciless look that settled in his red eyes. Shanks's facade—the upright, free, and humorous pirate—fissured in that act of carnal dominance. He was using his body, and the certainty that he was irresistible, as a possessive reminder, trying to pull your mind back into his orbit.
He moved his lips from the bite to your ear, his voice rough and low, a whisper of desperate need.
"You can play at having other havens, but your anchor is on this ship, my apothecary," he growled, the pain in his voice almost as intense as the jealousy he tried to disguise. "You are distracted. Your heart is sailing away from me, and I don't like it."
And you knew it, the confirmation coming from the cold certainty that only disillusionment grants, that he had granted "freedom" solely to ensure he wouldn't lose the pleasure that the carnal diversity of the New World could offer; he never did it believing that you deserved to "experience" the same autonomy.
The idea of you sleeping with another man enraged him. He barely permitted the body, but what he truly could not bear was the idea of you seeking relief, comfort, or passion anywhere else but in his lap. It didn't take a genius to understand the unspoken words and exactly what, or rather who, he was referring to.
He ignored the rigidity of your body and the lack of devotion in your gaze. He leaned in, and you, an apothecary, with your trained sense of smell, felt the subtle, but unmistakable, trace of another woman's sweet perfume, and your neglect seemed justified. Shanks noticed the hesitation—your body moving away minimally—and it clicked. The smell of his "freedom" was the obstacle.
With a quick and slightly desperate movement, he threw the heavy cloak he was wearing onto the floor, eliminating the olfactory evidence. He forced a wide, but humorless, smile. "There is no more urgent tonic than what I need now," he whispered, his voice grave and demanding. "I need you to look at me. I need you to feel me. Forget the herbs and the other scents. You are the only cure for the pain I feel."
In a quick and unexpected move, he picked you up with his single arm and carried you to the examination table in the infirmary, ignoring the disorganization of vials and gauze being knocked onto the floor. It was an act of territorial dominance and a desperate assertion: he would have you, in that moment and in that place, to force you to feel the weight of your Emperor, of your lover. He knew it wasn't enough to reclaim your heart, but it was a start.
And you yielded, not out of a voluntary surrender of the heart, but under the overwhelming force of his charisma and his physical urgency. Your traitorous body responded to his proximity with an electricity that your mind could no longer block. At that moment, at the height of his dominance, your gaze contained only carnal fire, the momentary satisfaction of a repressed desire, and not the immense love that once burned for him.
The Emperor felt the change. He was accustomed to commanding fleets, but there, in the silence of the cabin, he perceived the most dangerous flaw: the soul connection had weakened. He possessed you, yes, but your heart was drifting further and further away from him. The feeling was becoming dangerously unilateral.
It was there, in that act of dominating and unilateral intimacy, that the first signs of obsession blossomed. The red Yonkou understood that his love had transformed into something he did not know how to control, born from the abject fear of being replaced by an insignificant man, without Haki or legends. From that moment on, his need for possession would become an implacable force.
Author's Notes: Hello
This is the first part of two, maybe three if you want a kind of epilogue. I hope you enjoyed it and will follow the next part
I don't have a beta reader, so I spent days revising and rewriting. If you find any errors or nonsensical scenes, please let me know. It's the first time I've written about Shanks, so I hope I'm up to the character's standards
What did you think of the reader? I tried to base it on Maomao, did it turn out well?
Was the text structure good? The consistency and alignment? I really liked putting several parts of the text in bold and I'd like to know if that managed to convey the intensity I wanted to convey
Productive criticism is always welcome in my question box
