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𑣲 PAIRING. Alastor x Gender Neutral!Reader
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 0.8k
𑣲 CONTENT WARNINGS. N/A. Just fluff!
𑣲 A/N. This scenario has just been bouncing around rent-free in my head for far too long, so I decided to do something about it. Can be interpreted as either platonic or romantic. MINORS DNI.
"Blood Magic 101: The Do's and Don'ts of a Lost Art."
It was an engrossing read, really. The volume expounded upon the subject of forbidden magic that Alastor had always craved to get his previously human hands on. Now, a crimson-clawed fingertip delicately turned the page, hungry eyes absorbing each word with rapt intrigue.
All was swell. The hotel was having another cozily quiet day; Charlie and Vaggie took the day off for a much-needed romantic date, and Husk was hungover behind the bar (groaning while Angel and Fat Nuggets kept him company).
All was normal. Except for one thing…
Alastor glanced up from the tome in his hands, carmine gaze landing onto you.
This was the third or fourth time he had caught you in the midst of staring at him; with a sigh, his eyes remained on you, who seemed to suddenly be too preoccupied with fiddling with your fingers.
They narrowed slightly when you bravely looked up for a brief second—meeting his stare head-on. But just as quickly as your gazes made contact with one another, you immediately developed a budding fascination with the carpeted floors.
The book softly snapped shut.
"My dear," he drawled, voice thick with lighthearted exasperation, "it is impolite to stare. Do you require assistance of some kind? Or perhaps, you'd prefer to take a photograph? Those last an immense deal longer than—"
"Airplane mode," you said as if in awe, your voice barely above a whisper.
What?
"…Pardon?" Alastor asked quizzically with an arching brow.
You slowly raised a finger at the twin fluffy deer-like ears perched atop his head.
"Airplane mode," you stated once more, this time more firmly as you gave him a small nod.
His ears had at first tilted downwards in perplexed puzzlement, but were now standing at full attention. Alastor blinked at you.
"I don't quite follow."
You giggled—or rather, failed miserably at stifling it. It seemed your poor attempts at holding back your laughter attracted the attention of Angel, who curiously looked over.
"What's got Mr. Fancy Talk Creepy Voice so confused?" The spider demon asked, a hand placed on a cocked hip as he glanced between the two of you.
You returned his gaze as your giggles subsided, though the grin on your face remained as bright as day. "Have you ever noticed how Alastor's ears go into airplane mode from time-to-time?"
Angel had merely blinked in response until realization dawned upon his face. "No way, you're right," he gasped, eyes as round as saucers. A poorly-suppressed chortle escaped him next.
"Would someone care to enlighten me as to what this… airplane mode, you two speak of exactly is?" Alastor inquired, unable to keep out the edge of vexation from his tone.
You and Angel then gasped in tandem, astonishment painting both of your expressions.
"They did it again!" you cried out, a digit pointing at him once more while Angel moved closer to get a better look. Alastor's ears were pinned back yet again as his smile grew more strained.
"Yes, a most astute observation, darling. Now, what is 'airplane mode'?"
Nudging Angel in the rib slightly, you told him to explain as you try to catch your breath.
"Ya know how cat ears go back when they're in distress or somethin'?" Angel wheezed between bouts of cackling, one set of arms clutching at his stomach as he was doubled over, the other set wiping away his tears of laughter. "Well, that's what yours do as well!"
Alastor didn't look the least bit amused despite the perpetual smile gracing his lips. "And why, exactly, do you two take such delight in my supposed distress?"
You shake your head, a fond glint in your eyes as you correct him. "No—well, at least I don't—but I think it's really cute." With your head tilted to the side, Alastor froze, and the convenient clattering sound of Niffty accidentally dropping a stack of plates nearby emphasized the moment.
You slapped a hand against your mouth too late.
The moment the word "cute" left your mouth, his posture went rigid. Angel slowly leaned over to you while stage-whispering loudly as the whole room was now silent.
"I think you may have broken the Radio Demon, toots…"
"Well now," Alastor said at last, clearing his throat. He had broken the pregnant pause all while he smoothed out a few imaginary wrinkles from his pinstripe suit jacket. "I believe that's enough fussing over my anatomy as if I am some zoo animal to gawk at."
He tried to return his attention to the forgotten tome in his lap, exaggerated composure coloring his movements and smile. But he didn't account for one thing.
His ears stubbornly remained lowered against his head.
Angel launched into another boisterous round of cackles after taking one more look at Alastor.
Two weeks have passed since that fateful night your friendship with Alastor spiraled into something volatile instead of romantic.
You hadn’t seen much of him since then.
And though your gut still churned in resentment at the fleeting memory of his cruel endeavors, you weren’t exactly avoiding him.
No, not on purpose… as much as you would have loved to torture him with your absence.
The time you had spent apart was owed to college.
Finals were encroaching, and with the high expectations of your parents bearing down on your weary shoulders, you were stretched thin.
You had no opportunity to go out and carouse, to peruse through the French District of New Orleans as you clung to your best friend’s arm, who had wronged you in more ways than one.
Unless you wanted to leave your parents in a state of perpetual disappointment, the weekends were better spent with your nose buried in the books.
You couldn’t afford to spare a single second on the streets stumbling around in your heels with bootleg liquor coursing through your veins, as much as you missed the high-energy nightlife.
“You’ve never kissed anybody, have you now?” You tilted your head in curiosity, fingers absentmindedly playing with the collar of a shirt.
Still, you refused to allow college to stop you from partaking in the war Alastor had inadvertently waged in his pursuit of vengeance.
Nor did you allow it to stop you from seeking entertainment when you found yourself struggling to absorb and memorize simple information.
“I… well, there was this one girl in grade school,” The cadent voice you had come to familiarize yourself with sheepishly confessed. “I was 12, I think. She, uhh, she pecked me on the lips before squealing and running away.”
You shifted on your study partner’s lap, the mattress softly creaking at your efforts, clothed heat rubbing over a crotch that was tenting into something rather impressive by the second.
“Cute,” Rouge-tinted lips curled upwards in an amused grin, causing pale skin to flush in response. “But I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”
His name was Vincent, Vincent Whittman, and he had been eyeing you from across the room in your Art History course since the Spring semester began.
He was 18 years old — just a measly year younger than you — charming, intelligent, and all sorts of attractive.
Vincent had captivating green-blue eyes, a hooked nose, medium-brown hair with a thick streak of silver, and a jaw so sharp it could effortlessly slice into stone, which you envied the most about him.
His appearance was totally opposed to your best friend’s. They were nothing similar, unless in stature.
His complexion was pale, his hair held not a single curl — but he was no less eager to please you than Alastor had been during your rough-and-tumble in his backyard.
It wasn’t until recently that you decided to make your admirer’s acquaintance, though, spurred on by the recent turn of events.
“I suppose not,” Vincent offered you a halfhearted shrug, slender fingers curling into the sheets beneath him, shy and oh-so nervous.
You couldn’t recall how the two of you wound up making the short trek to his twin-sized bed from the tiny round table, where your textbooks sat long abandoned, no less with you straddling his waist.
But you weren’t opposed to it, despite your lingering affection for Alastor.
“How did we arrive at this topic again?” You regarded Vincent through your lashes, making his throat bob with a thick swallow.
“I was… I was staring at you earlier, when we were supposed to be discussing the guy who made this famous Romanticism painting…” Mismatched eyes darted sideways, avoiding your inquisitive stare. “The Kiss by uhh… Frank… Frances...”
“Francesco Hayez,” You reminded him.
“Yes, him!” He snapped a finger before growing uncertain again, “…and then you proceeded to ask me if you had something on your face.”
“Oh yeah,” Your grin further widened, “But I didn’t. You were just staring at my lips, like you’ve been doing these past two weeks instead of studying… perhaps desiring to reenact that painting?”
Truthfully, if Alastor hadn’t blurted out a terribly cruel reminder in the wake of your passionate session — that you weren’t lovers — you would have otherwise never bothered asking Vincent if he wanted to be your study partner.
“No! No, not at all, I was just — oh, sometimes I forget myself,” Vincent fumbled over his words. “Okay, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stare —”
His face was practically glowing, the corners of his mouth twisting and contorting in a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
“Oh no! It’s okay, truly. I’m flattered,” You pressed your thumb to his lower lip with a honeyed murmur, pulling to reveal pearly white teeth, a stuttered breath caressing you. “In fact, I would love to be your first kiss, even though I’m no expert.”
You weren’t usually so bold, so utterly brazen, not unless you had a bit of liquid courage in your system, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your ass.
Hooking up with strangers on a whim wasn’t something you partook in.
It just wasn’t… you.
But when a wicked thought entered your mind the moment you locked eyes with mismatched ones and made its owner flush a flattering shade of red, you couldn’t resist making it a reality.
“Please,” Vincent shamelessly pleaded as your thumb slid down, dipping into the dimple on his chin as his large hands simultaneously found your waist, squeezing in sweet anticipation.
It didn’t help that with each passing day without a proper apology from Alastor, the resentment you felt towards him for taking your virginity in a scene that was far from romantic festered and grew into an ugly, impassible pit in your stomach.
And it invited the same terrible desire that had coaxed him to avenge himself in such a needless and selfish manner, driving you to act just like him, uncharacteristically and thoughtlessly cruel.
“Just beware,” You settled your hands on the sides of his neck, leaning in, the swell of your chest pushing into the smooth plane of his own. “The rouge might transfer to your lips.”
While you were certain that what you were initiating was excessive — seducing this boy with striking features in hopes of inspiring the same anger in Alastor that surged in your throat as thick bile — you continued.
“Oh, that’s all right with me! More than that, actually,” Vincent’s mouth stretched to form a boyish grin before quickly falling into something serious at the breathless giggle you let out. “I mean, uhhh, yeah!” His voice dropped an octave. “Sure, it’s all right, dollface. I don’t mind. Truly.”
All is fair in love and war, right?
“Okay,” The grin on your own face relaxed and faltered into a soft smile, “But don’t you think about complaining the moment you realize how difficult it is to rub off, you hear me, Whittman?”
And there’s no semblance of kindness or forgiveness, either.
It’s violent and aggressive.
And it leaves both sides aching and utterly wounded, no matter the outcome.
…right?
“You won’t hear a complaint from me, not a single peep,” Vincent replied enthusiastically, your cheeks blooming with heat. “You have my word.”
Besides, with finals sparing you no time to scheme and plot, to figure out how to get back at Alastor in a way that yielded the same painful disappointment he had instilled in you, this self-indulgent act of revenge would do just fine.
“Good boy,” You praised him with a sultry purr, green-blue eyes fluttering in unmistakeable delight.
As you craned your neck and leaned in to conquer Vincent’s awaiting mouth, eyes fluttering shut, a small part of you hoped that you wouldn’t leave his dorm simmering in regret — partly because it felt a bit wrong, being turned on by another.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Vincent muttered sheepishly as his thin lips awkwardly slotted with yours.
However, the tent resting heavily against your clothed cunt throbbing into your bundle of nerves made up for it, your nostrils flaring in arousal.
“It’s okay,” You breathed out.
For the longest time, since you and your best friend grew and slowly transitioned from innocent children to curious teenagers, it was always him.
Those who had ever expressed an inkling of interest in you, they were never able to get past the usual pleasantries and mind-numbing chit-chat.
Alastor was the only one you had yearned for since you realized the sight of him tugged so viciously at your heartstrings at the tender age of 14.
“Just take it slow,” You added, your hips giving a slow, experimental roll, as if it wasn’t just the kiss Vincent had agreed to.
The act earned you a deep groan, pleasure curling low in the depths of your belly, wetness pooling in the thin fabric of your underwear.
“Y-Yeah. Okay, all right. I got this.”
But as Vincent slid his large, eager hands down to completely encompass the swell of your ass, hips canting upwards to rub his erection against your clothed cunt, it also felt rightfully delicious.
“Mhhn,” You gasped against his lips.
Perhaps it was how hot and heavy the outline of his cock felt even through the layers of clothing standing in between your hot bodies.
Or perhaps it was the endearing display of self-consciousness about being inexperienced that the boy you were straddling radiated.
Either way, you forcibly shoved any guilt, any negative sentiments that threatened to ruin this self-indulgent moment to the deepest, darkest crevices of your mind.
This slow, tentative kiss you and Vincent were partaking in, which was gradually spiraling into something more carnal as the sound of your lips smacking together in the quietude of his dorm overwhelmed your senses, it was just that.
“How am I doing?” He asked for reassurance between every break you took to catch your breaths. “…am I… am I doing good?”
It wasn’t supposed to serve any other purpose besides making Alastor regret his cruel act of revenge — if your impromptu makeout session happened to progress, which grew likelier as his exploratory thrusts evolved to full-blown, shameless grinding, your clothes softly rustling.
“Yes,” You moaned out, pulling your hands away from his neck, snaking them in between your gyrating bodies in search of something specific.
His belt.
A mere budge at the cool, metal buckle made his cock pulsate eagerly in his trousers, massaging your sensitive button in a way that had your brows tightly knitting in pleasure.
“Fuck, yes,” Vincent pulled away from your mouth, rouge-stained lips latching onto the skin just above your collar with a newfound confidence, sucking.
Your eyes fluttered open alongside your gasping lips as you unclasped his belt, prying it apart with a soft clink, your fingers immediately moving to unfasten his trousers.
Large hands ascended from your ass to the center of your back, swiftly traveling around your waist to your fluttering belly, only to untuck your blouse from your skirt and catch buttons.
“Your roommate won’t be here for a while, right?” You softly inquired, shifting back slightly on his lap, sliding two fingers into the opening of his briefs.
The pressure pulling your skin in to leave behind a bruising testament of your passionate exchange receded as you grazed the hot, velvety skin of his needy cock, making you shiver.
“Y-Yeah, not for a few hours,” Vincent stammered out, your blouse slowly falling open with his efforts, green-blue eyes darting to the tantalizing sight of your supple breasts pushed together by a lacey bra. “We have time. Lots of it.”
You teasingly traced the vein on his length with the pads of your fingers, pulling a breathy noise from him that you could only compare to a pathetic whine, gratification blooming in your chest.
“Perfect.”
The two of you wasted no time in shedding your clothes after that, everything that once clung to your bodies strewn haphazardly across the dorm.
Nor did you falter when you repositioned yourselves on his twin-sized bed, no matter how unaccommodating it was, the muscles in your belly flexing as he hovered above you on trembling arms.
Vincent was brimming with nervous excitement, it was written all over his unique features.
He didn’t even bother pushing the thick frame of his glasses up as they slid down the steep bridge of his nose, completely transfixed by the newness of the entire ordeal.
Of the slow rise and fall of your bare breasts, the once-soft peaks hardened with anticipation, and of your swollen clit throbbing right above your entrance, which was clenching around nothing and dripping with viscous arousal.
And you?
Oh, you weren’t faring any better than Vincent was.
Alastor had stolen something so precious from you, a moment that should have been sweet and gentle and certainly nowhere near a grimey, ill-lit alleyway.
Your first time, you had always hoped it would be special and memorable.
Something to look back to with a shy fondness.
But no.
Your first time was marred by a perceived wrong.
Even if it had been delicious, even if it had been with Alastor, it made your stomach churn.
It made you encourage Vincent Whittman, your study partner, to swallow any uncertainty he had and slowly drag himself through your slick folds.
“First kiss… first time doing, well… this, right?” You let out a low murmur, though you knew what his response would be.
The flustered expression that befell his features, it was the way you would have reacted if Alastor had taken you as you were taking Vincent, soft and with a saccharine sweetness.
“Yes, and this — fuck, this is happening,” He stammered out, wrapping his trembling hand around the base of his length, mismatched eyes flitting down in disbelief. “This is it. This is really happening. I… I’m going to lose my virginity! I didn’t think it would happen, no, not for a long while.”
You pulled your elbows in, sitting up just a bit, your eyes also flying down to observe how his cockhead pushed through your slit.
“And so are you, r-right?”
Your eyes flew back up immediately.
And your lips parted, caught off-guard by his question.
“I…” You started.
But before your tongue could curl to formulate another syllable, the underside of his length parted your slick-drenched folds, cockhead rolling deliciously over your swollen bud.
Your breath audibly hitched in your throat, his pupils expanding to the size of saucers, leaving behind thin rings of green-blue.
“Christ, you’re so fucking wet,” Vincent proceeded to say through a full-throated groan, deep and resonant, echoing deliciously in your mind.
He encouraged you to lie back on the mattress, his free hand falling beside your head, supporting himself as he experimentally pumped his cock in his fist, length gliding through your folds with a continuous filthy slick.
Quick and eager, he was.
You planted your palms on the solid plane of his chest, fingers curling into hair.
This.
This was utterly delicious.
It may have not been your first time, but you were partaking in an intimate dance in the privacy of a room, on your own volition.
And your clothes?
Oh, they were draped unceremoniously across random furniture.
But everything was intact.
No button had popped off, no seam had been torn in your haste to rid yourselves of the dreadful barriers standing in between your aching bodies.
Your panties, especially, were perfectly intact.
Soiled in your anticipation to avenge yourself and do something else besides studying until your brain stopped braining, but intact all the same.
As Vincent’s cockhead finally caught your entrance, you realized that you could walk out in bliss and, when you dropped by Miss Hartfelt’s home to ‘catch up’ with her son after your finals tomorrow…
Raw satisfaction at the reaction you’d no doubt pull from Alastor with only your bruised skin — a testament of a time well-spent.
“Uhh… f-fuck,” Vincent shifted himself into you, hooked nose slotting in the crook of your neck, the weeping head of his cock finally pushing in.
Your head lolled sideways into the pillow with a sharp gasp, hands moving away from his chest to scramble for purchase on his back, fingers catching flexing shoulder blades.
“Oh!”
You wouldn’t delve into the finer details, of course.
It wasn’t necessary, describing anything at all to Alastor. Everybody knew what a bruise on the neck signified… unless they lived under a rock.
“T-This is better than what I had imagined,” Vincent’s voice vibrated against your skin with each and every inch of himself he pushed in.
He was just a little bit less girthy than Alastor, but he was still tall and heavy enough to slide into you with a stinging bite, your spongey walls clamping down around his hot flesh.
“R-Rub me,” You mewled helplessly into his hair.
A singular finger slid through your slit once he had pushed himself into you in his entirety, pressing uncertainly, obviously searching.
He touched it at one point, your lips curling upwards in relief.
— until his finger slipped sideways from the slickness of your flesh.
Then he was just pressing right beside it, torturing you, your nostrils flaring in frustration.
“You don’t know where it is, do you, Vincent?” You still asked with patience.
Your question was met with embarrassed silence.
“Here, let me help you.”
You reached down south, nimble fingers curling around the wrist of his open hand, patiently guiding him back towards your throbbing bud.
“T-Thanks...”
You pressed the pad of his forefinger to your clit, helping him apply just enough pressure to ease the burn of being stretched.
“Right here. Keep it here… and press like that, no more, no less,” A smile of relief curled at your lips once more. “And don’t lose it, please.”
He obediently nodded, stray strands of silver slipping and cascading over his forehead.
“All right. Okay.”
You may no longer be a virgin, though this was only your second time being taken.
Having someone else inside of you — it didn’t feel any less foreign, overwhelming, and all-consuming than it had the first time.
And now that you were completely sober, you were acutely aware of how utterly full you felt.
“Like that?” Vincent replaced his forefinger with his thumb, pressing, massaging your bud.
He also kissed the side of your neck with his rouge-stained lips, gentle, reverent, immediately making you clench around his cock.
“Yes…” You sighed heavily. “Yes, Vinny.”
The nickname slipped from your lips entirely unbidden.
Feeling him rub your clit in soothing circles as he was buried to the hilt, thin lips gliding across your skin, it made you feral.
Your brain assigned Vincent an endearing nickname, as if you had plans to stay in contact with him once the Spring semester convened.
But you didn’t realize what you had gasped so sweetly into the crown of his head.
Or the visceral reaction it stirred within the man who had carved himself a space deep inside of your accommodating walls, naturally assuming that the filthy, debauched groan he let out was because of your whispered approval for him to move.
“Please, please move,” You closed your legs around his waist, heels digging into his rear. “I-I need more.”
It was only natural that you also failed to recognize in your own selfish pursuit to provoke Alastor what sort of weight this moment held for Vincent, too.
You were merely hooking up, partaking in a casual fling, getting the full college experience.
And Vincent?
He was losing his virginity to someone he had long admired from afar with a boyish crush, too shy to approach you, despite his dreams of making a name for himself in a promising industry in television.
“S-So wet, so fucking wet and tight,” Vincent praised you endlessly, hips moving, dragging his throbbing length against your walls. “Christ, dollface. You feel so good.”
It was simply ironic how you had made the same grave mistake as Alastor.
You couldn’t just take what you wanted and leave.
All is fair in love and war — but you must reap what you sow.
“Fuck, Vinny, this can’t be your first time,” You babbled into his hair, nails raking down his back, leaving behind a testament of your pleasure in red, jagged lines. “Oh, yes! R-Right there! Please.”
Still, of course, that was an issue for your future-self.
Right now, you could only bury your nose in his hair and focus on the onslaught of pleasure Vincent was bringing you, his cockhead driving into that special spot in your walls that had your toes curling.
“So pretty, I can listen to you all evening — and I wish I could, but you — fuck — you have to tone it down a touch. The walls, t-they’re thin. I can’t get kicked out.”
You couldn’t fully comprehend what he was saying.
Not with his thumb still rolling around your swollen bud in delicious circles, not with your insides being rearranged by someone who was supposed to be a virgin, your lips parting with a high-pitched whine.
Hell, you didn’t even feel the warmth of the face buried in the crook of your neck recede.
Or how you suddenly found yourself flipped around, large hands grasping your hips and propping your ass up in the air before your own face was promptly pushed into the softness of the pillow.
You were just aware of the sensation of his length sliding back into your fluttering cunt, reaching impossibly further in this new position, cockhead practically kissing your cervix.
“F-Fuck, I’m sorry for manhandling you,” Vincent apologized kindly through a pleasured hiss. “But you left me no other choice, dollface.”
And you, you thanked him through a muffled cry, quite liking the roughness of having your hair gripped to muffle the sound of your pleasure, his other hand encompassing the flesh of your waist.
Even if he was no longer massaging that sensitive button, your fingers curled into the sheets underneath you, the coil in your belly growing taut.
The crude, wet sound of his balls smacking against your clit with each and every roll of his hips, his own length starting to stiffen inside of you, had you teetering dangerously on the verge of ecstasy.
It felt good, too good.
“V-Vinny!” He barely caught your whine.
You felt aimlessly behind you, your hand stilling once it found the larger one gripping your waist with a bruising strength.
“I… I hope you’re close,” Vincent’s thrusts began to grow sloppy, uncoordinated, voice wavering and devolving into a pathetic whimper. “Please tell me you are — I can’t… I can’t hold on much longer.”
A series of ‘Yes’s’ poured from your mouth in quick succession, mostly drowned out by the pillow.
The coil in your belly snapped.
And your palm repeatedly smacked his in tandem with every vicious wave of searing hot pleasure that crashed over your body, your belly pulling inwards, your cunt spasming violently.
The stiff cock inside of you slipped out as soon as it felt the first contraction of your orgasm grip rather possessively, only to paint the skin around your pulsating entrance with thick, hot ropes of a memorable first time, making a mess of your ass.
Still, you couldn’t find it in you to be upset about the inconvenience, completely and utterly blown away by Vincent’s performance.
Nothing about the way his hips had moved against yours had faltered or stuttered awkwardly.
It was perfect, too perfect.
As if he had practiced beforehand.
“Oh, oh Jesus H. Christ,” Slender fingers slowly unraveled from your hair, relinquishing the mean grip they had on you, allowing you to lift your head and breathe. “That was — wow. Just wow.”
Something soft slid across your rear.
You tossed your head over your shoulder, eyes fluttering open, watching Vincent, whose thick glasses had long slid off of his flushed face, clean you up with his shirt.
Rouge-smeared lips curled upwards in a smile that was nothing short of thankful, even if you were starting to feel a bit self-conscious as you came down from your high, thighs closing shut.
“Th-Thanks,” You breathed out.
“Yeah, of course,” Vincent sheepishly offered, casting his gaze aside.
You thought he felt a similar way, too.
But then you tried to roll over onto your back, something solid biting into your shoulder blade.
His glasses.
“Oh!” His head snapped up, watching you reach behind you, only to pull out exactly what he was searching for. “Looking for these?”
“Yes! Thank you,” Vincent sighed out in relief. “Didn’t even feel them slip off.”
As he accepted the glasses pinched between your thumb and forefinger, you decided to get up and gather your clothes.
You underestimated just how good your study partner had made you feel, however, the mattress creaking rudely beneath you as you fell back.
“Hey, are you all right?”
Your knees, they buckled and gave up on you.
Vincent Whittman had turned your body into jelly, a furious heat sprawling up your neck to your face, embarrassed.
“Can you help me gather my things, please?” You squeaked out. “I think I need a moment to… to recover.”
His eyes lit up with pride, that same boyish grin from earlier tugging at his lips once more.
“Sure.”
But he held his tongue and nodded, sliding off the twin-sized bed.
As Vincent simultaneously dressed himself and picked up your clothes, you grabbed the sheets and pulled them over your nude body, gaze drifting towards the window.
Sunlight filtered through drawn curtains, but it wasn’t bright or revitalizing, it was amber and hazy — how much time had passed?
“Here… I think that’s everything,” Vincent suddenly coughed, jumping, your neck snapping sideways.
He gingerly placed a stack of your clothes on your lap, and neatly-folded, a small smile tugging at your lips at the kind gesture.
“Why, you didn’t have to do that.”
Still facing you, he slowly backed away on long legs, mirroring your smile with a slight blush.
“Well, it uhhh, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me if I just tossed your clothes at you in an ugly heap,” Vincent shrugged, bare-chested. “Wouldn’t it?”
He bumped into his drawer, the wood rattling.
“I suppose you’re right.”
You turned your back to him, allowing the sheets to drape down your body, putting on each article of clothing.
“Thank you. You’re a real sweetheart.”
And you were thankful for his attentiveness, again.
“Yeah, of course.”
— up until you realized something was missing.
Something that you shouldn’t have had a problem with at all, your eyes scouring each and every inch of the small dorm as Vincent began to rifle through his drawer in search of another shirt.
Your panties.
You had put everything on except for your goddamn panties, an inconvenienced noise seeping past your lips.
Where were they?
“Hey, did you see my underwear?” You stood up from the bed on shaky knees, fingers lifting sheets that reeked of sin. “I swore I kicked them off somewhere around here.”
Vincent looked around, still facing you, mismatched eyes joining in on your search.
Only to turn up fruitless, too.
“Uhhh… it didn’t fall into the side of the bed, in the gap where the wall is?” He innocently suggested, pulling a random t-shirt over his head. “H-Happens to me all the time with my socks.”
You shook your head.
“No, I already checked there.”
Fuck.
No panties, but this time, they had somehow managed to vanish into thin air instead of winding up tattered and forgotten.
You smoothed your hand over your hair, trying to tame the stray hairs as you gave the room another good scouring.
— to no avail, of course.
“Oh… well, you can just have one of my briefs,” Vincent offered, your eyes snapping towards him. “Unless you want to walk home like… like that…”
His pale skin flushed to an unhealthy degree as he held out a fresh pair for you, hot red from his neck to his ears, for some peculiar reason.
“No, of course not!” You took them despite the slight hesitation, the intimacy of wearing his underwear feeling like… well, like too much.
Then again, you didn’t want to walk home commando, even if your skirt was way longer than the one you wore to the speakeasy.
No, you couldn’t relive that discomfort.
“I think I’ve said thank you quite a lot already, but thank you, really,” You nervously laughed. “I already, uhh… lost a pair a few weeks ago, and now another one? Gee, I’m so… so careless.”
You hastily whirled around on your heel and slid them on under your skirt, the material just barely fitting, fabric stretching with the flare of your hips.
“I don’t think you’ll want these back… right?” You stammered out once you approached the tiny round table to gather the rest of your belongings, especially after finding the clock.
It read 7:35 P.M. — you should have left half an hour ago.
Your parents were probably curious about your whereabouts, an arm holding your textbook close to your heaving chest, the other readjusting your collar to assure Vincent’s dirty work remained hidden from any prying eyes.
“No, no. Keep them,” That cadent voice of his managed out with a flustered lilt. “It’s just the one, it won’t be missed. Trust me.”
Your shoulders slumped in relief.
But the man standing almost an entire foot above you shuffled restlessly, hands clasping behind his back, green-blue eyes trained on the carpet.
God, was he adorable.
Too bad your hook-up with Vincent Whittman was just that, heels taking a leisure turn, your hand latching onto the doorknob besides you.
“Well, I better get going! I gotta go see if I can hitch a ride, I’m late for dinner,” You cleared your throat. “Anyway, uhh, thank you for… for this… it was good. You did real good,” You added sheepishly. “And good luck with finals tomorrow. I hope the past two weeks have been of help, though I highly doubt it.”
He didn’t unclasp his hands from behind his back, but he did lean in, your lashes fluttering in shock.
A kiss.
He pressed a kiss to your cheekbone.
Your hand immediately fell to your side, eyes trained ahead, flustered and belly churning with something awfully fuzzy and warm.
Something only Alastor had ever instilled in you.
“Frank… Frannnn…cesco Hayez! Yeah, him! He was an Italian painter, one of the leading artists of Romanticism in mid-19th-century Milan,” Vincent suddenly started to ramble as he pulled away, sliding behind you, fixing to open the door.
You turned around and moved backwards, blinking up at him, mouth falling slightly agape.
“The style emphasizes raw emotion and… and intense individualism in its rejection of the cold rationality of the Enlightenment,” He gestured a bit theatrically with his free hand as he continued. “The uhhh, Age of Reason, no?”
“Yes,” You barely managed out, stupefied.
Your inability to formulate a response that wasn’t so simple as you stepped past the door, the humid, Louisiana air amplifying the heat of your already hot skin, it had nothing to do with the knowledge Vincent had shockingly retained.
No, it had everything to do with that shy little kiss he almost seemed to regret placing on your cheek — after you made out, after you fucked raw.
“I’ll save a seat for you tomorrow, yeah?”
Oh.
Oh no.
“That’s… that’s real sweet of you,” You slowly said, feigning gratitude as you tucked your hair behind your ear. “I’d very much appreciate that.”
He offered you that boyish grin of his.
It made your heart thump in your chest, but it also made your stomach churn just a bit, conflicted.
“I… well… ‘night, Vincent.”
Suddenly, you were the one doing all of the pausing and stuttering between barely-coherent words, your brows knitting in embarrassment.
“Goodnight, dollface.”
Tomorrow.
It was just tomorrow, and that was it.
You didn’t plan to take any courses during the summer. No, you wanted to take that time to work.
But still.
“Oh, I’m no better than Alastor,” You muttered under your breath after he shut the door, trying to beat the setting sun, heels clicking loudly against the pavement.
Vincent would surely understand that you had no intention of pursuing anything past a one-night stand.
He had to.
You hadn’t entertained him until now.
Or at least he would eventually have to come to terms with the fact that you had used him for something fleeting.
Yes, of course.
He was just young and dumb and all sorts of giddy about getting it on with you.
— the panties stuffed in his back pocket begged to differ, though.
You had no idea that you had made your situation far more complicated than it already was.
And that Vincent Whittman, the nice boy who had allowed you to redeem what had been unfairly taken from you, was no less volatile than Alastor Hartfelt in the throes of a jealous-haze.
𝐂𝐖: Kissing, Groping, Drinking, Period-typical Racism and Sexism, Reader gets assaulted, Alastor almost beats a man to near death, Overprotective! Alastor, Prostitute! Reader, Fluffy ending, I was totally not inspired by that one scene in RDR2
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Oh, the woman that you are. Alastor feels his heart flutter, the same fondness he felt before everything spiraled stirring in his chest once more, drowning out the ache of his bruised hand. You’re displaying the $10 bill you found in the bastard’s pockets as if you won the lottery, and as endearing as your joy is, he can’t allow you to keep soliciting, to keep putting yourself at risk. So, Alastor decides to profess his feelings to you.
Rich brown pools dedicatedly followed you across the dancefloor of the packed speakeasy, watching you twirl around and make a tantalizing show of yourself, stirring something fond within his chest. Perhaps it was the liquor, or perhaps it was the overwhelming grace you possessed — either way, you were a sight to behold underneath the hazy golden glow bathing the room.
You, in your short, flowy, knee-length dress and thick pumps, were blissfully unaware that Alastor, your longtime friend, had started frequenting the club you worked at when you first broke the news to him: that you were soliciting to survive.
Nor did you know that he did his utmost to linger in the corners where the lighting typically failed to reach, lithe frame obscured by the shadows, obscured from your line of sight in his fear-driven endeavors to maintain a watchful eye on you.
As he raised his glass to his lips, introducing whisky that had long gone warm to his tongue, Alastor hoped to keep you in ignorance. You couldn’t know that he had no faith in you finding financial salvation in such a profession, let alone safety.
With the stock market crash of 1929 — which happened 2 years ago — most Americans were scrambling to make quick cash. And you, as an unmarried woman with no family to fall back on, just so happened to be one of the many resorting to dangerous means in a last-ditch attempt to save themselves from the throes of poverty and homelessness. You barely made last month’s rent.
“I’ve never seen a man who looks so well alone,” You spoke with a practiced sultry purr, fingers sensually skimming a jaw. “I’d hate to ruin that, but could you use a little company? For the right price, I promise I’ll make your evening worth it.”
The man you had set your sights on appeared to be in his late-30s, inebriated, unkempt, the stench of tobacco clinging onto his sweat-stricken skin, but he wasn’t drinking rank-smelling moonshine. You didn’t know what was in his glass. You just knew that it smelled rich and heady and expensive. And if he could afford the good stuff, perhaps he could afford a session or two with you, too.
“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest little thing?” The drunkard slurred in a flirtatious drawl, thick fingers touching your exposed arm, making the fine hairs on the back of your neck rise. “How’s about we discuss what you cost outside, hm?”
However, in your case, it was unnecessary. You didn’t have to turn to prostitution, you didn’t have to flaunt your beauty to undeserving men, lips twitching and blown pupils constricting as a grimy hand touched your lower back. You didn’t have to desecrate your skin for a few measly dollars. It was plain to see you hated soliciting, even through the facade you religiously wore.
“Shoulda approached her when you had the chance,” A random piped up from beside him, making Alastor bristle, but he failed to notice it in his drunken-haze. “She’s pretty and far from picky.”
Your line of work didn’t exactly lend you any semblance of kindness or forgiveness, either. It was all faux charm and unchecked lust that could prove violent and, what he dreaded the most, dead or disappeared. But with liquor in the mix? Oh, that was infinitely worse. Volatile. He had seen other women willingly take on dumb brutes just because they had little ones to feed.
“My rates are well within reason. If anything, it’s the hotel we gotta worry about, but I happen to know the owner there and I can get us a dis —”
“A hotel? Naw, we don’t need that, sugar.”
“Why, of course we do! Don’t you wanna spend our time together in comfort?”
“Look, I ain’t noisy, if that’s your concern.”
“Oh, that’s not it. I just don’t want the law sneaking up on us — they’re typically prowling the streets at this time of night, and the hotel is only a dollar.”
But you were staunchly determined to save yourself in your hyper-independence. You didn’t want help or anything that remotely resembled charity. And though Alastor once found your stubbornness to be rather endearing, right now, he could only tip his head back and down the rest of his whisky, dread washing over him as your flirtatious facade suddenly waned.
Alastor pushed past the random with a halfhearted ‘Pardon me,’ slamming his empty glass down on the bar. However, before he could walk away, the barkeep hollered out to him over the noise.
“Hey! You didn’t pay for your drink —”
Alastor backtracked, reaching behind him, stare trained forward.
“Keep the change,” He tossed whatever was in his pocket onto the countertop, oblivious to whether he had under or overpaid.
Alastor just wanted to get to you in case something potentially awful transpired.
“Oh, well, t-thank you, mister!”
The barkeep sputtered out, notably grateful, telling him everything he needed to know. A curse resonated in his mind. Every cent in this disastrous economy mattered.
Still, Alastor could only make his way past the crowd blocking his way towards you and the bastard manhandling you. The worst part was that almost everyone you two bumped into scoffed, and, for the rare few who glanced in concern as a string of protests issued from your lips on the forceful trek out back, they couldn’t be bothered to intervene. And all because you were a prostitute.
“Merde,” Alastor muttered a rare curse under his breath, hands curling into fists at his sides, clenching with undeniable rage.
His heart hammered away in his chest, too, beating violently against his ribcage, threatening to break through bone as he struggled to make his way through the slew of people without causing any offense. There was always a racist or two among the crowd, even if it wasn’t noticeable; but with the inclusion of alcohol, he desperately wanted to avoid bumping into an angry drunk.
Alastor couldn’t afford to get sidelined by an unnecessary dispute, or worse, wind up getting sucked into a fistfight. As his feet were forced to a sudden halt from an unmoving group, he could see the back door swing open, a trembling hand carding through his hair. The two of you were gone — no, you were gone from his line of sight, his nostrils flaring in utter frustration.
“Let go of me! I told you, I only offer my services in the privacy of a room,” You gasped, the warm outside air hitting your face. “I ain’t getting arrested just because you want to save a goddamn dollar!”
The drunkard’s grip on your arm was tight, painful, though it wasn’t until he relinquished you to roughly grasp your shoulders and push you down that your fight-or-flight response kicked in.
“I told you I ain’t paying another dollar,” He scoffed. “Nor am I getting scammed by the likes of you! So, go on, get down on your knees, girl. It’ll be quick. Nobody’ll see, I bet ya.”
Your knees trembled and buckled, the gravel beneath you protesting with a grating sound as your heels skid against the ground. The bastard was strong, even in his inebriated state. Tears brimmed your waterline as you realized that you wouldn’t get far trying to defend yourself, but you weren’t just going to let him have his way with you, either. You couldn’t. You did this to yourself.
“Fuck you, you filthy degenerate!” You hissed through gritted teeth. “I ain’t fulfilling your depraved fantasies of publicly fornicating.”
You seized the bastard’s thick forearms and sunk your nails into them, and though the mere thought of using your mouth had you shuddering, you also craned your neck and sunk your canines in his wrist. Deep. The taste of salty, sweat-stricken skin assaulted your tastebuds, a pained yelp piercing through the outside ambience, the distinct metallic taste of blood trailing closely behind.
You were quick to pull away and shove the bastard back, trying to put some distance in between the two of you so you could retreat, dart off for help.
However, the moment you went to turn around, the drunkard reached out and struck you. Your neck snapped sideways, a large, angry hand mark adorning your cheekbone. You lost your footing in the process, too, colliding with the gravel, fear surging in your body. For a fleeting moment, you thought he was going to follow it up with a senseless beating and leave you aching in regret.
“S-Shit,” You cradled your cheek in your trembling palm, chest heaving with uneven breaths, shuffling backwards with your legs.
“You… you bitch!” The bastard spat in raging disbelief, rubbing his wrist, staggering towards you. “How dare you try to — oh, you’re going to get what’s comin’ to you, just you wait!”
But then the back door to the club suddenly swung open, a familiar voice ringing out, both of your eyes simultaneously shooting towards the source.
“How dare you strike a lady?”
Your lashes fluttered, teary eyes palpitating in a mixture of shock and relief as you watched Alastor, of all people, come to your rescue.
“Lady? That ain’t no lady! That’s a whore!” The drunkard wheezed. “And I’m paying for her, so why don’t you go and get to wherever you came from, ‘fore I beat the color off of you, boy.”
“You ain’t paying to hit her, you goddamn animal,” Alastor snarled as he positioned himself between the two of you, raising his fists, livid.
He was right to not trust your judgement. Only a month and a half into watching you from afar, enduring the gut-wrenching sight of your clients getting handsy with you because they believed sex workers forfeited the right to be treated with basic human decency, and you had proved him right. The worst part was that he had barged into a sight that could have been far more horrific.
“All right, you asked for it —”
A thud echoed throughout the night.
Your lips parted with a gasp. The bastard had lunged forwards and raised his fist, striking Alastor straight across his face.
But Alastor had dealt the first reeling punch.
“Oh my… oh my God.”
You collected yourself on shaky elbows and stumbled backwards, watching the scene between the two men unfurl and quickly descend into something violent, especially as Alastor defied your expectations. He was tall, slender, and a bit lanky, but he effortlessly overpowered the stocky man before him, sending him barreling towards the ground with a pained groan.
Only to clamber onto him and seize his shirt, tightly gripping it, his dominant hand raising in a fist once more. You stood a few feet away, eyes wide and heart threatening to lurch out of your chest as Alastor introduced his knuckles to the bastard’s jaw with a loud, harrowing ‘Crack!’ — a sound that resonated in your soul, but in a manner that you would say was gratifying. You were flattered.
And Alastor did it again.
— and again and again and again.
His fist familiarized itself with the man’s face.
Refusing to stop until it was bloody and bruised.
— until he was certain he wouldn’t get up.
Which he didn’t.
However, it wasn’t until you touched a hand to Alastor’s shoulder and snapped him out of his self-imposed rage that he realized the drunkard had long passed out, face unrecognizable. He clambered off of the man’s unconscious body, standing up on long legs and wiping his hand clean against the breast of his vest, narrowly avoiding bumping into you as he stumbled backwards.
“Christ, Al, you really gave it to him,” You huffed, eyes darting between the two men.
“Are you all right?” Alastor asked, out of breath.
Instead of responding to his question, though, you sank down onto your knees, pressing your fingers on the man’s pulse point for a sign of life.
“Oh, he’s alive,” Alastor rolled his eyes with a scoff, rich brown pools darting between you and the back door of the club. “You think I would beat a man to death in front of you?”
You tossed an unamused glance over your shoulder, hand retreating after feeling a faint pulse.
“I have a feeling you would have if I hadn’t stopped you,” You said, as if you hadn’t mentally braced yourself for the worst. “Anyway, I don’t much like being saved, but… when I have to be.”
Saved? Peculiar choice of words, though he didn’t get the chance to point them out, caught off guard by the sound of clothes rustling.
“Don’t judge me,” You muttered. “He deserves it.”
“I’m not,” Alastor mused, watching you rummage through the man’s pockets for change.
The cheapskate, he had a total of $10 in his pocket — 10 goddamn dollars! It was folded neatly in the front pocket of his slacks, eyes shining and a victorious grin tugging at the corners of your lips as you hastily collected yourself, whirling around on your heel, thumb and forefinger stretching either side of the bill to display it to Alastor, who was staring down at you with unfettered amusement.
Oh, the woman that you are.
Alastor’s heart fluttered, the same fondness he felt before everything spiraled stirring in his chest again, drowning out the ache of his bruised hand.
Still, this was the last dollar you would have to go through the hassle of obtaining.
Every time you went out, every time you hit the speakeasies on the prowl for potential clients, you put yourself at risk.
And Alastor couldn’t always look after you.
It wasn’t convenient, to be going out of his way to follow you around and watch over you; nor was it convenient for you to be allowing random men to do revolting things to you, not for a quick buck. However, it wasn’t until you absentmindedly pointed out your luck and simultaneously reached out to gently touch his swollen cheek, that you helped him solidify his choice, though.
“Move in with me,” Alastor boldly suggested.
Your hand immediately stilled against his face, confused, your lips falling slack.
“What?” You eventually sputtered. “W-What do you mean? You want me to… what?”
“You heard me. Move in with me,” Alastor stated, bruised hand gingerly grabbing your hand. “Stay with me, tonight; and come morning, I’ll help you gather your belongings at your apartment.”
“I… but… but why?” You breathed out. “Is this your way of trying to help me? Because if so, I don’t need it. I made last month’s rent —”
“Just barely,” You almost reeled away in offense, but Alastor refused to let you move back. “You can’t keep living like this, you know.”
“I can handle myself just fine,” Your eyes darted behind you. “He ain’t the first one to think he can rough up a girl. Believe me, I’ve taken far worse.”
“You’re not understanding,” Alastor shook his head. “I’m inviting you into my home because I like you,” He elaborated, making your breath audibly hitch. “How jealous I’d be, being forced to share you.”
“And how… how bold of you,” You tried not to stutter, “To think that I return your feelings.”
A furious heat crawled up your neck, sprawling across your features, giving you away.
“Bold, yes, but am I right?” Alastor asked earnestly.
Before you could respond, he relinquished your hand to cradle your face, mindful of the side that was adorned with a red, angry hand mark. His thumb hovered above your aching cheekbone as he leaned down, breath ghosting over yours. It was clear what Alastor wanted — a kiss — but he waited patiently for you. He was giving you a choice, the heat on your skin growing twicefold.
“Well, you did beat up a man for me,” You tentatively started, your eyes darting between thin rings of rich brown pools and supple lips.
You stuffed the bill in your dress and put your hands on his chest, despite the blood blending in with his vest, heart thudding against your palms.
“There’s no limit to what I’d do for you,” Alastor added, mouth curling in a wicked grin, flashing his pearly white canines to you.
The feeling of his heart racing at a similar pace as yours solidified his feelings for you. You neither wanted nor desired help, but if Alastor’s offer was coming from a place of love and not out of pity or sympathy, you could accept it.
“How… flattering,” Your hands slid up his neck. “Before I say yes, though, I ain’t becoming no housewife. I can’t… I wanna be more, you know?”
The grin on his face didn’t falter. In fact, it only widened impossibly further, inspiring hope in your chest that he would be okay with it.
“I’m not your daddy. You’re a grown woman, you’re free to do as you please,” Alastor chuckled. “Well, except for paying rent. I refuse to take your money.”
You suddenly wrapped your arms around his shoulders and leaned in, bridging the gap between your mouths, your eyes fluttering shut. You were out of practice. You couldn’t recall the last time you shared a kiss with someone, a genuine one so smooth and utterly delicious; but as your lips glided across Alastor’s in a riveting dance, you couldn’t find it in you to feel self-conscious.
No, you were ecstatic, relieved.
You would finally be able to return to leading a normal life — something you thought you wouldn’t have for a long while.
And a stable home? Oh, that was comforting.
Alastor, on the other hand, had no intention of revealing his feelings — at least not until he was certain about what exactly he felt, if it was just fondness or something beyond that. His admittance was simply a desperate attempt to stop you from soliciting. Still, as he slid one hand away from your face to grasp your waist, he was glad that he had spurred himself to confront his feelings.
The unmistakable sensation that churned in his gut at the whimper you let out into his mouth — arousal — it told him everything. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a long time, a pleased groan reverberating in his throat. But unfortunately, a loud voice decided to interrupt the heated exchange between the two of you, your lips parting from each other’s with equally shocked gasps.
“Hey! You two, stop right there! What are the pair of you doing at this time of night, huh?”
It was the law.
What were the fucking odds?
“Al?” You squeaked, eyes darting behind you, to the unconscious body. “What are we going to do?”
Alastor grabbed your shoulders.
“Don’t worry, he’s… on the fuller side. It doesn’t look like he runs much, and it’s dark,” He looked past you, quickly assessing his surroundings, trying to maintain his composure. “We’re going to…”
You turned around. The club led to a dead-end. However, there was a stack of crates that happened to be situated neatly on a corner.
“We’re going to run,” You breathed out, body thrumming with adrenaline. “O-Okay. Okay!”
Alastor smiled at you in reassurance.
“Don’t fret, the law is incompetent. We’ll be fine — so long as we never come back here, of course.”
That was true, the law was useless.
If anything, they were purely decorative.
“Oh, don’t you run away from me! … please! …Crap, I can’t keep up with these kids.”
You took one last glance at the man lying unconscious on the ground, face bruised and bloodied, before darting off alongside Alastor. Anxiety clawed at your chest as he stood behind you, helping you use the crates as a stepping stool to hop over the wall to the next alleyway. Hopefully, you wouldn’t trip in your haste to escape the law, excited to start your new life and finally chase your dreams, especially with Alastor at your side.
18-year-old Vincent Whittman scrambling to stay in touch with the girl he hooked up with because she’s the first person who’s bothered entertaining him since he started college has my heart. He’s kind of like a stray dog that has been pet for the first time in a long time, but the person unfortunately happens to be a tourist, so he has to find a way to convince her to take him back home
Vincent is latching onto you like a velcro dog if you’re open to staying in touch. College is not that different from high-school, much to his dismay. People are still casting sideways glances in his direction when they think he’s deeply-engrossed in the lecture, but Vincent can feel their judging stares criticizing every unique feature you’ve marveled at. His home life isn’t all that great, either, thus he’s seizing every opportunity to be with you
Again, Vincent is 18 years old, a freshman in college — whose tuition is covered entirely by his parents. He has spent most of his time with his nose in the books to fulfill his father’s demands, who is rather controlling. Vincent is new to adulthood and the sort of freedom it comes with by the time he meets you. It’s intimidating, but if you call for him in the middle of the night? Oh, he’s sneaking out of his house without a singular ounce of hesitation
Vincent is also stealing his father’s car to get to your house, only to clamber into your window to mount you like the eager dog he is. It doesn’t matter if his actions will be met with a slew of consequences. Don’t forget you’re the first person who’s bothered entertaining him. This lonely, touch-starved boy is simply ecstatic to get some attention — and from someone he feels is insanely out of his league from his low self-esteem, too
Vincent is crawling in between your open legs and pushing himself into you the moment you beckon him over, and he’s sinking his canines into your shoulder to stifle the pathetic noises that threaten to wake your parents as he finds sweet refuge in your heat. Vincent is such a good boy. He’s willing to do anything you ask of him, submissive and agreeable. Hold onto the tie he wears like a leash and never let go, even if it isn’t necessary
anon in my inbox said fanfic writers who wrote about dark and taboo topics were not “real writers” because of what they wrote about.
reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.
reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.
Giggling at the thought of Murdermedia being dads because I know they’d be absolutely awful at raising a child. Alastor is so sarcastic and unserious that when his baby girl comes running to him for comfort, little frame clinging onto his leg as she confesses between choked sobs, “My teacher told me the sun is going to explode in 5 billion years,” Alastor is feigning shock. “What? Say that isn’t so.” He doesn’t know how to console her. In fact, he’s trying not to laugh. “Oh, I can’t believe this — we must tell your maman when she comes home from work, mon chouchou. This is urgent news!”
Vincent, on the other hand, fails horribly in the discipline department. He doesn’t like to scold his baby girl, especially when she manages to impress him. Say he’s arguing with some random he accidentally bumped into on the street, and she joins in with her two cents. “Look, mister. If my daddy wanted to hear from an asshole, he would have farted.” Cursing is bad, he’s supposed to discourage it, but the way she makes the man sputter has Vincent crouching down to give her a high-five. “Out of the mouth of babes,” He beams, proud. “All right, baby shark, that was amazing!”
In the end, you’re the one who’s left to do most of the comforting and the disciplining, to teach your baby girl what’s right from wrong, especially with Alastor and Vincent constantly sending her mixed signals. It’s a dreadful mess. Having more than one dad is already confusing as it is, let alone two that have clashing personalities. Still, whenever you walk into your baby girl’s bedroom and see Alastor and Vincent hunched on the ground, plastic teacups pinched in between their fingers, you smile. Your baby girl is so loved — and, in a world as unforgiving as 1930s America, incredibly safe, too.
Synopsis: You find yourself suddenly thrust into the 1930s with no memory of how you got there. Not only that, but you're apparently married to the darling radio host of New Orleans, Alastor Moreau. Will you be able to navigate the circumstances you've been thrown into and find a way back home, or will you be dragged further into a confusing web of lies, forever stuck in the past?
CW: time travel, marriage of convenience, memory loss, no use of y/n for the reader, reader is an overthinker, period typical racism and sexism, eventual romance, medium burn, descriptions of injuries and a hospital setting, demisexual Alastor, cannibal Alastor, cannibalistic thoughts, blood and injury, suggestive themes, eventual smut
WC: 16.1k
Notes: This chapter was incredibly close to being split into two parts, but I decided to lock in and post it all in one piece. It’s incredibly lengthy, though. So grab a drink, get cozy, and enjoy the ride. (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)
Crossposted on AO3. Chapter title: Flux by Poppy.
A haze of thick smoke pools in the corners of a wooden cabin, thin tendrils swirling like ribbons before disappearing in the dark. An ember glows a vivid vermillion in the dim, flickering candlelight, a small red dot in a sea of shadows. The end of the cigarette burns an even brighter fiery orange when a steady hiss sounds, accompanied by a soft inhale. Bitter smoke coils out into the air like a specter twisting through a room, as a harsh sigh joins the whisper of sounds in the quaint cottage.
Alastor steps in front of the burning hearth, watching as the blazing reds and oranges of heat devour the wood. The bright flames cast long, oscillating shadows that lick the edges of his leather shoes with a restless energy, contrasting with the amber hues that dance along his skin in the firelight. Memories from the other night swirl around in his mind, much like the red-hot flames twirling in the soot-stained stone encasing.
He was remiss to admit that he made a slight blunder—but it was only slight! What else was he to do when that asinine drunkard thought he could get away with making a slight at him?
"You got a face for carrying luggage, friend," he had said.
Oh, how the cacophony of mocking laughter coming from the man's brainless peers had him seething beneath his skin.
Alastor only smiled.
Then he waited, and waited, and waited. Until the chump was alone. Oh, so pitifully alone. He was nothing but a weakling, hiding behind a facade of mocking bravery that seemed to only come out with the aid of a little intoxication to dull the senses. And when confronted, the persona stripped away, he was the blubbering fool that Alastor knew he was the second he laid eyes on him.
While Alastor never cared much for all the sniveling his targets made, the way the man groveled before him, begging for his life to be spared, now that had an ecstatic grin stretching wide on his face. The sight never bored him; it was exciting to see what new ways people would beg. There was a sort of beauty to it, one that he and the shadows alone bore witness to at the dead of night.
Though there were other times when, after realizing the begging wouldn't work, his prey would resort back to their fetid characters; the slanders and slurs spilling from their tainted mouths as if they were a broken, skipping record. In those moments, Alastor would keep his cool, slowly and meticulously tormenting, like a cat toying with its food. And once they were back to the begging and pleading, looking up to the man they had been degrading only minutes prior, he would dangle the hope of salvation in front of them, only to rip it away without a shred of mercy.
The satisfaction he got from watching the life drain from their eyes as realization dilated in the dulling edges. Realization that it was the very man they had been looking down on that was their undoing, their angel of death.
Oh, how he got a rush out of it!
Should he have waited until he was further away from home and closer to this cabin here? Perhaps. But he couldn't pass up the opportunity, not when it was laid out before him like a holiday feast just waiting to be devoured.
And all had been going smoothly with this drunkard. Really, it had. It wasn't until the man had somehow wormed his way out from underneath him and grabbed a stick—a stupid, fallen branch of all things, really?
The bitter taste of disdain at having to admit the drunk had knicked him was still on his tongue, even as he took a drag from the cigarette between his lips.
He hadn't even noticed the tiny cut until you pointed it out.
You.
You, in your groggy, sleep-ridden state, with bleary eyes fixating on every inch of his being.
He hated how it felt like you were seeing straight through to his soul, his skin set ablaze from the memory of your eyes trailing across his figure.
Alastor takes another harsh drag from the rolled tobacco pinched between his fingers, letting the end fall to the floor before stomping it out. He kicks the sot's bag out of the way, moving to the wooden table by the old, shabby armchair. Another slow release of whisping smoke before the sound of a cork releasing from a glass bottle fills the stale cabin air, followed by a short glug as a glass is filled with the amber hues of a whiskey. He finally takes a seat, crossing one leg over the other as old plush cushions pull him into their comforting embrace.
Alastor knew you'd be asleep—that's why he didn't hesitate to go back home in the state he had been in when he realized he didn't have enough supplies at the cabin—enough time to even head back. He knew he could clean up after himself like usual. Quietly. Efficiently. It was supposed to be quick and seamless—he'd grab the cleaning supplies, use a washcloth to clean himself in the guest bathroom, burn his dirtied clothes in the dancing flames of the fireplace, and make sure the kitchen was left spotless.
It was a straightforward plan. Easy as one, two, three.
However, he had to begrudgingly admit he hadn't accounted for your alertness that night. When the hushed patter of your light footsteps came down the hall, his mind raced to think of an escape. And as the lights flickered to life, he resolved to think of an explanation when no feasible solution came to mind. High on his kill, the sight of you enveloped in a shocked horror so deliciously sweet, sent a brief thrill surging through his veins once more—the same he felt less than an hour ago with the drunkard trapped in his clutches.
Though when you ran up to his side, startled expression giving way to a worry so grand that something inexplicable was forming low in his gut. Something he was unacustomed to, that was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. He chalked it up to the residual adrenaline from his post-kill euphoria.
As you scanned him up and down, your concerned eyes took in every inch of him. Supple, delicate hands gliding across his clothes—his body—caused him to sober up instantly in order to placate you. He hadn't liked the feeling of your hands all over him, writing off the heat he still felt from the memory coming from the blood stuck to his skin. Your hand had no place touching him, surely not when he was so soiled. Not those hands that were so gentle that they held books with a grace like no other—besides himself, of course. Not those hands that were so soft in the way they caressed the fuzzy fur of the feline companion taking up residence in his home. Not those hands that were so fragile that if he were to bare his teeth at them, they would bleed from the slightest of pokes.
Hmm, no. He couldn't go down that trail of thoughts anymore, or else his mouth would start to water. And he'd already had a delectably blood-soaked snack just now!
Taking a swing from the glass in his hand, the liquor hit his tongue with a spice that burned the back of his throat, the mellow sweetness that follows lingering like the final notes of a lullaby playing over the bayou at twilight.
A pleasant sigh surfaces in his chest, eyes closing to appreciate the taste. The melody of his cabin. The moment. His thoughts begin to turn again, however, which he found happening more often as of late. It seems your little accident was to blame.
A wolf.
That had been the first thing that came to mind to stifle your questioning. It made the most sense, though. The red wolf was native to the area, and because the neighborhood was close to a thicket leading to wetlands, it was common to see them wandering the quiet streets at midnight. Why, he had just had a conversation with Mr. Guidry the other week about them—the elder gent had seen a small pack of three close to his yard before they ran off at the sound of his door creaking open. The man had warned Alastor to keep an eye out for the wild canines.
So, it had been the perfect pretext. With his charm and wit, you'd be easily convinced. That, he was sure of.
And you were! Not without some hesitation on your part, which he supposes makes sense. At the end of the night, you had chosen to believe him, so he would take that as it were. However, he could still sense an inkling of doubt bubbling beneath the surface. The waver in your gaze when you thought he wasn't looking. The mulling thoughts whirling in the depths of your eyes. He could see it plain as day. But with a few charming lines thrown here and there, and an enjoyable evening out, surely that doubt would be erased.
He was sure of it.
The familiar scorch of alcohol hits the back of his throat as he takes another sip from the glass in his hands. The burn grounds him to the moment, here in his cabin. The croaks and crickets that echo through the bayou outside. The crackle of the flames from the fireplace. The slow drip, drip, drip of blood trickling off the altar.
It was tranquil. Soothing, even. Filling his soul with a staggering pleasure. One that he knew he could only provide for himself. This cabin of his, where he had all the fun in the world, was where he felt most relaxed. Most comfortable. Most himself.
Not at home, with you, and that cat. And the warm, fresh-cooked meals. And the delightful songs that bounced across the walls as you read your books. The idyllic life he's learned to play pretend.
No. The warm meals, the quiet evenings, the pleasant life he'd built beside you—that was all just a performance. But this? This was the truth. These swamps, these shadows, these hunting grounds. They knew him better than anyone.
And yet, when he slipped—he didn't slip, he just happened to feel inclined to share—and spoke of his mother, and the subsequent moment of similarity to her you showed. It struck a chord in him. He felt the urge to call you chère. And so he did.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The glimmer in your eyes had not escaped his notice, though. In the dim light, they shimmered with an emotion he couldn't quite identify, something warm and bright that lingered long after he'd spoken. Not that he particularly cared enough to dissect it. The reaction alone was useful. If calling you "ma chère" elicited such a response, then he would gladly use it again. As many times as was necessary.
He had a feeling that this little discovery would prove rather useful in the future. Useful in keeping your attention fixed on him, drawing you in until you hung onto his every word. And if there ever came a time when he needed a favor from you? Well. All he'd have to do is purr a few honeyed words in your ear, and he suspected you'd find it difficult to deny him.
Alastor tucks the observation away for later. Adding another useful piece of information to his growing collection as of late. It would certainly be useful to continue fostering your trust, too.
That must be why the upcoming performance at the speakeasy had come to mind at the time; why he invited you out in that moment above the silence of the bedroom. It was only out of a desire to keep you close. To strengthen the rapport he'd carefully built with you over the past nine months of marriage—well, now it was a month or so, considering your memory loss; no matter, though.
The more comfortable you grew around him, the easier it would be to influence you. To sway you. To convince you of things and have you turn a blind eye. To have control over the situation.
A simple outing, a pleasant evening, another thread woven into the trust he's cultivated. That was all it would be. The strange sense of anticipation that accompanied the thoughts was merely incidental.
There was no reason to dwell on it any further.
And so, with that thought firmly in mind, he proceeds to do exactly that.
Turns out the "coming week" to Alastor meant a few weeks later. In his defense, though, work got busy. There was an influx of news surrounding the layoffs caused by the Great Depression, the politics tied to it, and the apparent discovery of a ninth planet.
It was a wild feeling.
Experiencing such a monumental astronomical discovery—one that was already known to you—was a strange experience. Pluto had been considered a planet in your modern lifetime before it was eventually reclassified as a dwarf planet.
There was something surreal about watching history unfold before you in real time, especially when you already knew how the story concluded. The Great Depression came and went, ending with the boom that followed World War II and the jobs it created. Yet, to see it all unfurl before your very eyes, here and now, was so bizarre. It felt like you were on the set of a movie, but even after the direct yells, "Cut!" everyone stayed in character, continuing to act out the scene.
It was indeed wild.
All that to say, your long-awaited visit to the speakeasy didn't happen until the first signs of spring arrive in early March. Though the weather remained chilly, the first blooms of vermillion honeysuckles and golden azaleas painted the dull winter landscape with splashes of color. There was something almost hopeful about it; the quiet transition between seasons. Between what had been and what was to come. Maybe that was why the evening had felt different before it had even started.
It was just after dusk on a Saturday, the remaining rays of sunlight making way for nightfall, when you find yourself finally getting ready to head out to the speakeasy that Eileen had been dying for you to visit. That Alastor had invited you out to that momentous night bathed in crimson all those weeks ago.
Scarlet sequins catch the light, sparkling as you turn this way and that while scrutinizing your reflection in the mirror. The dropped waistline of the flapper dress, the red and black beading embroidered into a lavish geometric design, the black fringe that twirled with your movement. It was all something you never imagined ever wearing. At least, not outside of a costume party for Halloween.
Yet here you were now, dressed in the delicate fabric of your dress, preparing for an actual night out to a speakeasy—not some modern imitation designed to recreate the past, but the real thing. A true Prohibition-era establishment in 1930s America. Something you once only knew through history books and stories, but now you're genuinely about to experience it.
That bizarre sensation of having one foot in the world you remember and another in the life you're now living seems destined to remain.
Taking a seat at your vanity to do your makeup and accessorizing, you pause when you realize you don't actually know how to match your look to the period's style. Blinking eyes reflect back to you in the mirror as you mull over what to do. You could grab one of the fashion magazines lying around—you had skimmed one previously out of boredom a few weeks back, and vaguely remember a tutorial on everyday makeup on the smooth pages. So, maybe there was one for flappers? Though just as you're about to go look for one, Alastor steps out of the closet, pausing you in your tracks.
He's dressed in an elegant wool suit, the ruby-red fabric accented with thin black lines going down the high-waisted slacks and matching blazer. Thin, black fabric hung around the white collar of the button-up he wore; a tie yet to be bound in a knot. His dark curls were neatly styled to the side as usual, glasses elegantly sitting perched atop his nose. He folds a piece of cloth in his hand before stuffing it into his breast pocket neatly as he stands behind you, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
He looks every bit as charming as he acts.
"Hm, something the matter, dear?" Alastor's eyes land on yours in the mirror. A heat rushes to your cheeks at having been caught staring.
Ugh, why did he always have to catch you in a moment like this? You feel the need to smack yourself, but hold off against it, or else he'd think you've gone insane—if he hasn't already thought that, considering all the slip-ups you've almost had of mentioning things that don't exist yet. The look he gave you when you accidentally mentioned the moon landing during your conversation about the "mysterious" ninth planet the other day still weighs heavily in your mind. The way his keen eyes narrowed, head tilting to the side sharply in a way that read, "What the fuck are you talking about?" still had a nervous jitter flushing through your veins.
Yeah. You made a mental note to be extra careful from then on.
"Oh! Uh… Well, I just realized that I don't actually remember how to do my makeup. At least, not to match the style of, well… This." You gesture toward the ensemble you wore, straightening a few black strands of fringe resting on your thigh. A beat of silence passes as Alastor examines you, head tilting as though contemplating a fascinating puzzle piece.
"Oh, sweetheart! It's been ages for you, hasn't it!" He chirps, adopting an exaggerated gallant tone. "Turn this way, your dear husband will take care of it for you!"
To say you weren't stunned would be an understatement. Of all the things, you never would have expected Alastor to know how to apply makeup, let alone offer to do yours.
"Come on, we don't have all night." Caramel eyes roll playfully as the leather of his black and white spectator shoes taps against the side of your black heels.
"Ok. Um, thanks?" Slowly shifting in your seat, you turn to face him.
With a satisfied grin, Alastor sets about grabbing a few products from the vanity, first opening an intricately designed pearlescent orange-and-yellow box. "First comes the face powder."
He takes the puff from the box, making sure the loose powder coats it, then pats it delicately onto your face. You try to focus on the gentle pat-pat-pat of Alastor pressing the velvety material into your skin, and not on how close he is to you. How you can smell the alluring cologne spritzed onto his skin. The rich, spicy, almost earthy scent tickles your nose as your heart skips a beat, butterflies swarming in your stomach.
Fiddling with the beads lined atop the fringe of your dress, you do your best to quell the fluttering, hoping that he can't hear the erratic ba-bump of your heartbeat as the seconds go by. The longer he stands over you, painting your face with powder, the more the overwhelming scent of him intoxicates you.
Just when you think you can't endure it anymore, Alastor spares you with an unwitting mercy by pulling back. The powder puff is slipped back into the pearlescent box once he's satisfied with the coverage on your face, the small case returning to the vanity.
"Next is the rouge to doll up your already doll-like cheeks!" Alastor accentuates his statement by patting your cheek with the round brush in his hand, the other holding a small, circular compact with a reddish pigment pressed inside. You can't help the giggle that slips past your lips at the playful gesture, the soft bristles of the brush tickling your skin.
"Oh!? Care to share what you find so funny?"
"It's nothing." With a soft smile, you shake your head, signaling for him to carry on with adding color to your complexion.
"Hm, well then," he shrugs before continuing, "After the rouge, it's time to apply pencil to brow."
Your eyes flutter shut when Alastor places a steady hand on your chin, tilting your face up for a better angle to meticulously fill in your brows. The warmth radiating off his fingertips seeps into your skin, the scent of his cologne pricking your senses again as his all-consuming presence sweeps over you. The butterflies return, soft yet persistent, impossible to ignore, no matter how hard you try. It isn't until he steps away that you realize you'd been holding your breath the whole time, taking in a sharp inhale and trying to hide it as a yawn.
"Come now, darling. Don't tell me you're already getting sleepy! We still have the whole night ahead of us!"
"Don't worry," you laugh him off, praying that he doesn't notice the slight waver in your voice. "The second we step foot outside, I know the chill will wake me right up."
"Oh, I don't doubt it." A low, resonating chuckle rumbles from his chest. "We're almost finished up here anyway. There's just a handful of things left, now!"
Alastor takes hold of the eyeshadow palette resting on your vanity, and you watch as his eyes scan over your dress, then back to the palette before picking a color to start with. As you sit with your eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of the brush as he dusts powder over your lids, you can't help but wonder how he learned to apply makeup like this. Was it from watching you do yours in the past, or perhaps earlier than that, from his mother?
Deciding the moment was as good as any to ask him, you voice your curiosity. "Hey, Al? How'd you learn how to do makeup like this in the first place?"
"Hm, I suppose it was partially from reading all those fashion magazines lying around, and in part from watching my mother at a young age do her own with what little she had." He speaks in a quiet, almost distracted tone as he continues brushing colored shadows across your skin. "Ah, and also from Mimzy! That woman feels a constant need to always doll herself up."
"Mimzy?"
"Oh!" You peek an eye open, watching as Alastor's shoulders heave, head thrown back with a hearty laugh. "She would be quite upset to hear that you've forgotten her! I think it's best we keep that between you and me. It'll be our little secret, chère."
You ignore the way warmth blossoms in your chest at the term of endearment, instead pressing him for more. "Who is she, though?"
"She's a performer! Thrives off singing and dancing. Ah! And attention. I'm sure you'll be seeing plenty of her tonight."
Well, that doesn't quite answer your question, but based on his answer, you assume that at the very least she's an acquaintance of yours. Hopefully, you won't make any blunders when you meet her later tonight.
"Now! Last but not least, your lipstick."
Much like earlier, Alastor gently takes hold of your chin, gliding the lipstick across your lips. The balm's smooth consistency softens over your skin as you hold your breath, nervous tingles prickling at your fingertips. His gaze never strays from your lips, studying his work with meticulous concentration. The sight alone is enough to make heat bloom across your face. You close your eyes and let him work his magic, grateful for the excuse the makeup provides, even if it was the source of your embarrassment to begin with.
"Et voilà!" Alastor exclaims, stepping back and placing his hands on your shoulders to swivel you to face the mirror. "What do you think?!"
It would be wrong to say you don't recognize yourself, but it's rare to see this version of you staring back from the mirror. A smoky shadow complements the darker hues of your dress. A rosy rouge rounds out your cheeks with a delicate flush. The deep red lips sharpen the curve of your Cupid's bow.
As you take in the look—one you aren't quite accustomed to—a multitude of thoughts flit through your mind. First, it's astonishing just how talented Alastor is with his hands. You really shouldn't be surprised by it at this point, and yet here you are, staring at your reflection with a quiet awe.
Then comes a small bubble of nervousness. The makeup feels heavier than what you're used to, but you remind yourself that you're going out for the evening. This was fashionable. Normal, even, for the time.
Still, despite your initial discomfort, you can't deny the confidence it lends you. As you take in the whole ensemble—the dress, the accessories, the carefully applied makeup—you find yourself smiling. You look extravagant. Chic, even. The boldness of it all settles warmly in your chest, encouraging you to stand a little taller.
Just go with the flow, and have fun for the night while forgetting about all of your worries!
"Ah-hah! I know I did!" Alastor's proud chuckle fills the air with a light-hearted warmth. "Well then, shall we be on our way?"
"Sure!"
Slipping on the feathered headpiece and the silken black gloves that match your dress, you make your way to the bedroom door. Alastor stops you in your tracks, however, taking hold of your wrist. When you turn to question him, your eyes are met with an opal pendant, sparkling in the light as it hangs in the air inches from your face.
"Why aren't you wearing this?" The stringent tone in his voice leaves you speechless for a moment, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor. One second, he was all cheer and good-hearted laughter; the next, he had an icy-cold, piercing smile that sends shivers down your spine. It was confusing.
His perceptive eyes flick from the iridescent gemstone back to your befuddled stare.
"Uh… I just figured it didn't really match with the dress."
Alastor hums quietly, moving behind you to clasp the necklace around your neck without more of your input. "I would prefer if you keep it with you at all times."
"Was it a gift from you? Sorry, I didn't realize… I'll be more mindful about that from now on."
"Yes, please do." His voice comes out in a quiet purr as he steps in front of you once more, eyes settling onto the shimmering opal. With careful fingers, he cups the pendant and presses it gently against your chest, just above the neckline of your dress, as though ensuring it sits exactly where it belongs.
A soft gasp catches in your throat at the gesture. For a moment, neither of you looks away—his attention seemingly mesmerized by the gemstone, while yours remains captivated by him.
"It's one of a kind, you see." His russet eyes find yours, smile stretching wider, and with an unmistakable lightness in his step, he moves past you.
Your hands drift to the spot he'd just touched, as though the warmth of his fingers still lingered there. Only then do you realize you've been holding your breath. You let it out slowly, heart fluttering wildly beneath your ribs.
What the hell was that about?
"Darling! Are you coming or not?!" Alastor's voice calls from the other room as if nothing had just transpired.
"I'll be there in a sec!" With one final look in the mirror, you take a deep breath to steel your nerves, shaking off the heat that extends beyond his touch, his words.
Stepping into the living room, you find the spectacled man waiting by the front door, humming along to an invisible tune as he taps his foot against the carpeted rug. Minuit sits in front of him, his dark tail swishing back and forth as vivid green eyes fixate on the leather shoe's movement. Though when you move closer, the black cat rises from his spot with a big stretch, making his way over to you with a soft meow.
"Looks like you'll have the house all to yourself for a bit, Min!" You croon, kneeling down to scratch between the cat's fluffy ears.
"If the house is a mess when we come home, you're sleeping on the porch, you hear?" Alastor glares at the feline with an accusatory finger pointed at him. You just laugh with a shake of your head, whispering to Minuit that he doesn't need to worry about a thing; you'd sneak him back inside.
Alastor rolls his eyes at you, but there isn't any real heat to it, as he moves to open the front door and step outside. He mumbles out an exasperated, "You and that silly cat."
As you make your way outside of the house, the crisp night air kisses your exposed skin. A breeze blew gently, as soft and quiet as a lullaby. It was a stark contrast to the rousing evening that was surely ahead of you.
"Ready for a night of dancing your heart out, my dear?"
"Mhm, let's go!"
After hopping off a crowded streetcar, Alastor leads you down a myriad of twisting streets, too many to keep track of. While you thought Dryades Street was lively, the area you're in now makes it pale in comparison. There were so many more extravagantly built shops and buildings, many of which were decorated with colorful banners and flowers that stood out. You don't get a moment to ponder over the decorations, though, as you're whisked away into a throng of people, cutting through a chaotic night market.
There were more people here than at the only other market you've been to. More noise as exuberant jazz spills from opening and closing doors, honking cars driving past, patrons and owners yelling over the crowds.
It had you reeling a little, as Alastor maintained a brisk pace, only momentarily stopping to move out of the way for certain groups of individuals to pass. He would stop, pulling you off to the side, letting the people carry on their merry way before resuming his swift stride, tugging you along with him. The first time, you didn't pay it any mind, but by the third, it left you confused. As you paid closer attention, though, you realized dishearteningly that he was stepping out of the way for the wealthy, white "elites" of the town.
It frustrated you to no end. You understood, of course, why he had to. It was the way society operated during this era, politically and socially. It was upsetting to witness just how embedded in the period it was. Though it doesn't go past you that, even in the modern age, these issues still persist—a direct result of the very actions you witness right now in the past.
Understanding the whys didn't make it any less difficult to watch, experience, and swallow.
Alastor pulls you along, making an offhanded joke about how slow you're being and dragging you out of your thoughts. You suppose now isn't the time to brood over the sociopolitical factors affecting the 1930s and beyond.
When Alastor's pace finally slows, leading you into a quieter part of the area, you're able to breathe and actually take in the world around you. The roads are lined with lightposts, their ornate triple lantern heads glimmering warmly as small flames dance inside. Around you, people dressed for the evening stroll through the streets, laughter and conversation blending together beneath the glow of the lights.
The decorations that had caught your attention earlier draw you in again—the vibrant banners and garlands draped across the streets, their purple, green, and golden hues standing out beautifully against the night. As you pass stalls selling masks ranging from elaborate works of art to simple, modest designs, realization finally settles in.
"Is Mardi Gras coming up soon?"
"Yes, it's this coming Tuesday."
Alastor doesn't comment on it much aside from that, only sparing a fleeting glance at the embellishments you admire as you walk past. You wonder if he doesn't care for the holiday, or if he's just got other things on his mind. Like what, you're not sure; maybe the speakeasy and who might be there?
Oh, you should probably be thinking about that, too. If you don't want to make a fool of yourself, it's definitely a smart idea to ask him about what and who you should expect before you arrive.
"Hey, Al?"
"Hm?"
"Um, is there anyone I should know about before we get there? Like Mimzy, for example. How will I know who she is?"
"No need to worry about her! You'll know her when you see her!" Alastor laughs brightly. "She's short and blonde, you'll recognize her in no time!"
"Ok… If you're sure." You're still a little worried about this Mimizy, but if Alastor says you'll be fine, then you'll just have to trust him on that. "Anyone else?"
"Hm, let's see. You already know Eileen, of course, and when she's around, that Leon isn't far behind. I swear, he's like a pitiful puppy, constantly wagging his tail whenever she's around." He shakes his head with a roll of his eyes, this time with actual heat in the gesture, a contrast to the one from earlier with you and Minuit.
"Oh, yeah? Does he have a crush on her or something?" At least, it sounded like that, with the way Alastor described this Leon guy wanting to stick close to Eileen.
"I honestly couldn't care less about their love lives! You'll have to ask them about it." He sounded quite done with the conversation, his tone the most dispassionate you'd ever heard coming from him.
Ok… Noted, he doesn't like talking about romance.
"Ah, I suppose you should also know about Wilson, Irene, and Louis! The former is an amusing and loud gent. Though I must say, he has a tendency to assume anyone who looks his way has their eye on him. It's embarrassing, really." He says it like it's the most obvious observation in the world, yet the slight incredulity in his voice suggests that he still can't fathom why Wilson insists on behaving that way.
"Irene is quite the flapper with a classy glow. You can find her with a drink in hand as she watches the chaos unfold around her. Though do be careful, her words can pack quite the punch." He sends a wink your way, the charming little gesture making it difficult to tell whether he's genuinely warning you or simply enjoying your curiosity.
"And finally, there's Louis! There isn't much else to say about him besides the man loves to drink and dance!" He finishes listing them off, accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand, as if no further explanation is needed.
Ok, so there's Leon, who sticks close to Eileen. Wilson, who thinks everyone's got a crush on him. Irene, who's stylish and sharp-tongued. And then finally, Louis, who's a dancer. Plain and simple.
As you lay all the names out in your head, your nerves start to fray around the edges, apprehension clouding your thoughts. How would you remember everyone? What if you mess up and somehow give away the fact that you don't remember or know any of them? What if none of them like you after spending five minutes speaking with you and realizing that you can't keep up with them—with this time period?
The endless stream of what-ifs continues to flow through your mind, causing your steps to slow. Alastor must sense your growing hesitation as a firm hand grips yours, locked over his arm.
"Don't fret," he says your name, a perplexing feeling lodging itself in your throat at the way he says it. "Everything will be fine; you have my word."
Ok," you say slowly after swallowing the feeling away.
"Besides, I'll be right there with you! If anything happens, your dear husband will come to your rescue!" The dramatic way he says it, throwing his arm over his chest and angling his chin up to the sky in a valiant manner, has a laugh rattling its way through your chest. "I'll hold you to it, then."
The two of you continue to chat as you make your way down the road that grows increasingly quieter the further in you go. The crashing waves of the hustle and bustle muffle to a distant shore as fewer and fewer people pass you by. Only the click-clack of your footsteps and the occasional hollar from a distant street reach you faintly.
Alastor leads you down an empty alley before stopping in front of an unobtrusive door; a sign in front of it that reads in bold letters, "IN COMPLIANCE WITH THE 18TH AMENDMENT, NO LIQUOR ALLOWED ON THE PREMISES."
Well, isn't that ironic? Here you are, watching Alastor knock on the door of a speakeasy that proudly claims compliance with Prohibition. Considering its true nature, though, you highly doubt the patrons inside were sipping on water and exchanging pleasantries. It was funny, really, how people always manage to find a loophole when they want something badly enough.
A small, wooden panel in the door slides open after a moment, a faint view of a man peeking from the other side. Alastor speaks first, in a hushed voice. "I hear the night's band is performing."
"Tickets are sold out."
"It's a good thing I brought an invitation, then."
The man grunts before slamming the panel shut. When nothing happens after a few moments, a sliver of doubt begins to creep into your mind. Had Alastor gotten something wrong? The thought barely has time to form before the door rattles open once more. On the other side, the gruff-looking man gives a curt nod and steps aside, allowing you and Alastor into the establishment. It's a short walk down the narrow hallway and up the staircase just beyond the entrance, but when you step through the door at the end, it's as though you've stumbled into another world.
The spacious room buzzes with life. Patrons dressed in their finest attire fill the space, drinks in hand, laughter mingling with the music spilling from the jazz band. People from every walk of life gather beneath the same roof, their differences melting into the shared energy of the evening. Some dance energetically near the makeshift stage, while others occupy candlelit tables scattered along the room's edges.
Your eyes drift over the crowd before catching on a familiar face. Eileen sits at the bar on the far side of the room, a blond man perched on the stool beside her, happily chattering away.
Ah, that must be Leon.
Before you even get the chance to make your way over to the pair, a perky, squealing voice calls out to you and Alastor.
"Alastor! Sweetie! Dollface! It's been so long since I last saw you! Where've ya been?" A short, blonde woman sashays her way over, hands on her hips; the blush fringe of her dress flutters with a snazzy swish.
"Mimzy!" Alastor greets with a bright note, his arms opening wide so she can give him a big hug.
So this was Mimzy. In person, she looks exactly like you'd pictured from Alastor's description—petite, blonde, and pretty. The energy radiating from her practically screams showgirl; all glitz and glamour, with a presence that naturally pulls attention her way. Judging by her enthusiastic greeting, she seems nice enough as well.
"So good to see you! And I see you brought the pumpkin with ya! Look at you pair of cuties, all matched up!" Mimzy smirks, her eyes flickering from Alastor's and your attire before giving the radio host a knowing look. His smile tightens, eye twitching minutely; it's almost hard for you to tell, but you've been around him reasonably long enough by now to notice the shift.
Now that she mentions it, you realize your outfits do match. Your eyes drift down to your ensemble before flicking back to Alastor's, the reds and blacks shared between them suddenly impossible to ignore. Had he intended that when he suggested you wear this dress earlier in the evening? If so, why did he seem so irritated by Mimzy's teasing?
You don't have much time to linger on the thought when Mimzy turns her full attention to you. Her searing gaze sizes you up and down for a second. "Heya girlie, how you been? Feelin' any better?"
"Oh, yeah, thankfully!" Your response comes out a tad awkwardly. With Mimzy still watching you intently, you find yourself overanalyzing every word that leaves your mouth. Your fingers begin to fiddle with the silk of your gloves, brushing against the wedding ring hidden beneath the fabric. After a moment, your eyes flick toward Alastor, silently pleading for him to save you from the conversation.
The flash of amusement circling in his eyes has you concerned for a split second that he was going to leave you on your own. It looks like he's finding great entertainment in your bumbling, content to sit back and watch you fumble your way through Mimzy's unrelentless attention. The thought has your brows knitting together with mild betrayal—he had literally just told you that he'd help you out if you needed it—as you silently beg for him to stop enjoying your misery and to step in already.
"Yes, she's doing much better, you see!" Alastor finally comes to your rescue, placing a hand on your shoulder and steering the conversation away from you. "Spry enough to be back here! Oh my, and she would not stop talking about how much she missed seeing you perform! Speaking of, are you on soon?"
"You bet I am!" Mimzy exclaims with the vigor of a roaring river, her hips shaking along to the music in excitement. "You'll play for me, won't you? You know how much everyone loves it when we sing and dance together!"
"Of course, sweetheart! But I have my wife to attend to first." Mimzy's brow arches in an almost disbelieving way, her eyes glancing between you and Alastor oddly. "I'll be with you in a moment."
As Alastor leads you farther into the room, away from the entrance, you feel Mimzy's burning gaze on your back; its intensity makes your stomach twist. Had she already noticed something strange about your behavior? That wouldn't be good. You're grateful Alastor stepped in when he did.
Just as you're about to voice your gratitude, a familiar voice calls your name. You watch as Eileen jumps from her seat at the bar, the green sequins adorning her dress catching the light and twinkling as she rushes over to you. A blond man trails after her, but you barely register him as you're engulfed in an Eileen-special embrace, the room spinning around you as she twirls you in a circle.
"You actually made it this time!" She pulls away from you to smack Alastor lightly on the shoulder. "You made well on your promise, I see. Your first drink is on me tonight!"
"Why, thank you!" He laughs, polite smile on display. "I always follow through with my promises, don't I, dear?"
Alastor winks playfully at you, nudging you with his elbow. An awkward laugh slips past your lips as you play along, your composure wavering beneath the attention. Honestly, you still weren't sure how you're supposed to react when he did things like that.
"Good to see you," the blond man, Leon, says your name as he joins the conversation. "Eileen was just talking about how she hoped you'd show tonight."
"That I was! And it seems the deities heard my prayer; this calls for celebration!"
Eileen drags you over to the bar without a care for your input. A nervous flutter takes root in your chest as you're pulled away from Alastor, and when you glance back to find him nowhere beside you, it only grows. Instead, you find him already surrounded by a small group of people, his smooth charisma pulling them in as always. The only thing he offers you is a placating smile and a thumbs up from across the room—a semblance of reassurance that somehow leaves you feeling even less reassured.
You don't know why you're so nervous. It's just Eileen, you remind yourself. You've spoken with her before; she'd even called you a few times. In some ways, you've already grown accustomed to her presence. And yet, it wasn't just Eileen anymore. There's this Leon guy now, too, along with the others sitting at the bar who immediately turn their attention toward you when Eileen settles you onto a barstool. Not to mention Alastor. He'd become a constant in this strange, disjointed life of yours, and now he was no longer by your side. He couldn't step in if someone asked a question you didn't know how to answer—something you didn't have the memories for.
"Hey, look whose decided to bless us with her presence!" A tall man with a wide grin yells over the clamoring bar, his sable hands nursing a half-empty glass. He raises it in the air in your direction. "We gotta toast to this!"
"That's what we're here for!"
Eillen hands you a lowball glass, the dark amber liquid inside sloshing gently with the movement. You follow along as she, Leon, and the unnamed man lift their drinks for the toast. Grip tightening slightly around the glass, a small tremor runs through your hands as you raise it to meet theirs. The three of them erupt into loud cheers, taking long sips before setting their heavy glasses back down on the bartop. Staring at your reflection wavering in the golden liquid, you decide to hold off on drinking for now. Best to get your bearings first, right?
…
Or maybe a little liquid courage might be exactly what you need to help you make it through the night.
Before you can reach a conclusion to your internal debate, the dark-haired man cuts through your thoughts. "Did Al come with ya?"
He turns to look into the crowd, searching for the radio host. You must be too slow with your reply, as Eileen answers for you. "Have you had too much to drink already, Will? Look, he's standing right there with Irene and Louis!"
Ah, so this was Wilson, then. As everyone becomes distracted with pointing out Alastor amongst the crowd, you take a moment to commit each face to memory. Wilson is easy enough to pick out, his friendly smile and loud voice making him stand out almost immediately. Leon is much the same, proving to be exactly as Alastor described him—a puppy faithfully staying at Eileen's side.
The remaining two are harder to spot amid the sea of people, but eventually your eyes settle on Irene. The description Alastor gave you was no exaggeration. She truly is a perfect image of a flapper, dressed in a breathtaking combination of pink and maroon, gold accents catching the light against her bronzed skin. She's absolutely stunning. So much so that you have to force yourself to look away before you get caught staring.
Blinking the stars out of your eyes, you shift your attention to the person standing on Alastor's other side. Louis, as you remembered his name, seems to be just as lively as described, chatting away with an easy smile while his feet tap along to the melody of a song you can barely hear over the buzz of conversation. His freckles dot his tan skin, a stark contrast to Alastor's sharper features and composed presence. Where Alastor carries himself with a certain effortless charm, Louis seems to wear his warmth openly.
They all seem like an interesting bunch, and those you've already spoken with are kind enough to be interested in you being here. Maybe you really could befriend them all without the worry of pretending to be someone you're not.
"A stór! You've barely touched your drink. Is something wrong?" Eileen's worried voice draws your attention back to the conversation before you. The realization that all eyes are now on you makes your fingers tighten slightly around the glass in your hands, unsure of what exactly you should say.
"I'm fine! Just, um, easing back into it, I guess?" You don't feel very convinced yourself when the words slip out of your mouth, but they were partially true. You're just trying to figure out the flow of everyone around you, and how you usually fit into that. Then, you'd be able to ease into it unnoticed. At least, you hope it would be unnoticed, but it seems Eileen is more perceptive than you thought.
Wilson's deep baritone cuts the Irish woman off before she replies, "Give her some slack, El! She's just got here, and the night is still young anyway! Right?" He throws a wink your way; the easygoing smile that accompanies it helps calm your nerves.
"Yeah, just give me a minute. I'll be up and dancing before you know it, Elly!"
"Hm, ok. Sorry, didn't mean to rush ya!" She places an apologetic hand on your shoulder. You can see she meant well, so you tell her not to worry about it.
The conversation shifts after that, going from one topic to the next, and you find it a struggle to keep up with the back-and-forth between them. At first, the subjects remained light-hearted, as they mostly spoke about the band and how much better they sounded tonight compared to their performance last week.
"It's 'cuz Al's here!"
"I bet they're trying to make sure they can keep up with his skills."
"It has been a while since his last visit, which isn't quite like him. Wonder what he's been up to lately…"
Three sets of eyes briefly turn toward you, but you ignore them in favor of tracing your fingers along the engraved design etched into your glass. You swirl the alcohol inside, watching the whiskey move as you turn the cup between your hands. For now, you're content to just simply observe—to get a better sense of your place within the group. You decide it's better to listen rather than force yourself into the conversation and risk saying the wrong thing. Wait for the right moment to chime in with something carefully thought out, something that won't reveal the secret you're trying so hard to keep.
As if the very act of speaking his name had summoned him, Alastor appears behind you, interrupting the conversation. "I'd like my drink now, thank you very much!"
Before you can react, his arm reaches past between you and Eileen, taking the glass from your hands. He finishes it in one smooth motion, placing the empty glass onto the bartop with a satisfying clink. Someone nearby lets out an impressed whistle, a pleased sigh escaping him, followed by a warm chuckle. "Hmm, how delightful!"
"How much longer are you gonna keep us all waitin'?!"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I won't play tonight at all." Alastor shrugs, cheeky smile toying on his lips as a collection of gasps and a disgruntled, "You're joking, right?!" fills the air.
Chestnut eyes meet yours, a playful spark warming their depths. Something inside you shifts, drawn in by his mischievous energy and the unspoken invitation to join in on the fun. For once, instead of worrying about saying the wrong thing, you find yourself wanting to play along.
"That's a shame. I was really looking forward to seeing you work your magic, Al."
Those same playful eyes widen a fraction before the devilish grin grows even wider. "Well, if it's my lovely wife asking, then I'll gladly do it for her."
With a dramatic hand placed to his chest, followed by a bow, he holds a graceful hand out to you. "Shall we, ma chère?"
When you first said it, you hadn't been expecting him to actually invite you to the stage, to the piano waiting there. Yet here he was, hand extended toward you, expecting you to take it so that he could perform for you personally. A flustered heat slowly rises up your neck as your shaky hand meets his. The attention from those around you definitely doesn't help; their eyes only add to the anxious tremors threatening to keep you frozen in place.
As Alastor leads you to the piano, the anticipation around you grows louder, both from within your chest and from the crowd you're passing through. It feels like a thrumming beehive; your heart and the air around you are alive with a restless energy.
Dammit. You really should have taken that drink.
The band finishes their song just as you reach the stage. The men greet Alastor with thrilled, open arms, their conversation quickly shifting to what you assume is the song Al wants to play next. Then again, considering the unexpected nature of jazz, the piece about to be played is most likely going to be improvised. You linger a few steps behind, not wanting to interrupt, only catching pieces of their discussion from where you stand.
A hush falls over the room when Alastor takes his seat at the piano bench, and the realization washes over you all at once. This was what everyone had been waiting for. The anticipation is almost overwhelming, buzzing through the room like a live current as they wait for him to begin. You find yourself holding your breath with everyone else, watching as his lithe hands rise above to hover over the keys. A final moment of eager silence fills the air before the music ignites.
When the first note sounds, excited cheers and applause erupt. Upbeat music swells as the lively notes fill the air, carrying a contagious energy throughout the room. The melody bounces off the walls, filling every corner of the speakeasy with its high-spirited charm. You can't help but stare. The energy in the room shifts with every note, every movement of his hands drawing the crowd further into the performance. For the first time tonight, you understand why everyone was so eager to hear him play.
With a wide smile perched on his lips, Alastor plays the piano with a joy that seems to ripple through every chord. His hands dance across the keys, like jazz itself—lively, effortlessly, impossible to predict. Body swaying back and forth with the beat of the song, it was as if he wanted to dance at the same time. The casual yet exuberant way in which he played made it seem like the piano was meant for him, and him alone. Like he was speaking a language only he understood, and everyone else could only listen to.
And as his velvetty voice rings throughout the club, joining the melody as he begins to sing, you're frozen in place. Goosebumps rise along your skin, the lively tune sweet as honey as it washes over you.
He's like a magician, casting a spell over the room with every note. And ultimately, your attention remains solely on him. Your startruck eyes stay fixed on his every movement, watching in awe. Even as Mimzy and a few other showgirls step forward to sing and dance alongside him, you can't bring yourself to look away.
Alastor was talented, this you knew. From his radio show, where he'd read out skits with a dramatic flair, to the times he'd casually sing around the house while cooking or cleaning up after himself; you had always thought he had a nice voice. But hearing him sing while playing the piano, fully immersed in the performance, evoked something entirely different within you.
A swell of something—pride, fondness, maybe something you weren't quite ready to name—rises in your chest. This was a man you knew, someone you had grown closer to over the course of your short time here. Your husband, a tiny voice within you dares to say, before another part of you reminds you just how complicated that word truly is.
Whatever the feeling was, you had to admit Alastor had a voice made to be heard. Whether he was speaking into a microphone or singing along to a melody, there was a natural charm to it. Of course, with his confidence, you weren't surprised that he knew exactly how talented he was.
Eileen lightly bumps into your side, drawing you out of your daze. When you glance over at her, she only responds with a knowing wink. A small, almost bashful smile tugs at your lips in return before your gaze drifts back toward the crowd.
Some sing along, voices blending with the melody as they follow the familiar lyrics. Others sway to the rhythm, dancing with whoever is closest, laughing as they nearly spill the drinks in their hands. Most, though, remain gathered around the band and piano, watching the performance unfold with bright, captivated smiles.
You had known Alastor had a certain charm. It was there in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, the way attention seemed to follow him, whether he asked for it or not. But watching him now, you realize this was different. This was Alastor choosing to be seen. Choosing to take the spotlight and hold it readily. And despite yourself, you find your attention returning to him again and again—to the confident grin, the curls falling loose against his forehead, the playful glimmer in his eyes behind the decorated glasses.
You find yourself captivated by him, down to your core.
"Hey now, sister! You're already married to the man; no need to keep ogling him like some shy schoolgirl!" Eileen bumps her hips with yours teasingly. The smirk quirking along her lips makes her look like a cat who got the cream.
Still a bit dazed, you can't fight the flush of warmth lighting up your cheeks. "What? I'm not! It's just… the music is really nice."
Your gaze is drawn back to his when a boisterous laugh has him throwing his head back, reveling in the moment. Temporarily, you forget the teasing, the embarrassment, and the excuse you had just given. Because seeing him like this feels far more genuine than anything else.
"Yeah, yeah, there you go again. Doing that thing you always do."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you pretend you're listening to the music, but you're actually just staring at him." The warmth in your cheeks intensifies tenfold, spreading through the rest of your body like a wildfire. As you stammer in search of a fitting response, Eileen barrels on, not giving you a chance to defend yourself.
"Remind's me of back when you two were still just talking." She giggles with a nostalgic sigh. "But hey! You have every right to stare. He's the one you sleep with at the end of the night, so don't let me keep you from eyeing up your man!"
There's no way this was happening right now. Surely the floor would be kind enough to swallow you whole.
The sweet charm you've come to associate with Eileen seems to be fueled by the mischievous spirit of a kitten. At least, that's the impression she gives as her smug smirk grows wider with every flustered stammer that leaves your lips. It seems alcohol brings out more of her teasing side.
"Hey! Brought you two some more drinks." Leon, in all his puppy-like dedication to Eileen, walks up to her side with filled glasses in his hands.
Mumbling a quick thanks, you snatch a tumbler from him and take a long gulp, ignoring the burn hitting the back of your throat, before swiftly turning on your heel and making a beeline for the bar where Wilson, Irene, and Louis have gathered.
Yeah, no. It's time to run away from this conversation. The thought of what Eileen had been insinuating has you feeling wave after wave of embarrassment, each one washing over you hotter than the last. The worst part is that the little demon perched on your shoulder wishes her teasing had been true.
"Aww, no need to be shy, a stòr! I was only teasing!" Eileen skips after you, coming up to your side sweetly with a joking pout.
Rolling your eyes at her, you ignore the look she gives you, instead choosing to take part in the conversation the others were having. The distraction was sorely needed, as you couldn't handle the heat blooming beneath your skin every time her words resurface in your head.
Eileen finally gives in, pouring a bit of her drink into your glass in what you assume is a peace offering before turning back to the others and chattering away with them. You listen quietly, observing the group as they laugh and chat, occasionally chiming in when they call for your input.
Another story gives way to the next, prompting a fresh round of laughter as you quietly cradle your drink and listen on.
As the night wears on, you decide to excuse yourself to the restroom to freshen up. The opportunity to step away from the group is a welcome one. They were all kind, lively, and welcoming in their own ways, but keeping up with them was exhausting. The inside jokes you had to pretend to understand. The stories from years gone by. The natural familiarity between them, forged through countless shared experiences. Watching it all unfold leaves a dull ache in your chest, like an echo lingering in an empty hall.
You feel like a puzzle piece from the wrong box, forcing itself into a space it was never meant to fill. No matter how hard you try, there are pieces of this world that will never belong to you.
After all, this wasn't your time.
Maybe it was the drink making the feeling sharper, but it had always been there. If anything, the alcohol had simply amplified it. As you slip away from the group, you feel like a ghost drifting through the crowd—present, yet unseen—as everyone carries on with their night.
And who were you to blame them? They were all here to have drinks, dance, and perhaps even find a paramour to take home before the morning sun rises. Why would they notice a ghost passing through their lives?
Even the group you just excused yourself from couldn't be blamed. How were they supposed to know that you weren't the friend they'd come to know and love? To them, nothing had changed. You were still the same woman they'd always known.
Only you knew otherwise. The truth remained yours alone to carry.
While it hurt both on the surface and somewhere deeper, part of you tries to convince yourself that you didn't mind it. Not really. You could sit back and observe, take in everything around you—the time period, the little nuances of everyone's relationships, the atmosphere that surrounds them.
In a strange way, being an outsider gave you a perspective no one else had. You were able to notice things they never would, to see this world from a distance. You noticed things they didn't think twice about—the slang woven into their conversations, the way certain songs made people smile with memories you couldn't possibly share, the little habits that belonged to a world you'd only ever known through stories.
Ah, that's what you were.
An outsider.
With a hollow sigh, you step into the quiet restroom. The face staring back at you in the mirror is still yours, the makeup Alastor had carefully applied earlier in the evening remaining mostly intact. Only the red on your lips was beginning to fade, softened by the drinks and food you've had throughout the night. You offer your reflection a smile, but it feels forced. It doesn't quite reach your eyes, and despite your best efforts, it slowly slips away.
Slipping your gloves off, cold water prickles your hands as you submerge them under the steady stream pouring from the faucet. You're tempted to splash your face to cool off, the heat from the liquor starting to get to you, but decide against it; you don't want to ruin all the hard work Alastor put into dolling up your face.
The door swings open, a half-drunk woman entering the restroom before stopping in her tracks when she realizes you're standing there. "Oh! Sorry, hon!"
She starts to stumble her way out, but you stop her, shuffling to grab your things before heading out. "No worries; I'm done. It's all yours now."
With a polite smile flashed her way as you exit the powder room, a quick, "Thanks!" trails behind you as the door swings shut. The loud chatter and music greet your ears once more, pulling you back into the bustling world of the speakeasy.
You pause for a moment, scanning the room as the energy slowly settles over you again—the laughter, the music, the movement of everyone around you. You try to let it rejuvenate your senses before finally making your way back.
"Hey there! What's a pretty sheba like you doing all by her lonesome?" A raspy voice says from your side, snapping your attention away. You find a man dressed in a gaudy green suit, his hair slicked back, and a cigarette hanging lazily between his split lips. The end glows a fiery ember as he inhales, slowly releasing a cloud of smoke that drifts toward you.
A perturbed feeling settles in your gut, eyebrows scunching as you turn your head away from the stifling smoke. You do not like this guy's smarmy air; he reeks of booze and bad business. A sleazy, almost lecherous smirk pulls at his lips as he leans further into your personal space.
"Come on, sweetheart. Don't tell me you're planning on spending the whole night looking pretty from the sidelines. Let me have a dance."
Oh, absolutely not.
"Uh, no, thank you. I'm here with my husband and some friends." The hairs on the back of your neck stand as you reply stoically, your discomfort steadily growing with every passing second he refuses to leave you alone.
"That's a downright shame! Pretty rude of them to leave you all by yourself, though, no?" He pouts mockingly. "Come on, just give me a chance. I'll show you a real good time."
The man's raspy voice lowers, the implication of his true meaning hanging in the air. Unable to hide the disgust twisting across your face, you take a step back. The more distance you can put between yourself and him, the better. You need to end this conversation here and now and get back to the others before he decides to push any further.
"I said no. I should really get back to my husband." You pray the tremor in your voice isn't obvious as you force a steadier tone, letting the firmness behind your words carry through. Your gloves slide back onto your hands as you speak, making sure the wedding band on your finger deliberately catches his attention.
A final, silent warning.
"Oh, but he doesn't have to know, now, does he?" The man has the audacity to place a hand on your shoulder, his touch remaining far longer than it should as he invades your space even further.
Fed up with this guy's audacity, you smack his hand off of you, your restraint finally snapping. "Don't touch me, you fucking creep! No means no. Even a dog knows what that means."
You don't give him a chance to respond, turning swiftly on your feet and disappearing into the crowd—you need to find the others. Alastor. Anyone, really. Better to be surrounded by people who know you than alone.
A burning heat courses through you, your pulse pounding in your ears. Why did some men have the nerve, the gall, to act that way? It didn't matter the time period; whether it was the 1930s or the 2020s, there would always be people like that. A tale as old as time, apparently.
Frustrated tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you'll be damned if you'll let this man hold that kind of power over you. Yes, it was uncomfortable. It was disgusting. And you had every right to cry about it. But you refuse to.
Not here.
Not now.
"Hey!"
Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man following after you, his hurried steps making it clear that he has no intention of letting you go.
Well, shit.
That heat of frustration vanishes, giving way to a bone-chilling dread as a knot tightens beneath your ribs. Was he really planning on following you?
Picking up the pace, you slip deeper into the crowd, muttering half-hearted apologies as you bump into people in your attempt to flee the man. The heels of your shoes nearly trip you a few times as your pace quickens with each frantic step. Your eyes dart around the room, scanning desperately, hoping and praying to find a familiar face. You don't care what deity, angel, or demon answers your prayer—anything, anyone to get you out of this mess.
That's when you spot him standing tall amidst the group around him. It feels as if the shadows themselves had swept away every distraction, leaving only him at the center of the room. Strangers peel aside one by one, like a parting sea, until you finally make it through the throng.
Relief crashes into you so suddenly that it feels like your knees are about to buckle as you're within reach, but you hold out, pushing the final few steps to reach Alastor. Your clammy hands wrap around his arm with a slight shudder, holding on tight when he jerks away from you—you imagine the unexpected feeling of someone suddenly clutching onto you is probably unnerving. But as you try to catch your breath, you only have half a mind to feel sorry.
Puzzled brown eyes snap to yours as Alastor takes in your panicked appearance—the fear residing in your wide eyes, the strands of hair messily sticking to your face as you catch your breath, the tremble in your hands as you cling to his side.
Honestly, you hadn't realized just how badly you were shaken. Not until now, with the one person who had become your anchor in this unfamiliar era standing right beside you, your grip tightening around him as if letting go would cast you into the dangers of the high seas.
"I said, hey!" Your pursuer finally catches up to you, slightly out of breath from weaving through the crowd. Whatever retort had been waiting on the tip of his tongue dies the moment he notices he's no longer alone with you.
Alastor's narrowed gaze drifts over the man before flickering back to you, brow arching in a silent question. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you cling to the last of your courage and force your voice to remain steady. "This is my husband—the one I was telling you about."
You watch with relieved satisfaction as the man's scrunched brows quickly shoot to his hairline, eyes darting back and forth between you and Alastor. A bead of sweat forms on his brow as he stumbles over his words.
"Y-you didn't say your husband was the Alastor Moreau!"
"Do we have a problem here?" Alastor's pointed voice cuts in, taking a step in front of you. His polite smile is anything but; the plastic grin sharpens, tightening at the edges. Something tells you the man should have walked away when he had the chance.
As gratifying as it is to watch his confidence crumble, the last thing you want is for this encounter to drag on any longer than it already has. "No, it just seemed this man needed to see you, that's all. He's about to leave now, right?"
"Uh, yeah! D-didn't mean any trouble! I'll be on my way, then." The sleazebag stammers, tripping over himself with every step backward he takes. His legs were nearly trembling like a rabbit cornered by a fox. Alastor's unwavering gaze never leaves him, tracking his every movement until he finally turns and melts into the crowd.
"Do you know him?" You realize Alastor's asking Mimzy, who had been standing there, watching the whole exchange. She squints at the retreating figure.
"I've seen 'im around. He's one of those boozehounds who fancies himself a real cake-eater."
"Hmm."
A few tense seconds pass as you all watch the crowd, long after the man has disappeared. Only when you're sure he's gone do you finally close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. A warm hand settles over yours, nearly causing you to jump out of your skin before realizing it belongs to Alastor. The tension leaves your shoulders as relief washes over you.
"Who knew those precious hands of yours could grip so tightly! Why, if you hold on any tighter, I might just lose circulation!"
"Oh! Sorry!" You release your hold on him. "I didn't mean to."
"Ahh, there's no need to fret." He waves you off. Now that you look at him, you notice he seems a little different. At some point during the night, he'd shed his suit jacket, leaving him in a dark red striped vest. The fitted fabric cinches neatly at his waist, giving his usual polished appearance a more relaxed air. For a moment, your attention catches there, lingering longer than it probably should. It was odd how easily your attention finds its way back to him, even after everything that just happened.
"You alright, girlie?" Mimzy comes into view, scanning you from head to toe, and drawing your attention.
"Yeah… he just wouldn't take no for an answer." When you notice her share a look with Alastor, you hastily try to diffuse the tension. "But it's fine! I'm fine. No need to go after him."
She doesn't look convinced, arms crossing over her chest, eyes scrutinizing you. But when Alastor cuts in with a simple, "Hm, well, if you say so!" in that light and airy tone of his, she takes the signal as a sign to move on.
"Fine. Something tells me he won't be bothering ya anymore, anyway." With a casual shrug, she turns, placing a hand on her hip.
As relief sweeps over you, you're sure your knees are going to buckle any moment. It seems like it's time to head back to the bar—you're in dire need of another drink after all of that. "I'm gonna go—"
"Go?! Go where?!" The blonde interjects loudly. A bit bewildered, you stare at her for a second, trying to figure out why she was concerned about where you were going so suddenly. It didn't seem like she had cared earlier when you separated from Alastor to sit around with the others.
"Nuh-uh! I don't think so. I know what you need: a good ol' dance!" She turns to Alastor, who seems to have a similarly baffled expression, though there's an underlying edge of uncertainty as he processes Mimzy's words. "Come on, Alastor, dollface. You haven't given your ol' wifey-poo a dance yet! Some husband you are."
Almost instantly, his eyes narrow into a scowl, clearly annoyed by her teasing. Her pout twists to a smug smirk, delighting in getting underneath his skin. For a brief moment, it looks as though he's weighing whether it's worth dignifying her comment with a response.
"It seems you're right." He eventually says, a warning hiding behind his smile. It's unmistakable, one that promises retaliation.
You barely have time to process it before his entire demeanor changes. His posture straightens, smile turning bright and dangerous, a familiar spark of mischief flickering to life. "Oh, would you look at that! Mr. Murray, Mimzy was just saying how she'd love to have a dance with you!"
A nearby, older man suddenly enters the picture as Alastor calls out to him, smoothly steering the blonde showgirl in his direction.
"Wha- hey!"
You guess Mr. Murray wasn't exactly her first choice, judging by the discreet dirty look she shoots Alastor's way before turning back to him with a sweet smile, immediately playing up her charm.
Yeah, you'll take that as a reminder to never annoy Alastor. Especially as you watch the corners of his eyes crinkle, his cheeks rising higher with that wicked grin of his. It was his turn to take delight in watching his friend's irritation. Though now you have to wonder—was she really just his friend, or was there more to their relationship?
"Well, my dear, shall we shake a leg?" Alastor's gaze falls over you, though he doesn't wait for your response. Instead, he takes hold of your hand, leading you to the dance floor where a crowd of patrons is swinging about with unrestrained energy.
"Wait! I-I don't know how!"
You try to slow him down, nerves making your grip tighten around his hand, but he only continues forward, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he says, "Not to worry, ma chère! Just follow my lead!"
The surefootedness in his bright tone manages to convince you, somehow, and as you follow after him, you decide to simply flow with it—like you've been doing the entire night. For once, you let yourself be guided instead of worrying about where you fit, trusting that wherever he led you, you'd be alright.
The jazz band picks up, melody rolling through the room in bright, lively bursts of energy as Alastor guides you to the dancefloor. The trumpet blares through the chatter of the crowd, piano notes forming a dance of their own that spurs couples and patrons to spin and sway underneath the hazy glow of lights.
With one more captivating grin, Alastor leads you in a dance with an almost irritating ease. As he guides you with his movements, you join the flow of swirling people, and when you worry that you're about to bump into them, deft feet swing you away. It was as if he knew where everyone would be before they even moved—like the music itself was his puppet.
"Relax, sweetheart," he smirks, amusement circling in his eyes. "Trust me! I'll make sure you don't miss a step."
That was easy for him to say. You've never danced like this before; what if you step on his feet? What if you trip and fall? What if you make a fool of yourself?
As your nerves bring about the dizzying thoughts, your pulse stumbles when he places a hand more firmly against your back to guide you through a sudden turn. Despite your embarrassment, laughter bubbles from your chest as the room tilts from the movement.
His grin widens. "See?"
Oh, he was such a smug bastard. And yet, it was curiously endearing.
The heat from his hand trickles into your skin, leaving behind a warmth like the sun on a mellow summer's day. You become intensely aware just how close you are—how little space remains between the two of you. Even as you try to desperately focus on the amused curve of his smile, the lingering warmth of his touch keeps pulling at your attention.
Vivid images flash through your mind: bronzed skin, taut with muscle and lined with scars. Ruby droplets of blood catch your attention, causing you to accidentally step on the toe of his shoe.
"Ah, what did I say?!"
"Sorry!"
Why the hell were you thinking about him shirtless? Now is clearly not the time for that. A rush of heat floods through your body as you try to shake the thoughts—the feelings—away.
Follow his lead. Just flow with it.
You focus on his movements, each one confident enough that you find yourself following without much thought, muscles relaxing with each step. As the melody leaps from the piano, Alastor matches it perfectly, spinning you beneath his arm and pulling you back into step in one fluid movement.
A giddy burst of laughter, like the one from earlier, surfaces from your chest as you sway along, matching his motions. Your laughter is quickly followed by his as Alastor senses you finally letting your guard down; you're not fighting yourself for once. He continues to move you through the crowd with a charming ease, not so much as a glance in the other dancers' directions.
At first, it feels like every turn is rehearsed. But as the seconds slip by, you realize they're anything but, each movement performed with the same theatrical confidence he brings to everything else. Before you know it, you're keeping pace with him comfortably, meeting each sway, turn, and dip head-on. It felt as if your body already knew the movements, as if they were programmed into your feet to turn when he did. To twirl when he raised his arm. To step back when he did.
You didn't have to think about the motions anymore, your body on autopilot.
It felt strange, but through the elated haze washing over you as you twirled and danced to your heart's content, the feeling slipped away. Why would you focus on it when you were having so much fun?
And as the song slows, coming to an end, you're left breathless, dizzy with a euphoria you haven't felt in a long, long time. A grin just as bright as your own meets you as you take one final step back from Alastor, the piano playing its final note before delving into the next tune.
"Hm, what's that I hear?" Alastor's eyes are on you, smug grin magnifying as he bows down to your level, hand cupping his ear with a dramatic flair. "You were saying?"
With a playful roll of your eyes, you say, "Yeah, yeah. You were right. I just needed to follow your lead. Honestly, though, it's really unfair how good you are at everything."
"So I've been told!"
His broad shoulders shake with unbridled laughter, the bright timbre as melodic as a songbird. The sound fits right in with the joyful atmosphere around you as the band continues to play. And when the seconds go by, his chirping chortles become infectious as you join him with a bubbling giggle of your own.
As the chuckles die down, leaving only the light feeling of merriment in its wake, Alastor holds an open palm out to you. "What do you say, ma chère? Shall we have another?"
"And deprive your other admirers of the opportunity?" Glancing to the side, you could spot the way people watch the two of you—watch him. Women and men alike are drawn to his every move; it's almost as if they all have stars in their eyes, wonderstruck by the charismatic radio host and his charm.
"Ah, but you see, those admirers pale in comparison to the company I presently find myself keeping."
"Well, if you insist. Besides, you make it hard to say no to you."
His grin widens, a thoroughly pleased wink following close behind.
"Ha! That's the spirit, darling!"
And you're drawn back into a spellbinding dance, not giving a care as time flows by deeper into the night.
After indulging in a couple of dances with Alastor, Eileen steals you for a few of her own. The next hour slips by in a blur of lively music and endless laughter, your inhibitions slowly melting away with each song. You stop worrying about where to step, what to say, or whether you belong here at all. Instead, you let the music carry you, following wherever the rhythm—and the people around you—take you.
By the time the lot of you finally tire yourselves out, you're all breathless and grinning from ear to ear. The group drifts back toward one of the nearby tables, eager for another round of drinks and whatever finger foods remain untouched. Sinking into your chair with a contented sigh, you feel a pleasant warmth hum beneath your skin, a light buzz hanging around in your system. For a little while, it's easy to forget that any of this is borrowed time.
Mimzy eventually wanders over, finally free from her trap, immediately lamenting to Alastor about how dare he pawn her off to Mr. Murray when he knew exactly how much she despised the man. As you watch the two of them bicker, tossing quips back and forth with dramatic eye rolls and exaggerated scoffs, you're finally able to put your finger on what their dynamic reminds you of: childhood friends, like siblings. The teasing, the effortless banter, the way neither of them hesitates to poke at the other—it all feels achingly familiar.
A fond smile finds its way onto your face, warmth blooming in your chest as Eileen jumps in to fan the flames of their playful argument. The sight stirs memories within you, drifting to the surface like bubbles rising from the depths of a quiet lake. While it seems you didn't have any siblings here, flashes of your modern life come suddenly—family gatherings, friends laughing until their sides hurt, the comfortable chaos of people who knew one another inside and out.
It makes you miss the straightforward familiarity of home more than you'd realized.
That same melancholy from earlier resurfaces, reminding you that you don't belong here. That no one actually knows you here. It's not you that Eileen is friends with—that Alastor is married to. The woman they think they know is long gone, and you've been forced to take her place. To pretend you fit into a life that wasn't yours, as if you hadn't been ripped away from one that was.
Grinning faces blur around you as you step past them. The band's lively tune fades into the background, drowned out by the thoughts swirling through your mind. Even as you step out onto the balcony at the back of the room, the cold wind biting at your cheeks, the exuberant chatter inside dwindles to a distant murmur. Hidden within the night's shadows, you let out a slow breath.
A glowing sliver of moonlight curves high in the sky, casting a subtle sheen over the city's horizon. It felt as if even the moon was mocking you in this moment, grinning like the Cheshire cat as the weight of your feelings bears down on you.
Shoulders falling with the heavy weight of your emotions, you lean against the swirling iron railing, hoping the fresh night air will lighten your mood. Or at least distract you from it as you reflect on your time here—the people you've met, and the experiences you've had. Images flicker in your mind like scattered photographs. Faces you recognize. Eileen. The others you met tonight. The place you've come to call home. Minuit. Alastor.
Bold. Crimson blood.
A shiver racks your form, and you chalk it up to the weather, but deep down, you know why the goosebumps prick along your skin. That bloodied scene would forever be etched into your memories, something you'll long remember, even after you've found your way home—if you ever do.
It seems as if speaking or thinking about him summons the man, as Alastor appears behind you. "Whatever would bring you out here for?"
Quiet footsteps come to a stop beside you as he leans against the railing, mirroring your posture. A beat of silence passes as you sit with your thoughts. The night's whispering hush curls around you, broken by the occasional shout of a drunkard wandering the streets below.
"Well?"
A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you shake your head with a doleful slant. "It's nothing."
How could you tell him? Where would you even begin? It's not like you can just come out and say, "So, um, funny story... I'm actually from, like, a century in the future! And the woman you think you're married to isn't really me. And everyone here thinks they know someone who no longer exists. None of these people know the real me because I don't belong here."
Yeah, you don't think that would go over very well. You can picture it now: one thin brow arched higher than the other, that inquisitive look of his settling over his features before writing you off as having had one too many drinks and insisting you call it a night.
Alastor wouldn't believe you. And even if he did, how could he possibly understand?
Another quiet beat hangs in the air as you both fall silent. The only clear sound piercing through is the steady patter of Alastor's fingers thrumming against the railing.
"You know, there's something rather charming about a city after midnight. Everyone putting on their little performances, each with a story of their own. It's quite entertaining, really." Glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, you spot a musing smile gracing his lips as he gazes out at the cityscape, dazzling lights reflecting in his sepia-colored stare.
"Though, I suppose that's what makes it all so fascinating, isn't it? Everyone has a part to play, whether they realize it or not."
A small, humorless thought flickers through your mind.
A part to play.
How fitting. Because that's all this was, wasn't it? A performance. A role you've been thrust into. And yet, somewhere along the way, you'd started caring about the people watching.
"Besides!" He swings over to face you suddenly, two pointer fingers pressed against the corners of your mouth, pulling your lips into a smile. "If you smile from ear to ear, you'll have nothing to fear!"
There he goes again, talking about smiling.
The lingering warmth of his fingertips remains against your cheeks even as you rub at the spot. "Doesn't it ever get exhausting, though? It's so… tiring, having to pretend that everything is fine all the time."
"Ma chèrie, there's no time for exhaustion when you have to prove yourself to the world." Alastor rolls his eyes, a familiar dramatization in them, but beneath the performance, you catch something softer; a brief moment of contemplation hidden beneath the swirling brown of his gaze.
A cold wave of clarity settles over you, your chest aching as a puzzle piece finally snaps into place. Of course, he would believe that. He was forced to. Considering the time period and the world he grew up in, you can only imagine how often he had to swallow his frustration—his pride—and keep moving forward, even when the odds were stacked against him. The unfair barriers placed in front of him, and so many others like him, were not something he could just ignore. And despite all that, he still carved out a name for himself.
To become as successful as he was—a well-known radio host in the 1930s South, during the Jim Crow era—he must have had to fight for every inch of ground he stood on. To smile through the moments that hurt. To carry himself with confidence even when the world around him tried to convince him he didn't deserve it.
No wonder he forced himself to grin and bear it all. To prove to anyone who wanted to belittle him that he was in control. That they couldn't get underneath his skin, even if they already had. Even if some wounds were deeper than he would ever let anyone see.
A knot twists in your stomach; your earlier worries seem like nothing compared to what he's probably gone through—and still goes through.
“Life throws all kinds of obstacles your way; there’s no time to mope around and pity yourself. Instead, use that energy to rise above it all”
"You're right… I'm sorry."
"Ah-ah! Since I'm feeling so generous tonight, I'll clue you in on another secret!" He gestures lazily, as if revealing a modest secret. "Never apologize for something when you didn't even do anything wrong! That's how you give others the impression they can take advantage of you."
"Ok, sor—," you start, but pause when his eyes narrow at you, smile dropping to a thin, unimpressed line.
"Oh… Right."
"Right!" He repeats, bright grin back in place. With a theatrical twirl, Alastor faces the night sky, grinning from ear to ear as he takes in the crisp breeze brushing past. "And that's how it's done, my dear!"
A burst of laughter echoes off the balcony as you take in all of his exaggerated antics. Damn, he sure knew how to get a laugh as vibrant as a rainbow out of you.
"There's that smile! Good girl." Alastor boops your nose, chuckling at the way your face scrunches and pulls away from his featherlight touch that tickles your skin.
"How about we hoof it one last time before calling it a night?" He presents an open hand toward you, the other tucked behind his back in a gentlemanly fashion. The tilt of his head catches the moonlight, sending streaks of silver through his chestnut waves. Your heart skips a beat as he looks at you with those glimmering russet eyes, glowing with an enthralling mischief that you willingly let pull you in.
"Sure. Lead the way, Al," you giggle, feeling much lighter than you did earlier, head finally free from the swirling doubts that had been plaguing you. Placing your hand in his, you let him guide you back to the dance floor for a final hop and twirl of the night. Your steps carry a sprightliness that had been hiding beneath the storm clouds of your shadowed thoughts, now shining as brightly as the moon above.
It isn't until the world has long settled into the quiet, deep blue hours of the early morning that you find yourself walking through the sleeping streets of your neighborhood, finally making your way back home.
You had waved goodbye to Eileen as she clung onto Leon, clearly having had one too many drinks as her speech slurred incoherently. The rest of the group exchanged their goodbyes, all full of cheer from the merrymaking that carried on throughout the night. One by one, everyone had gone off in different directions: Mimzy begrudgingly stayed behind to finish up her work at the club, Leon took Eileen home, Wilson and Louis planned to stop by another speakeasy after walking Irene back.
Now, as you quietly walk side by side with Alastor, the exhaustion from the night's rollercoaster of emotions starts to catch up to you. After all the drinking and dancing, there's a heaviness in your eyelids, your muscles, as you drag your feet across the pavement. The click-clack of your heels echoes with the chirping crickets, the croaking frogs.
Your clothes were steeped with the stale scent of tobacco smoke and sweet liquor, the perfume on your skin long gone after hours spent in the speakeasy. Even as you hold onto Alastor to keep your balance, the familiar spice of his cologne—the one that had you all flustered earlier in the night—is drowned out by the lasting ghosts of whiskey clinging to his clothes, the sharp bite of ash joining the mix with every shift of fabric.
"Gonna have to do the laundry when I wake up."
"Hmm, with the way you're walking like a baby deer finding its footing, I don't think you'll be doing much of anything in the morning!"
"Hey! I can walk perfectly fine on my own!" You unhook yourself from him, walking a few paces before stumbling over your feet and falling to the ground. A spell of boisterous laughter makes it feel like the ground is shaking beneath you as Alastor stands over you, clutching his sides. You just stare up at him with a pout, unimpressed.
"What was that about walking fine on your own?" He tries to stifle his laughter, but ends up howling some more. "All I see before me is a little fawn still trying to find her footing."
"Ugh, whatever, you jerk," you grumble, brushing off the dirt on your knees once you stand up. He at least had the decency to hold a hand out to help you stand up—even though it was trembling with each stifled chortle rumbling in his chest. "Come on, it wasn't that funny!"
"Oh, my dear. Yes, it was!"
His laughter follows you down the quiet streets, warm and familiar, chasing away the remnants of the heaviness that had clung to you throughout various points of the night. And as you walk beside him, beneath the fading moonlight, you realize something strange.
For a moment, you had forgotten to feel like an outsider.
If you've made it this far, I want to thank you for sticking through this behemoth of a chapter! I don't know what came over me, LOL, but I guess the planets and stars aligned in a way that let me focus solely on crunching this out. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) I don't think this'll ever happen again...
Anyways, what did you guys think? Any thoughts about his POV at the start, when he did your makeup, or if we think he might have a new target on his list of victims? ( • ⩊ • ) I did a lot of reading about makeup and outfit trends at the time, along with general information about speakeasies and the kinds of slang people used back then! It was pretty fun learning about.
I hope we get an Al and Mimzy duet next season, because I'd love to see more of their dynamic! It was cool seeing her in his flashback. Speaking of that episode, the characters we see around him in that moment, when he's playing the piano, are the group of friends mentioned here: Wilson, Irene, and Louis! I took the liberty of giving them names and personalities for the purposes of this story.
One final, silly little note: was I inspired by a fan-made Alastor perfume I bought weeks ago when writing how his cologne smells? Why, yes. Yes, I was. (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)❀
Translations and terminology:
-boozehound: a drunk
-cake-eater: a lady’s man
-shake a leg, hoof it: to dance
-ma chèrie: my darling
As always, thanks for reading! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
➜ SUMMARY ⋮ alastor finds his greatest challenge in a seamstress who hates him a little less than they pretend to.
➜ CONTAINS ⋮ alastor x gn!reader, the word seamstress is used but it’s neutral, reader has hair long enough to tie up tho, ooc alastor probably but it’s my fic so idc, he’s pathetic and ravenous excuse my freakness, so much tension but no actual canoodling my apologies
➜ WC ⋮ 2.1k
a/n ⋮ first time posting fanfic and i cant believe it’s for hazbin hotel. 🙂↕️ i kinda hate this but i need it out of my drafts, happy holidays !
Pointed dress shoes click along the pavement of a bustling shopping street, sinners warily skirting past the enigmatic demon in red who hums a jaunty tune under his breath like he wasn’t a feared Overlord who incited whispers everywhere he went.
Alastor turns a corner and feels his pulse thrum beneath the skin, fluffed-up deer ears hooking on the sound of busy chatter he can already make out from the building along the next stretch of walkway.
Before him was a boutique. It was a quaint little establishment that looked just as it did the first time he’d stumbled upon it freshly out of the grave nearly a century ago. Almost opulent in a way that nothing in Hell ever really was, like whoever owned it took great pride in their business and the appearance with which it presented itself. Someone of taste in this dreadfully barren wasteland of hopeless sinners.
There’s thorny bougainvillea crawling up the exterior walls, curling around sleek, ivory pillars until they can’t possibly grow any taller. The doors, large, mahogany things with shining golden nobs, glint with lamplight from the lanterns fixed to the overhang above it.
Grand was the only word for it. Even in its humble size. It wasn’t such an eyesore like Velvette’s own fashion department up in Vee Tower. The one you’d lamented so many times before.
With a burst of magic, the doors sweep open and Alastor steps over the threshold, but not a soul turns to look his way. For a moment, the Radio Demon doesn’t even seem to exist.
The ceilings around him are tall, more so than they seem from the outside, and hang with rose-petaled chandeliers that cast warm light across the room.
Alastor’s shadow darts off somewhere, blending into the shaded corners of the room like it’s lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to stir up trouble. Every so often, a candle's flame flickers with its presence.
He points his gaze outward, watching your assistants sweep about carrying billows of fabric and lacy finery bundled in their arms, close to toppling over completely. They talk so fast that Alastor can’t make out a word of it, not that he cares to try. He’s used to their gossip enough to drown it out on instinct alone, whispering about him, about you, about the two of you or what he wishes you were.
Crimson eyes sweep the room before landing promptly on your back, You, who stands amidst the calamity like a lightning rod catching sparks with your clothes immaculate and your posture poised, but the minor cracks in your facade don’t escape his notice.
You’ve got that crease between your brows from the frown that permanently worries your lips, and spirals of hair fall free of the normally pristine updo he sees you don often. From a glance alone, Alastor could tell you were focused, busy.
And he just couldn’t have that.
He steps forward, long legged strides winding through the hustle of worklife with careless ease, and taps his microphone along the floor tauntingly. That golden grin is stuck permanently to his face, but it always looks more genuine here, even when he’s up to no good.
Especially when he’s up to no good.
“How fares Hell’s most ambitious seamstress?”
It’s like clockwork, how you lock up before relaxing with that weary sigh Alastors heard so many times before.
You clutch your pen just a bit tighter, turning to him with a glare that could levy entire mountains. A shiver runs up his back, that tingling kind that coiled at the base of his spine with something like sadistic satisfaction.
You don’t waste time, narrowed gaze trailing down the list in your hand with a flexed jaw.
“I’ve got four alterations, one Goetia party gown and a dozen wedding dresses to tailor by the end of next week. Did you know winter is wedding season in Hell? Me either.” You seem out of breath, but more than that, irritated, eyes cutting up to him with hellfire sparking at the corners.
“Tell me, why have you decided to forsake me with your presence today, Alastor?”
Alastor’s grin curls wider if at all possible. He enjoys the way your words bite, the way you treat him like you would any other sinner to walk through those doors. Like you weren’t scared.
He found that in all the years he’d known you, you weren’t frightened of much. No boogeyman nor cryptid creature could shake your nerves of steel. Alastor often asked why you’d no interest in being an Overlord. Your response? It was childish.
He props his hands upon the microphone and digs it into the ground in a way that makes your eye twitch when it grates on the floors you’d probably had polished the day before.
“Oh, I was in the neighborhood. I seem to have found myself in a bit of trouble and ended up ripping a sleeve in the commotion, fabric is such a fragile thing.”
Your eyes narrow, briefly darting to the torn sleeve in question. He could fix it himself. You knew it, so did he. Alastor was only here to annoy you.
“And I suppose this trouble came in the form of a certain Media Overlord you no doubt picked a fight with?” You accuse, almost sneering at him.
Alastor rests a clawed hand over his undead heart, so very appalled. “Me? Stir the pot? Never.”
You give him a sour look.
“Either way, I require your expert assistance, I can’t very well walk around looking any less than my best, now can I?”
Chest puffed, your brows furrow in dismay, gripping the notepad in your hand so hard the open page rips. You stare intently as though silently willing him to spontaneously burst into flames.
“It is the busiest week of my entire year and you decide with what little sense that you have remaining that I must be free for a torn sleeve? Must you always be such an inconvenience, Alastor?”
He hums. “Only on days ending with Y.”
Vexed, you turn your back to him, sauntering off with the aggravated click of your shoes along wood floors.
“There’s a thousand other tailors in Hell, piss off and find one.”
“Oh, come now, my dear,” He beckons with a jolly laugh, following after you like some lovestruck puppy. Or, as you may call him, a fly that needs swatted. But Alastor knows you, and he knows exactly which strings to pull.
“A thousand others, but none as capable as you. Spare a moment for a loyal customer who so adores your craftsmanship?”
You stop, sharp, with shoulders raised up to your chin, and Alastor can hear the internal stream of curses you don’t dare utter.
Praise, as it would have it, was your Achilles heel.
A second, then two, before you raise a hand and whistle sharply into the room, flanked by a nameless assistant in the next moment.
You shove your notebook into her hands, ordering something Alastor doesn’t care to listen to before the demon— and all other staff, for that matter— scurries off. The room is emptied in five seconds flat. You ran a tight ship.
“Come. Before you cut into my lunch break.” You don’t look back to make sure he’s following you, but the telltale click-clacking of Alastor’s hooves answer that query fast enough.
He lets you lead him along, close enough to feel the annoyance in each step you take, but not enough to risk maiming, and when you swivel around with an about-face, he tips his head in feigned cluelessness. Always pushing.
You frown. “Must you stand there like an idiot? Your jacket. I can't mend it if you’re still in it.”
Alastor smiles wider, almost daring. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”
You don’t seem to appreciate that much, and to avoid any workplace accidents involving fabric scissors or anything of the like, Alastor sheds his jacket with little more than a soft hum of enthusiasm, hand hanging limply when you snatch it from his claws with a huff.
Like a pampered house pet, he makes himself comfortable, leaning against your workstation with sleeves rolled high and scarlet irises glued to your every move.
“I’m charging you extra, for the attack on my patience.”
“As much as you wish, my dear.”
You sigh wearily.
He watches you like that, annoyingly present and ever so attentive to every last twitch of your fingers as you pluck a spool of thread and a microscopic needle from the pin cushion next to it. You preferred to do it the old fashioned way. Alastor often teased that the two of you were kindred spirits in that manner.
Until you threw a mannequin at him for that comment.
“If you’d let me outfit you with something better, the torn sleeve wouldn’t matter. Your idea of fashion is positively suicidal.” You mutter with a grimace, lithely guiding thread through fabric to mend the torn shoulder ripping a hole in his outerwear.
“It’s the opinion of most that the customer is always right, dear.” He muses with light laughter.
You scoff, focused. “Like hell they are.”
Often times, it was your way or no way with you. Something others might’ve found less than palatable, and yet Alastor had always found it impossibly entertaining.
“Perhaps one day I’ll allow your creative mind to run amuck with my aesthetics,” Says the ruby-eyed sinner, claws tapping against the desk beneath his hand. “In exchange for a night out on the town with yours truly.”
Blank, your eyes look up, before returning to the garment in front of you. Almost bored. It was about the twelfth time he’d asked, and that was just this month.
“Oh, Alastor. My afterlife is not mine to enjoy. I live in service of the people.” You drawl sarcastically.
“Hm, how valiant.”
It’s an excuse, one you’d used several times before. You’re too busy, you renounced his taste in restaurants, you had nothing to wear. Alastor thought you just liked to be chased, almost as much as he liked to chase.
No sooner than the last stitch being tugged taut and tied off does Alastor’s sentient shadow reach its claw out from the depths, tugging the leg of your chair until you’re brought face to face with the Overlord before you.
Strangely, the closeness seems to soften your edges, if only enough that you don’t immediately jump to bite his head off for the maneuver.
“I confess, I’m not only here for a measly tear.”
“I surmised.” You confirm.
He grins, strained and a sort of pitiful that only the Radio Demon could pull off.
“How ravishing you are when you make me beg.”
You exhale through your nose, the closest sound to a laugh he’d ever gotten from you, and stand from the chair with ease, so close he can feel every even breath you take.
“I’m not so easily charmed, Alastor, you know that. You’ll be begging a long time.”
His heart pumps in a way it hadn’t since he was alive. You set his senses on fire, nerves alight with a bleeding heat that wanted nothing more than to have you. Alastor had always been a greedy man, but this greed was new, different. It bloomed beneath the chest and caged around his organs like ivy, clutching tighter with every leap and hurdle you led him through just for the pleasure of knowing you.
Alastor chuckles a sound low in the chest, his voice a long suffering sound. “My dear, you are so very cruel.”
With eyes glued to his, you swing the jacket over his sturdy shoulders and slip each arm through their sleeves, nimble fingers running down his front to straighten the lapels and drag over each individual button like a taunt.
“We are in Hell, after all.” You hum, like a siren's lure to a bewitched sailor.
You pull away much quicker than he’d like, but not before brushing a hand along his chin, lingering just long enough to leave tingles behind. “Fee’s on your tab. Make an appointment next time, Alastor, I don’t take walk-ins. Even for loyal customers.”
Past his jaw, down his neck, all the way across the right shoulder. And then gone.
He supposes he’s meant to feel scolded, but Alastor only feels reborn. The slightest inkling of interest from you was enough to keep him going for the next century.
Eyes like rubies follow you as you go, lingering along your silhouette as hot as a brand that only fades once you’re out of sight.
The boutique kicks back up around him, beckoned to life like it’d finally been given permission to exist, and Alastor is left burning a hole through the door you’d exited out of with his eyes.
𑣲 SYNOPSIS. You're peacefully asleep with the Radio Demon in your bed. What could possibly go wrong?
𑣲 PAIRING. Alastor x AFAB/Female!Reader
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 1.9k
𑣲 CONTENT WARNINGS. Noncon, somnophilia, unconscious oral/cunnilingus, restraint, P-in-V penetration, internal ejaculation, possessive/objectifying language, predator/prey dynamics, torn clothing, bodily fluids, & romanticized abuse
𑣲 A/N. Based off of an anonymous request I received. You know who you are. >:) Enjoy the filth, sickos. ("Un Petit Morceau" means "a little bit," by the way!) MINORS DNI.
The Radio Demon sighed.
The warm rays from Hell's perpetual vermilion skies filtered in through the windows of your room, their slight variation in vibrancy the only indicator it was morning. It bathed the bedsheets and your slumbering, peaceful form aglow, washing out every other hue in favor of its signature redness—his favorite color. He had always thought it suited you; he'd imagine how it would look on you in different ways, from cocktail dresses to corsets that would flatter your frame, and how even the blood of those who'd wronged you both would adorn you.
You were ever the most darling sight to behold, even when unconscious—hair fanned out around you like a halo as if evidence of your unholy divinity, limbs tangled within an ocean of silk, lips parted slightly as your chest languidly heaved with every breath you took…
Alastor realized—with a tenderness that was once foreign—that he was staring, and you remained none the wiser.
A clawed hand reached out slowly before brushing delicately against your cheek. With a smile only ever reserved for you and for quiet moments such as these, he wondered what exactly he had done to deserve your presence in the afterlife. His gaze then dropped to your parted lips, at how pleasant they looked, at how inviting they were…
Shifting slightly reminded him of the throbbing and rather solid problem confined within his pajama pants.
Well.
He was certain you wouldn't have minded. After all, you were the picturesque toy for him to do with as he pleased; you with your unmarred innocence and pliant body, your enticing softness and supple flesh.
No, you wouldn't have minded at all if he had a little taste, now would you?
Carefully, so as to not rouse you from your sleep, Alastor shimmied out of his trousers slowly. His undergarments followed suit, ditched atop the heap of fabric on the floor.
With a hushed hiss escaping him, his tip met with the coolness of the room's air. Already his cock was weeping beads of precum—the pearlescent liquid trailing its way down his hardened length.
Oh, if only you knew the effect you had on him even when blissfully unaware, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed as you dreamt away, your concentration clearly stolen elsewhere in a place he couldn't quite reach.
A minuscule, sleepy groan passed your lips unbidden just then. How adorable.
Alastor set about rearranging you almost as if you were a fragile doll made of the finest china, deliberately moving you until you were no longer in a curled up position.
Once he had laid you out carefully upon the bed, your sheer babydoll nightgown had ridden up, exposing your cotton panties that now unabashedly peeked out. It was an all-too-tantalizing sight; one that made his cock twitch with renewed intrigue. He ghosted his knuckles down your clothed slit, a voracious hunger in his eyes as he felt the way your entrance tightened reflexively at his featherlight touch. Almost knowingly. Almost as if it was imploring the monster to come inside and make a home for himself.
"Ma belle, the things you do to me," he whispered into the silence of the night that promised to keep his sins a secret—even the one he was about to commit—voice low and gravelly with desire that pooled deep into his gut.
He was now sat back on his haunches at the foot of the bed, head tilted to the side, looking every part the predator assessing his prey. Alastor openly admired you in all your relaxed glory for just a moment longer. So tranquil you were, still unaware of the unholiness he would soon devote in your name…
With startling ease, he then used his claws to slice cleanly through the pure cotton, the noise of it ripping the only other sound aside from your steady breathing and his more laborious breaths.
His breath almost caught in his throat at how your cunt was now presented bare before him. Alastor nearly cooed out loud at how you squirmed in your restful state, your body recognizing what had just happened while your mind remained obliviously caught in whatever scene your subconscious was playing for you.
Alastor wondered what you were dreaming of. Was it something from your past that you had not yet revealed to him? Your present, instead? Or perhaps your future—one where you undeniably and wholeheartedly belonged to him?
No matter what it was, the demon would see to it that he'd seep into the cracks of your dreams himself, especially if it meant bringing this saccharine cunt—and the rest of you—into his possession.
Positioning his mouth over your exposed clit, he gave it a quick and chaste kiss before nudging his tongue almost tentatively between your folds, your heady scent now more intense as it intoxicated him. At the slightest taste of you, a small groan emanated from deep within his chest while his eyes rolled back into his skull; you tasted every bit as divine as you looked.
Crimson eyes flickered upward towards your countenance that remained serene despite his ministrations. You were still so adorably oblivious to everything surrounding you.
"Bon appétit, ma chère," whispered Alastor as he gently spread your legs open and held them down with a possessive grip. Without further preamble, he delved his tongue once more betwixt your lower lips, the flesh there beginning to moisten with your essence as he earnestly ate you out like you were his last meal. Obscene slurping noises accompanied the way he undulated his tongue without shame—the muscle swirled around your clit a few times, then side-to-side, before it would go on to be joined with his lips as he suckled at the nub.
In doing so, you subconsciously jerked in his hold, brows furrowing as little gasps left you. His ears flicked in interest at the sound, but his focus did not stray from suctioning the pearl nestled at the apex of your thighs. After a few more seconds, his tongue traveled down towards your slick entrance before sliding inside. The appendage elongated within you slowly; its tip brushed against your cervix before retracting to roll up and down the walls of your inner canal, searching for the spot he knew would make your toes curl in your sleep.
Once he had found what he sought—evident by your increased squirming and soft whines rising in volume—he ensured all his attention would not leave it untouched. By now, you were lightly thrashing at the stimulation, yet he kept his attention fixated on it; his claws applied more pressure to your plush skin, effectively keeping your moving thighs from closing and clamping around his head.
Still fast asleep, your orgasm crashed down upon you, his tongue relentless as he wrung every last second of it out of you. With a satisfied grunt, Alastor pulled back from your drooling cunt—the motion causing a string of his saliva to stretch between his mouth and your labia.
He took a moment to admire the lewd display you unknowingly offered him while you sleepily murmured, your mind tarrying elsewhere.
You looked to be in a state of absolute ruination without even being aware of it. Your hair was tousled, sweat beaded along the alluring curve of your throat, and your expression had settled back into one of undisturbed blankness. At the sight, Alastor felt his cock become impossibly harder.
Well, now with you being sufficiently prepared…
The demon pushed your thighs to the sides of your head, their backs pressing into the pillow that your head rested against. One hand then guided his dripping length into your heat. The moment he felt himself encompassed entirely by you, he groaned out your name. It took him a fair amount of restraint to avoid cumming into you right then and there—yet his smile only widened.
He was going to make sure you felt him even in your dreams, even if they didn't involve him.
It was a languid pace he set, his hips lazily thrusting into you as he fondly looked down at your placid visage, gaze searching for any potential signs of stirring. When he found none, he began to piston into you with more purpose, but not with enough force to wake you.
Plap, plap, plap—the sound of his pelvis striking the backs of your thighs filled the room, which was now thick with the aroma of sex. His breathing became more ragged.
"Yes, take all of me," Alastor murmured though you could not hear him.
Your pussy continued to welcome him, squelching as your hole greedily accepted each and every thrust.
The beginnings of perspiration gathered on his pallid skin, yet this did nothing to deter him from chasing his release by using your pliable body. With each plunge into you, the bed creaked beneath the force; its noisiness joined the cacophony that was his breathing and the pleasured, tiny whimpers he elicited from you.
His once measured thrusts were gradually becoming more erratic, and the tension within his gut was growing more and more taut the longer his eyes drank in your disheveled form taking him so well, so obediently, so dutifully.
A low, condescending croon came from him. "You love it when I fuck you like this, don't you, my little sleepy doe? You're doing so well for me… Oh, yes you are!"
Your brow was set once more, and he would've thought you had heard him and responded by the way you softly whined next, if it weren't for how your eyes remained shut and your breathing stayed level.
"Hush now," the demon said in a subdued tone, as if placating a fussy child. "You are safe with me…"
His precum and your fluids coalesced into a shallow puddle, the combination dripping out of you onto the once-pristine bedsheets. He paid it no mind as he threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned in closer, forearms caging you in as his lips grazed your temple tenderly—or with as much tenderness as a monster like him could muster.
"You're mine."
The pleasure winding around his core tighter and tighter finally snapped in tandem with his equanimity. A guttural groan tore from him as his balls drew up before his hot, white cum was pumped into you. Alastor's hips stuttered, the last of his composure breaking.
"There we go," he cooed breathlessly, giving you a few final lazy thrusts, his spend thoroughly painting your inner canal. It was a claim upon your body that you would barely remember.
Finally, he pulled his cock out from your warmth, and a gasp nearly escaped him. His cum dribbled out of you, mingling with the mess beneath your ass; a view that was enough to make any man erect again. He gathered what leaked from you on one fingertip, privately deeming it an ungrateful waste, then pressed it back inside.
Delicately, Alastor returned you to your former position. He then rose and stepped back from the bed to admire his handiwork while retrieving the clothing he had discarded across the floorboards.
To anyone else, you remained the picture of innocence. Alastor knew better—or fancied that he did.
No, The Radio Demon mused to himself with a satiated hum, you surely wouldn't mind that you had let him have a taste—even without the mildest inkling of a clue in having done so.
So... Apparently Ellipsus thinks my filthy smutty erotica is at more of an academic reading level than my OC x Canon fic wip and it's frying me so bad LMAOOOOO
𝐂𝐖: P in V, Oral (F! Receiving), Clit stimulation, Doggy style, Breeding kink, Cream pie, Pussy slapping, Mentions of murder and death, Alastor is feral for his wife, Alastor speaks French, Old Susan is the (racist) neighbor who comes a’knocking
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: The ritual worked. After years of failing to get in contact with the other side, it finally worked. The fog of all of Alastor’s miserable attempts finally recedes on a warm Sunday night, and in comes the visceral urge to celebrate with you, his wife — who religiously goes to bed with her thighs clenched together, aching and yearning because he can’t always satisfy you. But tonight, Alastor will finally satiate your appetite with the fruits of his labor.
Time and time again Alastor had dragged his feet towards the bucket of water perched on the porch of the old, dilapidated shack he retreated to every other week, and he had dumped his hands in it and scrubbed viciously till the stinging ache of sore skin repelled the inadequacy, the disappointment of yet another fruitless ritual.
Still, the pain eventually subsided, the stretch of marshy land in between his misdeeds and the home where he masqueraded as a civilized man long enough to let thoughts slip unbidden.
— Give up.
— You’re a failure.
— You will exist in Hell a tortured soul.
And they swarmed Alastor’s mind on the entire trek back home like a horde of agitated bees, unable to be swatted away, leaving his hands protesting in agony as he curled them into fists for nothing.
The worst part was that he couldn’t carelessly fling aside the rifle slung over his back and collapse onto the couch in his clothes and everything. No, Alastor was a married man. A married man couldn’t rudely announce himself by kicking open the door and rattling the foundation of the house you, his lovely wife of 3 years, had made into a home.
Not only would disrespecting your humble home be a punishable offense, but Alastor also couldn’t allow you to see beyond his low spirits, to discover his misery. He couldn’t. Otherwise, he feared you would find out that his mumbled complaints about failing to treat you to the spoils of his labor in fresh, tender venison was simply a metaphor.
Because Alastor was a skilled hunter — with no gratitude to his late-father.
He could provide until the population of swamp-dwelling deer dwindled to near extinction, and he always took down a stag beforehand in the hopes of feeding you instead of another lucky alligator.
So, when he returned empty-handed, it was always intentional rather than accidental.
You didn’t know that, though. You didn’t know that there was more to Alastor Hartfelt, the toast of New Orleans, than meets the eye. You had no idea, not a sneaking suspicion, that the reason behind your husband’s inability to put food on the table had nothing to do with the quick wit and silver-tongue you had fallen in love with.
Nor was he ill-fated or hapless, a recent suggestion you had recently delivered in a joking manner, which Alastor had started to seriously consider.
— up until one of the countless rituals he had performed in half a decade finally bore fruit.
“Yes — yes! — ah-ha-ha — I did it!”
— then he was vibrating on his place on the ground, joyful, triumphant, and terribly relieved.
The corners of Alastor’s lips curved upwards, canines glinting in the low, amber light of the burning candles decorating the room.
The ritual, it worked. It finally worked. A demon had answered him, caressed his chin with a cold, wispy finger, and accepted his offer — his soul in exchange for power. Security. Alastor wasn’t a failure, nor would he exist in Hell a tortured soul, the most genuine sound that had issued from his lips since he married you bursting from his lungs.
A melodious bout of laughter pierced the air, slicing through the distinctive, metallic scent deeply ingrained in the grooves of the wooden shack that had long sought to brand him a failure.
The victoriousness of binding his soul to a demonness, of securing a powerful position in the hierarchy of an afterlife he knew little about, drowned out the sickening stench of years worth of feeling inadequate and disappointed. The fog of misery finally receded on a warm Sunday night, and oh, was he eager to celebrate this great feat.
“Merde, I need to snuff out the candles, I need to wash my hands,” Alastor hastily collected himself on trembling knees, rich brown pools darting wildly across the room. “I… I need to go home!”
His body twitched and jolted from the adrenaline, but also, something familiar coiled deep in his gut. His muscles in his abdomen tensed, and his slacks grew tight and constricting, his breath stuttering. It was visceral, it was intense in every aspect — a deep-seated desire to push himself deep inside of you till you were bursting at the seams.
One by one, as small flames met a pinching demise, Alastor found himself muttering under his breath like a crazed lunatic.
The feeling in his gut that was reawakened, that was stoked to life with the unanticipated success of tonight’s ritual was so profound, so overwhelming that his mind couldn’t stop drifting off to you, his wife. His poor, needy wife, who religiously went to bed with her thighs clenched together, aching and yearning because he couldn’t always satisfy you.
How would you react when he touched you for the first time in months?
Would you twitch and jolt at every little purposeful prodding like the blushing bride you were when you consummated your marriage?
Would you come undone prematurely if he endeavored to use his mouth on the most sensitive part of you?
How would you make him feel when he pushed himself into your still fluttering walls?
Fuck. He was faltering, he was forgetting himself over the thought of you writhing and squirming underneath him like the night you became man and wife. If the calloused pads of his fingers hadn’t suddenly started to sting, reminding him that he was holding them in between a licking flame, his thoughts would have consumed him entirely.
“The stag — the stag goes home tonight,” Alastor pinched the flame with a small hiss, ignoring the painful straining in his slacks. “Oh no, I can’t leave without it. It’s part of my alibi.”
He had to remind himself to not forget the lifeless animal slumped on the front porch as he snuffed out the last candle, whirling around on an unstable heel, pupils dilating in the darkness. Alastor had to remind himself to not forget anything at all, fearing he would jump your bones with the stench of death clinging to him and desecrate your skin.
“Merde. Keep it together, Alastor. Quit acting like a bitch in heat,” He snarled in disgust at his gross inability to keep himself in check. “You can’t afford to slip up, not right now.”
If he didn’t have a nasty habit of kicking aside all the severed limbs he had used as offerings, Alastor would have tripped over them in his haste towards the door, fingertips latching onto the doorknob. But even if he had somehow managed to trip over his own two feet, it probably wouldn’t have spoiled his mood. He was ecstatic and all sorts of giddy.
The wooden foundation of the only true witness to the harrowing crimes of the Bayou Butcher, of the onslaught of ‘senseless violence’ the faceless and nameless killer had so heartlessly committed, shook as the door slammed shut behind Alastor’s stumbling form, obscuring the grisly scene he had meticulously crafted over the years.
“Oh, mon amour,” Alastor made a beeline for the stag. “Soon you’ll see that your husband isn’t a lousy hunter. His efforts have always borne fruit, but now? You shall indulge in them.”
There’s a cover draped over it, but as he went to lift the fabric, he caught the sight of something resting against the wall beside the door from his periphery — his rifle — yet another thing Alastor almost forgot about in his haste to rush back home to you with a testament of his success slung over his shoulder, hand snatching the leather strap.
“What is the matter with me?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, frustrated, tugging the rifle over his arm. “I may have secured my rightful place in Hell, but I am in no rush to meet death. No, I’ve a lovely wife in this God-forsaken world.”
He couldn’t afford to be anymore sloppy or careless than he had already been by opting to celebrate his success before cleaning out the shack and leaving no evidence of his crimes; but he was striding through marshy inlets in no time, paying little mind to the way his muscles protested with the weight of the stag bearing down on his wiry shoulders.
Moonlight spilled through the canopy of lacey, needle-like leaves hanging from the flared branches of bald cypresses.
The sound of bullfrogs croaking and crickets chirping tangled with the soft, continuous squelch of moist ground being treaded on.
Alastor walked through the thick fog of the Louisiana humidity, caramel skin flushed and glistening, hair and clothes sticking to his sweat-stricken body.
He was terribly hot, nostrils flaring and chest heaving with heavy breaths, but the joy, the triumph encouraged him to persevere.
Hell, he didn’t even notice when the stars began to grow scattered and sparse and the grass started to crunch beneath his soles instead of squish.
Everything was a blur after Alastor finally broke through the untamed foliage behind your home, shoulders aching and knees buckling. He couldn’t recall putting away his rifle, butchering the stag and putting the meat away in a neat pile in the fridge, and going through the hassle of fixing himself a warm bath to scrub his skin clean for you.
It was all so hazy, each and every little thing he did before he walked into your bedroom, wet curls clinging to his forehead.
— either that or his brain thought whatever he did wasn’t worth remembering once the sight of you, his beautiful wife, overwhelmed his vision.
“Merde, you have no idea how much I need you,” Alastor softly murmured, clad in just his pajama pants, the scent of bar soap clinging to his skin.
You were curled on your side of the bed with the sheets kicked to your feet, clad in an old nightgown that was neither sexy nor revealing.
Still, Alastor stalked towards you, body thrumming with a wanton, animalistic need, rich brown pools trained on your slumbering form.
You looked so calm, so tranquil, softly snoring away with your cheek smooshed against the pillow. It would be a crime to stir you awake, no less in the middle of the night. You worked 5 days a week just like he did, the desire to be a measly housewife unappealing to you. You deserved to be able to rest without any interruptions.
But you also looked so vulnerable.
Alastor’s fingers twitched restlessly at his sides as he stood in front of your sleeping form, painfully hard, chest heaving with barely-contained lust.
Your guard was down, completely.
It was plain to see even through the peaceful darkness of your bedroom how pregnable you were.
Defenseless, completely at his mercy.
Alastor could no longer hold himself back. He was overcome by the urge to pounce on you when you looked like a lone doe grazing in obliviousness.
He had to have a taste of you. Now.
You startled awake with a sharp gasp, the feeling of something heavy weighing down on you kick-starting your heart into a panicked frenzy. You instinctively turned on your back and acted, legs kicking, hands falling flat on a smooth, solid plane that felt warm and damp. However, as soon as you went to push, a mouth captured yours.
“Mon amour, it’s me, Alastor.”
Lips crashed against yours in a messy, feverish kiss, forcing you to sink back into the mattress.
“Al, darling?” You would have stammered out.
But even if your mouth hadn’t been taken hostage, you probably would have failed to muster a coherent syllable with the hands sliding under the hem of your nightgown. Your legs stopped kicking, your own hands found the sides of a slender neck, and your belly pulled inwards, especially as familiar fingers grasped the supple flesh of your breasts.
Still, you were given an opportunity to speak as your lips were suddenly freed, a string of saliva forming a bridge between your mouths.
“I did it — I finally did it!” Alastor exclaimed before proceeding to latch onto your collarbone, sucking a nasty bruise on your flesh.
You blinked in the darkness, tired, confused.
“You… you did it? What did you do?” You asked through a sleepy gasp, reeling from the force of the kiss, still not entirely awake.
He thumbed at your soft peaks, and he pressed his hips down into your thigh, rubbing the tent in his pajama pants against your exposed flesh in an attempt to find momentarily relief.
“I did it. I’m not a failure. I’m not a lousy hunter.”
You stared up into the ceiling and let out a choked moan, feeling just how painfully hard your husband was through the thin barrier, brows knitting together in pleasure and disbelief.
“Nor am I ill-fated or hapless,” Alastor managed out as he lapped at your flesh. “My efforts have finally borne fruit — do you know what that means?”
He moved his hands away from your breasts.
“Oh! Your hunt, you mean? It was successful?” Realization struck you, tired eyes lighting up. “Well, h-how wonderful to hear!”
But instead of answering right away, his palms smoothed over the concave of your belly, which was already flexing in sweet anticipation.
And, before you knew it, your panties were yanked off of you in one swift motion. Your legs instinctively went to clamp shut with the air caressing your bare cunt, but Alastor proceeded to pull away from your neck and shuffle down the bed, slender arms wrapping around your thighs as he nestled himself in between your trembling limbs.
“I finally get to satiate your appetite, mon amour,” Alastor chuckled darkly, making your heart lurch in your chest, scandalized and aroused. “Enfin.”
Nimble fingers found wet curls, threading into them, a furious heat sprawling up your neck.
“A-Alastor, darling, what are you doing?”
You tried to push him away, but he dived down into your folds and pressed a wet, filthy kiss to your clit.
“Je vous offre les fruits de mon travail,” Alastor let out a full-throated groan. “Même si vous ne le comprenez pas entièrement.”
Even through the peaceful darkness of your bedroom, it was plain to see as rich brown pools flitted up to drink in your reaction to his debauched behavior that you couldn’t quite comprehend the scale of his joy — or you didn’t seem to believe that his success warranted such a feverish response, no less at this ungodly hour.
“Oh, fuck! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I loathe when you do that,” You tossed your head back into the pillow, eyes shutting. “You know I don’t speak a lick of French, you… you awful man.”
Alastor buried his face further into your needy cunt, sucking in your swollen bud between his greedy lips, paying little mind to your mindless babbling as he allowed himself to drown in the desire that had ensnared him so viciously, face growing slick with his own saliva and the viscous arousal that issued from your pulsating entrance.
His excitement knew no bounds, not in this state of triumph, of euphoria.
“Awh, I can’t — I can’t take it — Al, pl-please.”
Alastor maintained a vice-like grip on your legs and stopped you from wriggling away as he shamelessly suckled on your clit.
You were so divine on his tongue.
“Oh my lord, Alastorrr.”
Had you always tasted this good?
“Al-Alastor, please!”
More, he needed more.
You closed your legs around your husband’s head, limiting his breathing, suffocating him, seemingly hoping he’d let up on you this way.
But the act only spurred him on, his mouth vibrating against your cunt in sick gratification.
With your free hand, you clamped your palm over your own mouth, suddenly hyperaware of something Alastor had failed to consider in his lust-addled haze — that you always left the window cracked open a slit when the humidity of June became unbearable, curtains swaying with each gentle draft of wind that seeped into the bedroom.
Your neighbors had a tendency of doing the same — because who liked to sleep in the uncomfortable stickiness of a pool of their own sweat?
Nobody, of course.
And nobody wanted to hear your cries of ecstasy echo into the night, either… unless you happened to reside among perverts.
But you didn’t know how far gone Alastor was as he pressed the calloused pads of his fingers into your thighs, prying your legs apart to allow him space to breathe — or at least that’s what you seemed to think until he relinquished you from his lips, only to introduce his tongue to your clit and flutter the tip against the swollen bundle of nerves.
Then you couldn’t stifle the wanton cry that burst forth from your lungs as he pushed you over the precipice of ecstasy, the coil in your belly snapping.
“Oh my — oh my God,” You whined, fingers tugging at the curls that had slowly dried in your unrelenting grasp. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Rich brown pools trailed up your body, taking in the way your thighs shook, your hips twitched, and your belly twisted and turned as the waves of your orgasm crashed over you violently.
“Oh… oh fuck, Al,” You let curses slip unbidden as his tongue continued to lap at your throbbing bud. “Y-You need to sto—op — I can’t!”
You tore your legs from his grip and pushed your heels into his shoulders, forcing Alastor away, overstimulated.
If his cock wasn’t straining painfully against the mattress, begging to be pushed into the space he had carved for himself long ago in your fluttering walls, you had no idea, but he would have held you down and ravished your swollen cunt till you were convulsing with hot tears endlessly cascading down your flushed face.
The helpless cries and mewls you let out when he continued to flutter his tongue on your aching clit was like music to his ears.
He’d even venture to say that they sounded more delicious than the pathetic cries of his victims.
But again, Alastor needed you.
He desperately needed to push each and every inch of his cock into your throbbing cunt.
He desperately needed to fill you up till you were bursting at the seams with his seed, head turning to press a quick kiss to one of your ankles.
Alastor pulled his elbows in and shuffled off the foot of the bed, standing on trembling knees, only to lean in and seize your ankles. You, of course, let out a squeak. Your husband was manhandling you — and roughly, too — but you were soft and pliant in his grip as he relinquished your ankles to pull your nightgown over your head.
“Goodness, Al!” You sputtered, watching him carelessly fling the fabric aside instead of folding it, unable to recognize your husband.
He flashed you his canines in a wicked grin before quickly proceeding to grab your hips and effortlessly flip you around, positioning you exactly how he wanted to take you — with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed, your spine arched in a sinuous curve, and your ass held high in the air. He wanted to take you like an animal
“Can’t you give me some time to recover?” You helplessly mewled, planting your palms on the bed, pushing to support yourself.
You turned to glance at him from your shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of Alastor tugging his pants down, the fabric pooling at his ankles.
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
His cock sprung out and smacked against the flexing plane of his abdomen, weeping tip staring back at you, making you shift with arousal.
“That stag you took down must be an unruly bastard,” You forced yourself to look away, face flaring up. “I mean, I just ca—NN’T — Alastor!”
He smacked his palm over your aching cunt with a wet slap that resonated embarrassingly loud in the quietude of your room — glancing from your shoulder at him once more, lips twisting in a frown and eyes narrowing in a glare. But before you could tell your husband off for smacking you down there, he withdrew his hand.
And he replaced it with his cockhead, pushing into your fluttering entrance without bothering to lubricate himself first.
It wasn’t necessary, though.
You were so slick from his previous efforts that Alastor was able to slide his length into your cunt without any effort, your head dropping and your lips parting with a shaky gasp.
You felt oh-so utterly divine.
So warm, so accomodating, his hands scrambling to grip the flesh of your waist, the calloused pads of his fingers leaving bruising indents.
You were still pulsating and throbbing from your orgasm, velvety walls teasing his aching length with fleeting embraces as his cockhead pushed to rest against your womb — the same womb he had failed to fill with a testament of your love from how little he had ravished you since you tied the knot, disappointment filling his chest.
But then you shuffled restlessly on your feet and let out a breathless gasp as Alastor bottomed out, bony hips meeting the supple flesh of your ass.
“Oh… oh God.”
And again, Alastor felt like he did back in the old, dilapidated shack, when the first of the countless rituals he had performed finally worked.
The newfound urge that bloomed in his heaving chest as rich brown pools darted down south, where he was connected to you as husband and wife, was intense in every sense of the word. However, it was also more than just an unfettered need for you. It was absolutely feral and instinctual, as if it was hardwired in his brain.
“I’m going to fucking breed you.”
The transatlantic accent you were acquainted with slipped, and in came the southern lilt Alastor thought he’d lost after he decided he wanted to work in radio, subtle but obvious enough anyway. Still, he was certain the way your walls squeezed him had more to do with his crude declaration rather than the slight difference in enunciation.
It made sense.
It wasn’t something he would have ever voiced out loud — that he was going to breed you, as if you were nothing but a pair of deer merely coming together for mating season.
You couldn’t quite believe his words, your skin growing uncomfortably hot at the notion.
There was no doubt in Alastor’s lust-addled mind that you were wondering where your husband was.
You didn’t know, and he was certain you wouldn’t ask, anyway, overwhelmed with shock.
Still, he sensed that you knew that the profound urge to fill your empty womb broke every invisible restraint in his wiry body, devolving him into something purely animalistic.
It made a lot of sense.
And, in no time, the home Alastor had carried you into bridal-style was filled with a cacophony of sounds — the mattress creaking, the bed frame smacking against the wall, his hips relentlessly colliding with the swell of your ass, your cunt rudely squelching with each and every hurried drag of his length against your slick walls.
It was loud and nothing short of telling what the two of you were up to.
He couldn’t even hear the furious rapping echoing in the hallway separating your bedroom and the living room, something that wasn’t there before.
“Oh, you’re squeezing me so perfectly,” Alastor leaned into your back, sharp nose caressing the side of your face. “So warm, so wet… why, you were made just for me, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
He could only hear you crying out the most sinful noises as he gasped and groaned into your ear.
“Yes — yes! Just for you,” You cried out in sheer delight, his hands wandering away from your waist, caressing your fluttering belly before finding your neglected breasts. “Only you, A-Al! Only you.”
He could only hear the incessant, wet clap of his balls meeting the swollen clit he had lavished with his tongue just earlier.
“Good… but nobody else k-knows,” Alastor laved his tongue across the shell of your ear, palms simultaneously squeezing your breasts. “They’re going to know, though — fuck! — and soon.”
He could only hear the way you unraveled into a wanton whore beneath his looming frame.
“Fuck, ye—es, please,” You begged with a pathetic mewl as his cockhead constantly nudged your womb, a familiar pressure building up in you. “Breed me, fill me up! I’m all yours, Al. Pl-Please!”
He didn’t care that cranky Miss Susan, who lived across the street, was probably the one threatening to break down your door with her cane.
The only thing that mattered was that he was close to coaxing you both over the edge.
As he relinquished one of your breasts to find your clit once more, two fingers pressing against the sensitive button, Alastor didn’t care that he’d have to swallow his pride and deal with the embarrassment of apologizing to that ornery old bitch — as he loved to call her in private — for daring to be loud in his own home.
No, in fact, he would relish in swinging open the door in nothing but the sheets wrapped around his waist so the stench of sin assaulted her senses.
The woman needed to shut her window, shove plugs in her ears, slap on a pair of earmuffs, and learn to mind her business if not endure.
He was treating you to the fruits of his labor, and she had the audacity to interrupt this rare moment of passion between the two of you.
Thankfully, before Alastor’s mind could drift off and he inadvertently turned himself off, you were quick to bring him back to you as you suddenly decided to move your hips to meet his thrusts, which he hadn’t realized were starting to lose momentum and grow sloppy and discordant with the tight pressure coiling in his gut.
“Ignore her,” You barely managed between a moan. “We’re going to — mhh, fuck! — we’re going to have to deal with her anyway, right?”
Alastor let out a dry chuckle against your ear, stiffening length sliding inside of your tightening walls, rolling your clit around in quick circles.
“How’d you guess it was her, sweetheart?”
You craned your neck to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, the smile that stretched across your flushed face riddled with pure, unadulterated lust.
“T-The stupid cane, Al,” You huffed out, making him grin. “The knocks… they don’t sound much like knocks when she uses that dreadful thing.”
You were right, the furious rapping that continued to echo in the house in tandem with all the debauchery of your late-night rendezvous didn’t sound much like ordinary knocks. They sounded like banging. But Alastor chose to heed your words and peel himself from your back, standing up on all 6-feet, hips pistoning in slow, deep thrusts.
Thrusts that were purposely deafening and made the supple flesh of your ass ripple something delicious, his cock throbbing deep inside of you.
The hand that was once on your breast returned to grip your waist, sinking into the soft flesh there as the calloused pads of his fingers zigzagged across your clit instead of circling it, making your fingers curl into the sheets beneath you.
You were right, the damage had been done, and the only thing that mattered was that you both were teetering on the edge of ecstasy.
With each long drag of Alastor’s cock against your velvety walls, the harsh knocks grew unintelligible and faded into the background. And it became just a tiny disturbance, one that was as ignorable as the cricket that once hopped into your house and found refuge in a tiny, unknown crevice in the walls, chirping away at night till it eventually died.
And, before he knew it, Alastor was doubling down over your back and spilling himself inside of you at the feeling of your walls spasming around him.
“Merde,” Alastor gasped into the crook of your neck in raw bliss, hands sprawled reverently over your lower belly.
His cock pulsated and throbbed deep inside of your cunt as thick, heavy ropes of his pleasure painted your womb.
“Oh God,” You heaved.
And you, his poor wife?
“Mon amour?” Alastor whispered.
Your elbows gave up on you, the top half of your body collapsing onto the mattress, completely and utterly spent.
“Nothing… I’m just…spent, that’s all,” You slowly started, but then he decided to pull out of you, making you wince. “Oh, that feels strange.”
Alastor wasn’t faring any better than you. His knees threatened to buckle underneath him as he stepped back to observe the mess he had made out of you, a hand smoothing away the stray curls plastered to his forehead as he watched his seed spill from your throbbing entrance — that looked rather uncomfortable.
Still, he found himself reaching out and dragging his hand through your slit, shoving whatever threatened to trickle down your inner thighs back into your entrance, two fingers plunging into your sensitive walls with an embarrassing squelch. You immediately stiffened and clamped down around him, head swiveling around to glare at him.
“Hey!” You sputtered out.
The thought of going at it again, of taking you, entered his mind unbidden.
But then he heard a loud shout from outside — Susan. Fucking Susan. She was no longer banging her cane against the door, but shouting now.
“Christ, she’s still here?” Alastor growled, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing in sheer irritation. “I thought the sound of us going at it like a bunch of rabbits would have scared her off.”
“This is going to be so embarrassing,” You whined, clearly thinking he’d force you to answer the door. “How am I supposed to face her?”
“I designed this situation, so I shall take care of it,” Alastor grumbled, pulling his fingers out of you.
But not before giving your cunt a good patting.
“And you,” He shot you a wicked grin. “You make sure this,” He patted you again, “takes.”
“Alastor, you dog. I…” You paused as he wiped his fingers on the sheets, “Well, I hardly even recognize you. Where has my real husband gone off to?”
“Just treating you to the fruits of my labor,” Alastor hummed, searching for his pants. “That stag was indeed an unruly bastard — years I had spent hunting him, and now? Oh, he’s allll mine.”
The mattress softly creaked as you turned around and shut your legs, staring at him wordlessly.
Beyond the flustered expression on your face, however, he saw the understanding, your lips curling upwards in a proud smile.
“Anyway, I’ll be right back.”
As he pulled his pants up and took several long strides towards the front door, fingertips latching onto the doorknob, the fog of ecstasy dispersed from his brain and allowed him to see clearly since he left the shack. But even as the sight of his old, cranky neighbor standing hunched on his porch filled his vision, Alastor still found himself grinning.
The ritual had worked.
“Ah, Miss Susan!” Alastor greeted the woman glaring up at him with faux shock. “My, my, isn’t it rather late to be paying your neighbors a visit? What time is it, 3… 4 A.M.?”
“Oh, you know why I’m here, you filthy degenerate!” Susan hissed at him.
The corners of his eyes creased, and laughter bubbled up in his throat — he was the degenerate? He was simply having sex in his own home, while she had been the one to linger long enough to listen to the entire affair like some voyeur.
“I’m afraid I do not,” Alastor clasped his hands together, “But do feel free to enlighten me!”
“Enlighten you?” Susan gasped, shaking her cane at him, aggravated. “Oh, well, I’ll have you know this neighborhood was rather lovely until Richard passed away and you two moved in —”
The ritual had finally worked.
No longer did he need to go prowling the streets of New Orleans, to go hunting for victims to sacrifice every other weekend, not anymore. Still, Alastor placed a hand on his hip and tilted his head sideways as he listened to his neighbor go off on a rant that was borderline racist, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, Miss Susan would be missed.
Marrying Alastor was not an ordinary decision, nor was it a romance woven with the sweetness of earthly love. There were no withered flowers in perfumed letters, no vows whispered beneath silver moons. It was a striking act, an unshakable determination on his part, as if fate itself had whispered that you belonged to him before you even had the chance to doubt.
Alastor was a man of relentless precision. Every detail of the house was meticulously arranged to ensure you never lacked anything. But he also ensured that you never felt the need to leave. Everything you desired, he brought to you. Friends, letters, gatherings—over time, those things faded, relegated to a dusty corner of your memory because he always found a way to keep you occupied.
His touch was a deceptive mirage: gentle, yet devoid of tenderness. It did not carry the warmth of a lover but the unwavering certainty of a predator marking what was his. His fingers trailed along your neck with a veiled intent, an enigma that burned at the edges of your understanding. His lips brushed your temple with a disquieting tenderness, a caress that chilled more than it comforted.
At every social event, Alastor embodied the image of the perfect husband. Courteous to the last detail, always attentive, wrapped in a charisma that disarmed anyone. He observed you with impeccable, almost theatrical devotion, offering you his arm with the grace of an old-world gentleman. No one noticed how his fingers gripped your waist with a pressure that was not affection, but possession.
Alastor was not a man who tolerated competition. Though he knew with absolute certainty that no one else had a claim over you, the mere possibility that someone might make you laugh or capture your attention for even a fleeting moment ignited something dark and consuming within him. Yet his jealousy did not manifest in vulgar outbursts or undignified spectacles.
No, Alastor's control was far more refined. His dominance lay in calculated details, in imperceptible gestures that spoke louder than any words. A firm hand resting at the base of your neck when you spoke to another man, his thumb barely grazing your skin. A grin, exaggeratedly wide and sharp, whenever you uttered another’s name with a hint of admiration.
His love was a gilded cage, radiant and luxurious, yet still a cage. He showered you with attention, wrapped you in silk and promises, called you "my sweet wife" in a voice as smooth as velvet. But his eyes… his eyes were an abyss, watching you with the precision of a predator, memorizing every movement, every breath, every hesitation.
Sleeping beside Alastor was like lying next to a beast disguised as a gentleman. His arms coiled around you with a pressure that feigned carelessness, yet within that subtlety lay absolute control. Some nights, you woke with your skin tingling, sensing the weight of his gaze tracing every line of your face, every rapid beat of your pulse.
Over time, the house felt less like a home and more like a prison with invisible bars. Locks that were once mere decorations now resisted any attempt to open them. Windows that once yielded to a simple push seemed sealed by an unseen force. When you spoke of visiting your family, Alastor only tilted his head with that unreadable smile and pressed a light kiss to your cheek. "Oh, my love… what delightful little whims you have."
You did not know if what he felt could be called love. You did not know if, in his gaze, you were his wife or merely the most exquisite jewel in his collection. But there was one thing you could never doubt: Alastor was not a man who shared, nor one who let go of what he had claimed. And as his fingers tilted your chin with a deceptive softness, his voice coiled around you like an inescapable vow. "Till death do us part, right?"
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people.
The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
You have been selected for the prestigious position for Executive Companion Status.
This distinction grants access to a variety of privileges, accommodations, and opportunities unavailable to the general public.
Please review the following information carefully to ensure a smooth transition into your new role.
We, VoxTek Industries is committed to ensuring a positive and rewarding experience as possible.
Introduction
The Executive Companion Program was established to facilitate meaningful interpersonal engagement, improve quality of life outcomes, and support the continued wellbeing of Executive Personnel.
You have been granted direct access to one of Hell's most successful, influential entrepreneurs, innovators, visionaries, media moguls, and a generally impressive individual.
Please review all policies carefully.
Page I. Executive Overview:
VoxTek Industries remains committed to excellence. Our reputation has been built upon innovation, dedication, and consistency.
I am VoxTek Industries is proud of its accomplishments.
>Your boss is:
✓ Strikingly good looking.
✓ Successful.
✓ Influential.
✓ Generous.
✓ Highly intelligent.
✓ Exceptionally hardworking.
✓ Right approximately 97% of the time.
The Executive has demonstrated exceptional competency in the following areas:
Leadership
Innovation
Strategic Planning
Public Relations
Conflict Resolution
Personal Presentation
Brand Development
Independent evaluations indicate above-average performance across all listed categories.
>Executive Developmental Areas:
VoxTek Industries remains committed to continuous professional growth at every level of leadership.
At this time, no recommendations have been submitted.
Page. II Expectations:
As a high-profile public figure, your Executive maintains an unusually demanding schedule.
Please understand that occasional schedule adjustments may occur without notice.
As such, flexibility, discretion, professionalism, and loyalty throughout the duration of this circumstance is strongly encouraged.
Your Executive's time is valuable, fortunately, so are you.
Additional responsibilities may arise as situations require.
Participation in the program constitutes acknowledgment and acceptance of these conditions.
Page. III Communication Policy:
The Executive places considerable value on open and consistent communication.
Companions are encouraged to respond to correspondence in a timely manner whenever possible.
>Response Standards
Recommended response times are as follows:
>Text Communication: Within fifteen (15) minutes.
>Voice Communication: As soon as reasonably possible.
Extended periods of unexplained absence may result in questioning from Executive Personnel.
To avoid unnecessary concern, you are encouraged to notify your Executive regarding:
Travel plans
Unexpected delays
Schedule changes
Overnight accommodations
New acquaintances
Significant conversations
Failure to do so may result in follow-up contact.
Page. IV Privacy and Security:
At VoxTek, transparency is important.
We respect the privacy of all program participants. Trust is essential.
Your Executive has placed considerable trust in you, it is expected that this trust will be reciprocated.
>Risk Prevention:
VoxTek Industries takes a proactive approach toward participant safety.
To ensure your wellbeing, VoxTek Industries maintains a variety of security measures designed to identify potential risks before they become problems.
These measures may include, but are not limited to:
Location services.
Communication monitoring.
Behavioral trends.
Threat assessment.
Routine environmental observation.
Emergency intervention protocols.
Sleep patterns.
Potential concerns may be identified before the participant themself becomes aware of them.
Page. V External Relations:
>Public Conduct
Companions are free to engage in social activities at their discretion.
Due to ongoing operational considerations, interactions with designated Restricted Parties are forbidden.
>Clarification
This designation should not be interpreted as personal animosity, insecurity, competitiveness, jealousy, pettiness, obsession, fixation, or any related allegation.
It is a matter of operational efficiency.
Page. VI Executive’s Wellbeing:
The Executive performs optimally in environments characterized by positive reinforcement and constructive feedback.
>Recommended phrases include:
✓ "That was impressive."
✓ "You handled that well."
✓ "You were right."
✓ "You look good today."
✓ "I can see why you're successful."
An advanced user may utilize:
✓ "No one else could've done that.”
>Warning: Improper praise may be rejected.
The Boss can detect insincerity with alarming accuracy.
You are encouraged to sound believable.
>Stress Recognition
The Executive maintains a demanding professional schedule.
As such, employees and companions may occasionally witness what the company classifies as an:
Executive Emotional Event™
Please note: Executive Emotional Events™ are not considered workplace incidents and therefore cannot be reported as such.
Stop asking.
Participants may occasionally observe signs of elevated stress, including:
Increased volume.
Increased sarcasm.
Noticeable decline in diplomatic responses.
Extended work hours.
Minor property damage.
Diminished willingness to entertain nonsense.
Excessive foul language.
In such situations, participant is encouraged to:
Remain calm.
Avoid escalation.
Allow the Executive adequate time to decompress.
Avoid sudden movements.
Agree that the situation is, in fact, frustrating.
Nod occasionally.
Allow him to finish speaking.
You are strongly advised not to compare him to certain individuals.
The resulting property damage can be substantial.
>Regarding Personal Conflicts
Should you become the source of the Boss's frustration:
Well done. This is significantly worse.
Page. VII Companion Benefits & Incentives
>Program Benefits
Participation in the Executive Companion Program includes, but is not limited to:
Priority accommodations.
Exclusive event access.
Executive-level gifts.
Bonus pay.
Enhanced security measures.
Increased opportunities for private Executive engagement.
Direct access to the Executive.
Expanded after-hours companionship.
Additional benefits as determined by the Executive.
>Gift Acceptance
Participants may occasionally receive gifts.
The Executive is very good at providing gifts. These gifts may vary in size, value, and frequency.
Acceptance is encouraged, repeated refusal may be interpreted as ungratefulness.
Page. VIII Common Misconceptions
>“The Executive is controlling.”
Reality: The Executive simply prefers to remain informed regarding circumstances that may affect your wellbeing.
To facilitate this, your devices may occasionally be synced across approved VoxTek platforms.
This ensures a seamless experience for everyone involved.
>“The Executive is possessive.”
Reality: The Executive demonstrates a strong commitment to long-term companion retention.
>“The Executive is jealous.”
Reality: The Executive values loyalty, consistency, and proper prioritization.
>“Does the Executive care about me?”
Reality: The Executive does not concern himself with matters so childish.
>“Then why is this handbook 102 pages long?”
Please remain on topic.
Final Notes:
Congratulations on completing the Executive Companion Orientation Guide.
VoxTek Industries appreciates your cooperation and looks forward to a productive future together.
The Executive is not an easy individual to know.
Please consult the appropriate sections of this handbook before contacting the Executive Personnel.
If you ever find yourself questioning the Executive's intentions, please remember:
The Executive has better things to do than concern himself with trivial matters.
Try not to waste his time.
Thank you for your participation, VoxTek Industries wishes you every success.
