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 for nothing as he curled them into fists.
The worst part was that he couldn’t carelessly fling aside the rifle slung over his back and collapse onto the couch to wallow. No, Alastor had to suck it up. He was a married man, and 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 organizing the meat into a neat pile in the fridge, or 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 plastered 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, wearing 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 thrashing, 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 moving, 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 when the furious rapping echoing in the tiny hallway separating your bedroom and the living room began.
“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.
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 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, pulling a whimper from you.
“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… tired, 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.
Hi! Could I please request the kissing prompt #30 for Alastor x Fem!reader, Thank you!!!
giggle juice | alastor x fem!wife!reader
prompt #30: moving while kissing and falling onto a bed
kissing prompt list and rules
masterlist.
ao3
pairing: alastor x fem!wife!reader
divider credit: @steviebbboi
content: alastor is a lightweight, fem!doe!reader, drunk kissing, soft alastor, drunk alastor, non-sex repulsed alastor
summary: a fact of life that seemed to evade her mind until the evidence of its truth was bared before her in its stumbling entirety was that her husband was a total, enamoring lightweight.
wc: 2.3k
this is the latest requested drabble based off of this kiss prompt list. if you'd like to make a request for a kiss prompt with either vox or alastor (or both ;)), give that post a read and send in an ask
A fact of life that seemed to evade her mind until the evidence of its truth was bared before her in its stumbling entirety was that her husband was a total, enamoring lightweight.
His jacket was draped over her shoulders, arm slung around the back of her neck as his body tilted into a slant against her, hooves stumbling to match her accommodating stride. His fingers tugged at the collar of the jacket, claws snagging on the material and pulling the garment tighter around her upper body as he insisted through a chirpy slur that she’d ‘catch her death without it’.
She hummed in response, eyes searching the scarlet scape of Hell’s skies as a fondly bemused sigh left her lips. Her brows pinched above rolling eyes before she angled her head to catch his carmine gaze, chewing on her bottom lip to stifle the urge to remind her inebriated spouse that they were in a burning hellscape. That his qualms about her succumbing to frost were nothing more than a habit that had somehow transcended death and reared its head only when his blood was imbued with the sharp tingle of whiskey and bitters.
But instead of a playful chastisement of his fantastical worries, instead of a familiar glint of golden teeth catching in the downpour of light echoing from looming streetlamps, the turn of her head was met with a bunt of her husband’s cheeks against hers. Warmth rushed to canvass the curve of her cheekbones instantly, the quiet hilarity tickling her expression, melting into something gooey and sentimental as he rubbed his face over hers.
She met his gentle, instinctive ministrations with a reciprocal bump of her own, eyes closed and ears perked, twitching to catch the low rumble of satisfaction rumbling at the back of the buck’s throat.
His ears shot up, a pleased bleat escaping his mouth before he revived his caressing efforts with renewed vigor and bodily enthusiasm. He leaned his weight a little heavier into her side, arm tightening in its uncoordinated grip across the bow of her shoulders. He pressed his cheek into hers a little harder. He stumbled into her, grin ever present and uniquely genuine, quirking a little sharper at the disgruntled carp she uttered under her breath as her knee buckled under the incessant press of his body weight.
A soft sound of sobered surprise parted his grin when the weight of him sent her stumbling, heels working in tandem with the gravitational pull dragging her down as she struggled to catch her footing on the cracked and uneven terrain of one of hell’s many winding footpaths.
Her hand clamped down around his wrist when he stumbled against her, seemingly more than content to follow her down should she let the downward drag of gravity dictate her posture. He barked a delighted little laugh when she bent at the knee to catch the weight of him and distribute their collective weight enough to keep them both upright. He nuzzled his face into the crown of her head with an infuriatingly gentle hum of contentment, boneless and eyes heavy as she set him against the patch of brickwork marking the face of a long-closed storefront.
“Careful, love,” he crooned, smirking down at her, grin crooked as he nosed at the fluff of her ears, as though the ungraceful fumble of her feet wasn’t his doing.
“Don’t you ‘careful’ me,” she grumbled, ducking her head and slipping out from under the hot loop of his arm, she perched her hands on the swell of her hips beneath the draped fabric of her husband’s tattered coat. She watched with twisting lips and a moue of faux irritation as he slid down the wall just enough that his knees bent and his eyes were in line with the flattened expression of forced grievance plaguing her visage. “I’ll leave you here.“
She cocked her head to the side, stepping up to him and folding her arms across the gentle slope of her sternum as she grinned a tipsy smirk down at him. “You wanna sleep in the gutter?”
Alastor had to battle and smite every instinctual itch of his teeth to chomp down on her jutted bottom lip. To resist the waiting temptation to anchor his claws in the fabric of his own jacket and pull her back to his warmth.
So instead, he just let his head fall forward. Let his cheek smush against the curve of her shoulder as he nosed at the base of her neck with a hefty sigh, peering up at her with lidded, carmine eyes as she tilted her face to observe his inebriated expression when he breathed a muffled admittance into the side of her throat: “I wanna sleep with you.”
He felt her pulse jump against his nose, felt the way her throat bobbed as her breath caught around a soft hum. The quiet, hitching sound served only to entice a rapid dilation of his pupils, obsidian abysses eclipsing the scarlet glow of his irises as he tilted his head back to meet her eyes. Eyes that sat pretty and twinkling beneath arching brows and above a thin-lipped smirk.
He sighed against her, ever-present grin softening along its edges.
The tired drift of his eyes twitched upward to catch the fond droop of her ears, watching as they airplaneed atop her scalp, as her brows pinched into a gleaming expression of bare wonderment. That Hell’s most feared soul was bested by little more than a battle of will against his wife and a series of competitively downed shots. That the most powerful demon inhabiting the plain of eternal existence was like putty in her hands, in a place so public and open any one of their fellow fallen denizens could bear witness to it. Or that he was completely and wholly enamored with the sight of her, cast in a heavenly downpour of buzzing streetlights, cheeks aglow with the evidence of her effortful bid to keep him upright.
“You really should learn to get these things under control, love,” he suggested, interrupting her softened countenance and jolting her from her momentary lapse in concentration. Her mind was dragged from thoughts of uniquely public affections and sickeningly sweet expressions when familiar claws traced the sensitive edge of her ear, pinching the fragile flesh between his thumb and forefinger to catch the appendage before it could offer a retaliatory flick. “So expressive.”
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head and tugging gently on her ear. Not enough to strain the delicate tendons attaching the ear to her skull, just enough to urge her head into a slight backward tilt, holding the tuft of fluff in an inexpressive upright point. “Dead giveaway.”
She scoffed, eyes rolling and arms folding tightly across her chest, shoulders hiking just enough to keep the draped material of her spouse’s jacket from slipping off of her. “Yeah, well, not everyone wants to-“
Her playful gripes were interrupted by a dramatic groan emanating from the throat of her husband. And her narrowed eyes darted back to find him straightening at the spine before leaning against her heavier again, arms winding around her shoulders and waist, cinching her a little tighter into a possessive embrace that acted as the only thing keeping the overlord upright.
“Why haven’t you teleported us home?”
He murmured it into the space between her ears, words slurred and head tilting against the crown of her own. The arm hanging across her shoulders bent so that his claw could trace familiar tracks over the fragile edge of her ear, an amused hum echoing behind his teeth when it proffered a reflexive twitch. He repeated the motion, watching with rapt awe and mute adoration when her ear twitched again.
Her eyes flitted upward, peering up at him from beneath her lashes, jaw working around a teasing remark about his apparent newfound inability to do just that. She chewed on her words, biting her tongue when her eyes flitted across his uncharacteristic slouched posturing, roaming over the sleepy droop of his eyes and the loose slack in his smile, choosing instead to emphasize slowly; “…Because you insisted on walkin’ me home.”
He mumbled petulantly into the space between them, head tilting; “When do you ever listen to my suggestions?”
“When I wanna get you into bed,” she snipped, a wobbling grin working its way across her visage when she felt him puffing his chest slightly when her gloved fingertip pressed intently to the center of his sternum on the emphatic reminder of his previous insistences.
“Darling!” He hiccuped, eyes widening with faux and playful scandalized chastisement, hand flying to cup over the beat of his heart, red-tipped claws clutching at the fabric of his shirt.
The doe simply rolled her eyes, ignoring his teasing decry of a euphemistic interpretation of her words.
“And I’ve known you long enough to know you’ll act like a total brat if you don’t get your own way,” she quipped, tilting her head and cocking a brow up at him. “So it’s easier to just drag you home by foot.”
The buck hummed, arms falling listlessly by his sides, and let her poking finger push him away from her proximity. Let her guide his taller form into a backward stalk until his spine was aligned with the uneven bumps of brick and connecting lines of cement. Let her step into his space, into the ever-present welcoming hum of static that seemed to permeate the air around him, enveloping his bones and sending familiar tingles through her veins.
The Radio Demon felt his eyes droop slightly, felt the unsubtle, curious lean of his ears as sleepy blinks interrupted the easy roam of his constant gaze over his wife’s visage. He bent at the knee, sliding a couple of inches down the wall only so that carmine eyes were in line with the glittering pair he adored so sickeningly, uttering into the limited space between them with a softened edge to his filtered tone that would have stricken any wandering eavesdropping sinner into astonished stillness. “Where do you get such silly notions, love?”
The doe felt her brows flatten over lidded eyes, lips quirking when his uncoordinated fingers fumbled against her face until her chin was caught between gentle fingertips, letting her head tilt with the handsy guidance of her husband’s thumb and forefinger as she deadpanned; “Experience.”
Alastor hummed around a soft-edged, tight-lipped smile, sweeping the edge of his thumb along the glittering outline of her painted bottom lip.
“Well, then, if you’re so experienced, you should know how to handle such behavior,” he quipped, a little snarky, a little playful, entirely goading as scarlet eyes glittering with anticipatory amusement peered up into his lover’s. “No?”
He blinked at her, eyes crinkling at the edge when she blinked back and met his prodding with a pouty jut of her lip. And once more, insatiable and eager, he felt his teeth itch with the longing to bite at it.
And after a moment of wordless staring and creeping grins, she relented with an exaggerated sigh, arms unwinding from around her midsection so that she could throw them out in an open invitation for her husband to step between them. “C’mere.”
The overlord collapsed into her waiting embrace instantly, falling into her warmth and winding his arms tight around her waist, claws sinking into the material of his jacket as her hands found familiar holds along his shoulder blades and through the short tresses of his undercut.
She stumbled slightly, catching herself with a breathy laugh as tendrils of scarlet magic sparked from her fingertips, spindling out around them until the glittering plumes of power enveloped both of their figures.
And Alastor swallowed the sound with all the eagerness and pressing intent of a man starved, slotting his mouth over the upturned curve of her lips and eradicating every modicum of space between their faces as his skin tingled with the lingering tickle of her magic transporting them. He inhaled the little sound of surprise that left her, sighing against her as his shoulders slumped and his shoes were acquainted with the familiar lines and creaks of his hotel suite’s flooring.
He hummed a satisfied sound of his own when her hands skittered along the slope of his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
And it was that hold that he willfully allowed for her to possess on the garment, unrelenting and familiar, that she used to guide him into a mimicry of his earlier backward stalk. Still connected at the mouth, all teeth, tongue, and glittering lip gloss, she urged him back, back, back, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of their mattress. Until their lips disconnected only because the overlord’s alcohol-imbued lack of coordination sent him tumbling backward onto the cottony terrain of their duvet, an unusually chirpy sound of surprise leaving him when his back met the mattress.
He didn’t get back up.
Breathless from the unrelenting press of their mouths, eyes squinting into the low lighting of their bedroom’s overhead glow, the doe huffed a sound of fond amusement through her nose. And, with all the slow, careful deliberateness she could muster in her own inebriation, she followed him down.
Her knees sank into the plush material of their duvet cover, planting one hand by her husband’s head as she leaned over him and peered down at the sleepy countenance he was fighting, fingertips drifting over his brow bone and sweeping the fluff of his fringe out of his eyes. The steady rise and fall of his chest came slower with every passing breath, eyes remaining closed a little longer with every bleary blink up at her until the heavy droop of his eyelids kept them closed and there was nothing he could do but succumb to his unwitting exhaustion.
She hummed, quiet and musing, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheekbone before she leaned down to touch a lingering press of her lips to his forehead, murmuring a tender repetition of his initial chastisement; “Careful, love.”
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a Reader who was married to Vincent Whittman in life. they were happy together, madly in love, Vincent an unhinged but dedicated husband who would have done anything for his wife... until his untimely demise at the hands of a falling television parted them far too soon.
a Vincent who loses himself, believing he will never see Reader again, a ragged grief that continues to haunt him throughout the decades, even as he grows in power and becomes Vox.
a Vox who never once considers that his precious wife could be anything less than perfect, that she might join him in damnation once her mortal life comes to an end.
a Vox who is completely, and utterly wrong.
a Reader who finally arrives in Hell many years later, waiting to reunite with her long lost husband, only to fracture upon seeing his face plastered on neon lights with Valentino.
a Reader who believes her Vincent has moved on and no longer has any room for her in his heart.
a Reader who resigns herself to a quiet life on the outskirts of Cannibal Town, away from the hustle and bustle of Pentagram City, where she isn't constantly bombarded with reminders of the love she pined for and lost.
an Alastor who happens across her one day after a day trip to Rosie's and is oh so captivated by the pretty, heartbroken soul hung up on her faithless, undeserving ex-husband.
an Alastor who is only a little bit self serving when he begins to pick up the pieces and court her.
an Alastor who is fond of Reader, of course. his intentions are genuine; the fact that she was once married to that pathetic picture box, and is now being given so much more, by a man who is so much better... it's merely a delightful, entertaining little bonus.
a Reader who begins to heal and move on with her charming, old-fashioned new suitor.
a Vox who one day sees the woman he still loves, the wife who shouldn't, couldn't be here, in Hell, pictured arm in arm with the Radio Demon on the illustrated cover of a Cannibal Town gossip magazine.
and a realm wide power outage, the likes of which no one in the Pride Ring has ever seen, as Vincent Vox Whittman completely unravels to the knowledge that his beloved, once adoring wife is now in the hands of ţ̵͆h̵̜̲̃a̶̢͚̔ț̴̜͒ f̷̹̱̙̜̬͕̎̇̊u̴̺̓̅̅̄c̴̨̘̦͍͖̀k̴̭̈́̐͋̿́i̴͎̖̅n̴̛̘̆̾̆g̵̳̩̮̪̮̈͌̀̈́́ d̴̻̮̟̬̮̣̠̱̽̏͝ȩ̵͉̯̫͙̗̪̝̦̙̏é̶̛͔̽͋̀̾̓͘̚͝͝ṙ̵̡̉̋͘
⋆His favorite position is missionary. He loves the feeling of being bigger than you. He also likes to watch your face when you cum.
⋆He's really really really good at dirty talk. He'll say stuff like:
"atta girl"
"there we go baby"
"you're doing so good for me, love"
"Use your words, darling. be a big girl."
"yeah? you like when i fuck you like this?"
⋆He LOVES to tease you. especially in public. When you help out around the shop he'll come up behind you while you're stocking shelves and whisper the nastiest things in your ear.
⋆ He's a freak and he loves to try knew things.
⋆ On occasion he'll let you dom. One time while you were riding him he called you mommy and he got so embarrassed.
⋆He's not specifically a tits or ass guy. Personally he loves every inch of you.
⋆He's an eater. If he could he'd eat you out for hours until you couldn't physically take it anymore.
⋆He gets really jealous really easily. So when he sees another guy flirt with you he'll drag you to the first private area and fuck you until you can only remember his name.
⋆ He loves to hear you moan. It's like a reward to him; It lets him know he's doing a good job.
⋆He's a perv 100%, a respectful perv but still a perv
A/n : Alastor's part is not sexual for obvious reasons, that man is an ace in the hole. I've been listening to a capitalism playlist when writing these idk why the songs are always so catchy despite the depressing messages behind them lol
▢ lucifer ⚝
you wake up to the sensation of someone drumming their claws against your bare ribs like they were testing a new instrument. A very smug, self-satisfied someone.
"Goooood morning, love," Lucifer purrs directly into your ear, far too awake for someone who didn't get a single wink of sleep," You ready for some breakfast? I was thinking a pancake stack with some-"
You interrupt him with a groan, pulling the blanket over your head. It's quickly yanked away by your pouting partner, however.
"Okay that was very rude, first of all." He murmured before giving you a shit-eating grin," second of all, you don't get to hide after last night." his grin was all sharp teeth, sharp enough to cut class probably. No wonder your shoulder was hurting from the amount of times he bit into your skin the night before.
"Lu, it's too early." You grumbled, blinking up at him grouchily.
"Honey, I'm owed my morning gloating, alright?"
He doesn't wait for permission - he draped himself half across your torso like a cat with boundary issues. His hands slide up your sides and he presses a loud, exaggerated kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. The one to your shoulder, this one more of an apologetic kiss as he got a good glimpse of the interesting artwork he left on your skin.
"You know-" He began with a soft grin curled to his lips, eyes full of warmth as he just admired you below him," For someone who kept insisting they were 'not that flexible', you certainly proved yourself wrong-"
you slap a hand over his mouth, glaring up at him with burning cheeks," Don't fuckin' finish that sentence."
He laughs against your palm, wicked and delighted, before pulling your hand away gently so he could kiss your knuckles," Fine. I'll save it for breakfast conversation."
You deadpan," Lu."
"Fiiiine." He groaned dramatically as he stretches, sprawling over your more, smiling with content," It can be an in-bed conversation, then."
Your fingers ran through his softly tousled hair," I'd prefer, y'know, not to talk about it."
"Stop treating me like a one night stand. We're literally engaged."
You pinch a strand of his hair," Blah, blah, blah."
▢ vox ᯤ
You wake to the gentle hum of cooling fans and the faint static-purr of your partner’s chest. Vox has already powered on... well, barely.
His screen glows a sleepy blue beside you, brightness dialed down to a soft dim so he doesn’t “flashbang your ass into next week,” as he once put it.
An arm made of warm, humming circuitry tightens around your waist the moment you try to shift.
“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, voice still glitching with sleep. “You move, and m' gonna electrocute you.”
You snort, trying to pry his hand off. “Vox, we have work. You especially.”
He buries his face in your neck... well, as much as a man with a screen for a head can. The speakers by his jaw emit a soft, low static that vibrates warmly against your skin. It's almost… affectionate.
“Work can eat shit,” he grumbles. “I’m busy.”
His screen fuzzes briefly, a little morning distortion, before settling again. You can feel the whir of his internal fans shift, the white noise deepening into a rhythmic lull that threatens to drag you right back to sleep.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” you mumble, eyes slipping half-closed.
“Maybe,” he says, smugness creeping into his tone. “Maybe I just naturally produce comforting and seductive audio frequencies. I’m a multi-talented man.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I'm fuckin' hot.”
You scrunch your nose at his egotistical answer, but didn't deny his claim.
He trails a hand lazily up your spine, fingertips buzzing with soft static that makes you shiver. “C’mon,” he coaxes, voice dropping to a warm hum. “What’s the point of being the most powerful overlord in the digital era if I can’t take a damn morning off?”
His claws buzz a little too much, making you flinch from the static shock he nipped to your side.
“Hey. behave.” you grumble, trying to bite back the grin threatening to break across your face.
“I am behaving,” he argues. “This is extremely well-behaved for me. I haven’t even tried to film us yet.”
You swat his arm. “Vox.”
“Kidding. Mostly.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth, each one a little more self-satisfied than the last. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just stay. Five more minutes.”
You blink tiredly before sighing and leaning your whole body back into his warmth.
He grinned crookedly before dragging you further into him, his chest pressing against your bare back," there we gooo..."
▢ alastor ⍋
You surface from sleep to the faint clink of porcelain and the warm scent of steeped tea. His favorite blend, and yours. Alastor hums lightly under his breath, that old-timey radio-tune warmth filling the room as he sets two cups on the bedside table with care bordering on ceremony.
“Ah, awake already, my dear?” he says, turning with one of his rare, soft smiles. It sits differently on him than the usual sharp grin; warmer, less rehearsed. He reaches out and lightly boops your nose with a claw-tipped finger. “Good morning!”
You mumble something that vaguely resembles “five more minutes,” and tug the blankets over your head.
He chuckles - quiet, sincere. “Come now. I did brew your favorite. At a frankly ungodly hour, I might add.”
“…Then get back in bed,” you manage, voice muffled. “Tea can wait.”
“Oh-ho! Can it?” he teases, hands folding neatly behind his back. “And here I thought you’d leap at the chance for a cup prepared by yours truly. How tragic.”
You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Alastor.”
“Yes?” he says, far too pleased.
“Get in the bed.”
He tilts his head, giving that faux-pondering smirk he knows drives you insane.
You frown at him, eyes tired, you already knew what he wanted from you,"... Please?"
The word “please” does something to him. it softens him noticeably, like you’ve reached in and dimmed the dial on his performative energy.
He sighs, dramatically but fondly. He's always had a soft spot for good manners.
“Oh, very well. Twist my arm, why don’t you?” He climbs onto the bed with exaggerated delicacy, settling first on your side as you roll over. “Scoot, my dear. Scoot, scoot-"
“You’re the one invading my side,” you grumble, but you shift anyway.
“Semantics,” he says cheerfully as his long arms loop around you.
The moment you’re within reach, he pulls you back toward him, settling your head just beneath his chin. His cheek rests against the top of your head, warm and pleasantly squishy against your hair.
You mumble sleepily against him," you're warm... so stop gettin' out of the bed so early... I prefer you over tea..."
There's a long pause before you feel his claws brushing through your hair, his mouth pressing to the top of your head," duly noted, cher."
CW: f!reader, Vox's POV, boss/employee dynamic, unsolicited 🍆 pics, reader is a lil shit, teasing, blowjob, vox being slightly insecure, @peach-flavored-flambe brain infected mine and gave birth to this and it won't go back in so now it's out, fluff (?), attempt at humour
Vox sends you a dick pic (that he totally didn't spend all morning working on) and waits for you to shower him with grandiose praise, except you had other plans instead. (vox x reader)
Vox bounced his leg so hard the floor practically vibrated, his eyes snapping between his phone and the live feed on his monitor. The camera was aimed at his not-crush...
...okay, fine, his crush. His very real, very inconvenient crush.
It had all started… innocently-ish.
You, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, stupidly earnest about learning “how his operation works.” You had smiled at him—actually smiled—and laughed at his jokes like he wasn’t the most dangerous man in the room. Then came those tiny touches: your fingers brushing his arm, your hand lingering at his wrist when he passed you a file.
And suddenly Vox was here, sweating over his phone like a teenager with a Wi-Fi addiction.
He had followed Valentino’s advice.
Which was, in hindsight, his first mistake.
“Mi corazón,” Val had purred, “if you wanna bed a bitch, you gotta show her what you’re packin’.”
So Vox did exactly that.
Which was mistake number two.
After hours of morning prep and precisely 78,564 practice shots of his dick—from every angle, lighting, and level of enthusiasm—he finally chose the best one. He would’ve asked Velvette, but the moment he tried, she gagged so hard she threw a hardcover book at his face.
He wanted a woman’s opinion.
But apparently not.
Rude.
Still, he trusted his gut.
And his gut said: Damn, I look good.
Valentino had warned him that cameras make dicks look smaller—“angles are everything, cariño”—so Vox picked the image that captured the full heroic scale of his situation.
Then he sent it.
With a smirk emoji.
And an invitation to his penthouse.
Smooth. Elegant. Fucking seductive.
And it remained… unseen.
At first, he thought maybe the network was down.
Totally normal.
So he sent more.
And more.
And after the 87th picture, still nothing.
By then, Vox was moments away from hunting you down and shoving his phone in your face like, “HELLO?! A RESPONSE WOULD BE GREAT.”
He kept checking the screen every thirty seconds, his irritation rising like a stock graph on steroids—
Then.
“Seen.”
His spine shot straight. He clutched his phone so hard it squeaked. He pressed the screen to his face like he could absorb your attention through sheer desperation.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Those cursed three dots never appeared.
You always replied fast.
Always.
At least when he wasn’t sending you a small museum of unsolicited cock art.
He swallowed.
Maybe you were busy. Maybe you didn’t actually look. Maybe you just didn’t notice the size, which was frankly a tragedy, because it was right there.
Yeah. That had to be it.
So Vox forced himself back to work—expanding influence, making plans, controlling empires—while checking his phone every sixty seconds like a man being slowly psychologically tortured by his own thirst.
Nothing.
Nada.
Not even a goddamn eggplant + sweat emoji.
Unbelievable.
Vox’s eye twitched so hard his vision glitched.
Rejected? Him?
Him?
The most powerful, most successful, most devastatingly sexy sinner in all of Hell’s history—
(Fuck Alastor, sincerely and permanently.)
A rogue spark popped off his bevel and fizzled out on his shoulder like it, too, had given up on life.
He was not disappointed.
Nope. Not even a little.
He was perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly fine.
…Perfectly imagining you biting your lip and eyeing his crotch like a starving demon eyeing a five-star meal, because yes—it really is that big.
And you were going to react once you saw him. You had to.
After all, today’s meeting was important. The Vees. Him. You. His brilliant pitch for the new VoxTek Home Security System™ which was a top-tier, Hell-wide technological marvel that was absolutely not just a glorified spy device he planned to install in everyone’s living room.
Obviously, you were just playing hard to get.
Obviously.
But then you walked in, Velvette on one side, Valentino on the other, and nearly obliterated the last functioning pixel of his sanity.
You sat down primly, like temptation incarnate dressed as a secretary: pencil skirt hugging your hips, blouse dipped into a sinful little V, clipboard balanced neatly in your lap. You were taking notes.
Actual notes. Like a professional.
Not like someone who had 87 unsolicited pictures of his dick haunting her phone's memory.
Vox tried to position himself confidently, but his eyes kept drifting toward you like he’d been factory-programmed for thirst.
Then you looked up.
Tilted your head.
Gave him the sweetest, most innocent smile imaginable.
Like you hadn’t seen his cock in widescreen, portrait mode, night mode, panoramic, fisheye, artistic shadow play and the goddamn rule of thirds.
His chest tightened.
Oh, Hell.
Could it be—
Did you not like it?
Were you… turned off?
Was he the clown in this circus?
Were the signals all in his head?
“-ox.”
Should he text you right now and claim someone hacked his phone?
Would that work?
He could blame Alastor. Everyone blames Alastor.
“Vox!”
Maybe he should wait until after the meeting, corner you somewhere private, laugh it off, pretend he wasn’t spiralling into a self-inflicted existential dick crisis—
“For the love of—VOX!”
WHACK.
A notepad slammed into his face with enough force to reboot his entire operating system.
“OW! WHAT THE HELL, VELVETTE?!” He rubbed his cheek, glaring daggers.
Velvette stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel. “If you’re going to fuck our intern with your eyes, can you at least try not to waste my time while you do it?”
Vox sputtered. “I—I wasn’t—”
Valentino snorted, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “Aww, Voxxy,” he crooned, voice dripping with malicious sweetness. “You still haven’t fucked your crush?”
Your pen froze mid-note.
Then Val looked directly at you, grin widening.
“And sweetheart, if it ever happens—would you let me record you two?”
Vox short-circuited so violently the lights flickered.
You shook your head with a teasing smirk, like this was all some sitcom you’d already seen the punchline to.
“I think the boss is just tired,” you said lightly. “He worked so hard all morning.”
Velvette groaned dramatically. “Yeah—probably spying on that awful bobcut twink again.”
“HEY!” Vox slammed both palms onto the desk hard enough to rattle the pens.
He had spied on that stupid twink for fifteen minutes, tops.
He sashayed out with enough hip swing to violate workplace safety standards.
Then the door shut.
And Vox’s panic hit him like a collapsing signal tower.
Just him.
And you.
And the horrifying awareness that you had likely seen all 87 (read: eighty-seven!!!) pictures of his dick, and were probably silently plotting how to sell them, leak them, and ruin him forever.
Fantastic.
He inhaled deeply, forcing a painfully stiff smile. “So—”
“You know,” you interrupted, your tone shifting, warmth fading. Something darker drifting in. You glided to his desk and placed your hand on it, leaning forward until your cleavage hovered right in his line of sight. “That’s sexual harassment, sir.”
You said it in a flat, almost bored tone.
As if discussing a spreadsheet.
A sexy, devastating spreadsheet.
Vox froze.
Hot shame shot through him. His circuits buzzed, a flush of static racing up his neck.
“Wha—I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, crossing his arms quickly. Defensive. Tight. Transparent.
Denial.
Excuses.
Lies.
His holy trinity.
“Mhm.” You hummed, unimpressed.
Then you sat on his desk.
Just sat there, like…like it was your rightful throne or something! Your skirt sliding up, inch by scandalous inch, until he had full view of your black lace lingerie. You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t adjust. You didn’t shy away.
Vox’s mouth went dry.
He dropped back into his chair so fast it squeaked, crossing his legs like it was a lifeline to dignity.
But you weren’t having that.
You slipped off your left heel, slow and deliberate.
Then your bare foot pressed against his crotch, right against him, sending a jolt through every wire he had.
He choked on his own breath.
“A-ah—”
You smirked, your toes gently massaging the outline of him, feeling him harden under your foot.
“Don’t tell me you’re shy,” you teased softly, “after sending so many pictures of your cock today…”
Your head tilted, devilish, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“Sir,” you whispered, the word flicking over him like a spark catching dry kindling.
He swallowed hard, his spine stiff as a rod, hands planted on his knees like he was bracing for impact. His cock strained violently against his pants, thick and heavy and begging for your touch.
“Hm,” you purred, soft and sing-song, “I think the picture made it look a lot bigger than it actually is.”
His head snapped toward you so fast a spark cracked off his cheek.
“Haha,” he forced out, stiff and brittle, then narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Well…” You pouted sweetly, your toes gliding up the length of his clothed cock in a slow teasing sweep that made his breath catch. You dragged your foot back down, lazy and deliberate, “It just seems so much more… travel size.”
You bent forward, pausing the motion, letting the insult hang in the air like perfume.
That did it.
His pride flared hard and furious, burning away every shred of restraint.
“Oh, I’ll show you travel size.” His claws flew, unbuckling, tugging the zipper down, freeing his cock with a sharp pull. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the glowing blue tip haloed with a bead of precum that trembled on the edge.
You hummed in approval, a sound that vibrated right into the base of him.
Then you slid off the desk and lowered yourself between his legs. Your knees touched the floor. Your face hovered inches from his cock. Your breath spilled hot over him, and Vox nearly forgot how to speak.
“I need a closer look,” you murmured.
Your fingertips ghosted along the tip, smooth and curious, then traced down the centre of his shaft. Every inch you touched melted his panic, his excuses, all the frantic thoughts that had clawed at him all morning. They evaporated like static.
“Y-you’re still t-too far,” he whispered. It came out needy. A plea his pride couldn’t stop.
You looked up at him with the sultriest half-smirk he had imagined a thousand times.
“Oh?” you breathed, slow and devastating.
You shifted closer and pressed his cock against your cheek. Soft skin to hot flesh.
“How about now?” you teased, giving him a wicked, playful grin.
He exhaled sharply. The sight of you kneeling for him, holding him in your hand, touching him so lightly it hurt, made his cock throb so hard his hips jerked.
“Fuck…” he muttered, voice barely hanging on.
“Closer?” you whispered, sweet as sin.
Then your lips met him.
A soft kiss to the glowing tip.
A flick of warm tongue.
A slow drag down, down, down his shaft until you reached the base.
His breath fractured. “Fuck, fuck…”
His claws tightened in your hair, no longer resting politely on his knees. He guided you back up, desperate, pulling you where he needed you most. Toward the tip. Toward your lips.
You let him.
You opened your mouth, letting him slide in.
A guttural moan ripped from him as the heat of your tongue stroked past his sensitive ridge. He felt you gag when he hit the back of your throat, a twitch he felt all the way up his spine. Pride surged through him in a dark, intoxicating wave.
“Still think it’s small, babydoll?” he rasped.
Your eyes curved into perfect crescent moons, laughing at him even with his cock filling your mouth. Then you moved with purpose. Your fingers wrapped around his base and squeezed, firm and possessive. Your head bobbed, lips slick and hungry, spit shining his cock with every messy, wet stroke.
The room filled with the sounds of you.
Sucking.
Swallowing.
Breathing him in like he was something you needed to survive.
And Vox could only grip your hair tighter as everything inside him threatened to unravel.
“Oh… fuck,” Vox hissed, the sound raw and scraped from the bottom of his chest.
All he could do was stare.
You devoured him greedily, your mouth stretched around his cock, your lips gliding wetly down his length. Every slurp shot straight through him like electric current. His balls tightened, drawn up high, primed by the obscene sight and the louder, hungrier sounds you made each time you sank deeper.
His hips twitched upward before he could stop himself. Just tiny thrusts at first, testing how your mouth took him, how your throat fluttered around him.
Then you squeezed his tip.
Hard. Wet. Deliberate.
A low, animal sound tore out of him as his hands flew to your head, claws digging gently into your scalp. He lifted himself partly out of the chair, haunches tense, and began to fuck your mouth in earnest. His hips snapped forward in sharp, desperate motions, his cock sliding against your lips and cheeks before plunging back into heat again.
He chased his climax with reckless abandon, each thrust more frantic than the last.
You didn’t slow. You didn’t flinch. You let him take.
You gave him everything.
He didn’t last long. Not with your tongue flattened so perfectly against his shaft, not with your throat tightening around him, not with your hands holding him steady like you owned him.
A distorted groan ripped out of him, his voice glitching, breaking apart into static as his vision doubled.
Hot pulses of cum spilled into your mouth in thick, creamy waves. His entire body shuddered as his cock jolted again and again against your tongue. He groaned through it, a long, breathless exhale of pleasure as he emptied himself into you.
You swallowed every drop.
Slowly, deliberately, your lips slid off the head. His cock left your mouth with a soft, wet pop. Vox watched, dazed, as you opened your lips, showing him his own release pooled on your tongue, then closed your mouth and swallowed with a small, satisfied hum.
He nearly came again just from that.
You rose on shaky knees and sat back on his desk, your breath uneven, your cheeks flushed. Then your legs parted. Invitation written in the slow drip of slick between your thighs.
Your panties were sheer, ruined, soaked darker in the centre.
“It’s only fair I send you a picture… right, sir?”
Your voice was honey-sweet, wicked at the edges.
You hooked one manicured finger beneath the elastic and slid the fabric aside, revealing the soft, glistening folds he’d only dreamed of.
Vox froze.
Every pixel of his focus locked onto you.
His eyes darkened, hunger overtaking them as he leaned forward, breath caught in his throat, ready to take in every angle you offered.
i love your idea of vel and val “taking you away” from vox. we all know the guy is possessive af and vel + val have no problem ragebaiting his ahhh
i could see them acting like annoying younger siblings trying to embarrass him in front of you like:
“did vox ever show you what he looked like as a human? HA! he was like a precious, little nerd. you have to see this.”
“VAL—“
“seriously darling, he wore the most ugly eyewear—made his eyes bulge like a goldfish. lucky you caught him after I got my hands on him, eh?”
“VEL—“
“at least his hair was nice. down here he doesn’t have anything. he’s like…bald…i think? does that count as bald?”
You. You get me. You understand the dynamic that I enjoy.
Meanwhile, after seeing the picture, you think he's adorable.
Reader: oh my...
Vel: I know. Tragic, really. Women of the 50s must've been super desperate.
Val: I mean, he's not too bad, but he's definitely average in looks. I can tell he's above average in other ways ♡
Reader: HE'S SO CUTE 😭💙
Vel & Val: Huh?!
Vel: A-Are you sure??
Val: oh god, don't tell me you need glasses too..
Reader: oh, come on! He's adorable! He looks like such a pathetic nerd. 🥹
Vel & Val: ...
Vel: Whatever you say, babes.
Val: There's a kink for that. 😏
Vox: STOP MAKING FUN OF ME.
I like the thought of Vel and Val genuinely enjoying readers' company after they get to know her. When they have to relax after a long day of work, they invite you over to Vel's room (she 100% has the comfiest bed in V tower) for skincare and gossip. Vox tries to barge in, but he can't. It's girl time. Stinky men must keep out!
Vel & Val: *they grab you from Vox's arms and drag you away*
Vox: Hey! Give her back!
Vel: No. We're doing skincare, and your girl is joinin' us. Satan knows she needs this after a day with you.
Vox: What the hell's that supposed to be mean?!
Val: No offense, papi, but you're kind of a lot to deal with in one day.
could we have a Yandere vox with a reader who’s at the hotel?
☆ Of course!! I love a good yandere dynamic... I like the way you think, anon.
★ This was sort of just what came to mind and is more of a general overview of the relationship, but I am MORE than happy to write about a particular scenario or go more in depth about anything here!! This was really fun <3
☆ Word Count: 1, 274
★ Tried to make it GN reader - let me know if anything indicates otherwise!!
You knew it was wrong, living the way you did. The two sides of your life that directly contradicted each other were a constant war on your soul—or mind, rather. Your soul wasn’t yours to call your own anymore. You used to blame yourself for getting into this predicament, for falling so easily under his spell. But when you returned to Vee tower each night and allowed yourself to succumb to his touch and the pulsating hypnosis of his eye, any doubt in your decision melted away.
You knew he could be egotistical before you made the deal, but you underestimated how such a large ego can really break someone. Over time his possessiveness began to reveal itself, his deep insecurity masked by his desire and need to keep you for himself. No one could look at you, let alone get close enough to touch you. You may be his trophy, but you were still his toy. He was always a screen away, hiding in cameras and tracking you wherever you went.
Especially when you were actively checked in at the Hazbin Hotel.
“I can’t believe you really buy into that bullshit.” He hissed one night from behind his desk. “The Princess is all looney ‘n’ shit. Something’s not right up there.” He tapped the side of his head with a claw.
You sat perched on the edge of the desk, mindlessly toying with the pens in his holder and hummed.
“I think it’s worth a shot.” You offered. “I mean, I think the way she’s going about it is totally fucking weird, but I understand where she’s coming from.”
Vox only rolled his eyes and swirled the drink he was holding. You listened as the ice clinked against the glass. “Yeah, but you’ve always been too easy to convince.”
You looked up from the desk to meet his eyes, screen bright in the dim light of his office. “Is that so?”
He smirked slightly. “Are you forgetting who owns your soul?”
Your face went warm and it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Oh, whatever. If I’m so easy, wouldn’t that only be an insult on you?”
“Or maybe I’ve just got you really hooked.” He countered a bit too quickly, looking at you more insistently now.
“Maybe.”
You always thought it was the other way around. He was the one doing the stalking. The threatening people if they get too close (although usually it surpasses a threat). The hypnosis. His desperation seeped through the cracks in his facade, and even if he was the one who was supposed to be in control, in a way it gave you more power over him instead. He owned your soul, sure. You were indebted to him in any way he desired, but he was the one who wanted those things from you. All he wanted was to be seen. To be loved. To be wanted.
That was how you justified his actions, at least.
The killing people and constant monitoring of your every move was all just a big romantic gesture, right? Hell was full of fucked up people, he could be doing worse.
Or maybe you just told yourself that because you knew you couldn’t let him go, either. In your own sick and twisted way, you knew no man would ever be as violently devoted to you as you were to him emotionally. No matter how hard Charlie or Angel Dust tried to talk you out of it, you refused.
Vox hated the hotel. There were no VoxTek cameras inside and the barrier between you and him drove him crazy every time he knew you were there. The looming threat of Alastor interacting with you in any way, shape or form wasn’t lost on him. In fact, it consumed him.
“You’re not wearing that.” His voice rang out from behind you.
You spun around to see him lurking in the corner of your room, hands behind his back.
“Fuck, Vox. You gotta stop doing that.” You turned back around to fix up your hair in the mirror. He approached silently, coming into view in the reflection as he towered behind you.
“What did I say?” He asked firmly, meeting your gaze in the mirror.
“Come on, Vox. It’s just a sweater.” You shifted in your chair and finished clipping your hair up. With it off your neck, Vox could see the curve of your shoulder clear as day; the dip where it connected with your neck; your collarbone poking out.
He scoffed. “Barely.”
He moved to grab your shoulder, his claws cold against your skin, then squeezed. The tips of his claws dug into you, pain shooting through your shoulder as he got alarmingly close to piercing the skin.
“Change.”
What really ticked him over the edge was the oncoming threat of war. As part of the hotel, you were a direct target for the Excorcists. He wouldn’t have that. He allowed you to frolic around all you wanted with them, but that was when it was just a silly idea that the Princess decided to pursue to keep herself entertained. But instead, she had managed to put you in danger of being killed for good, all because you were kind enough to lend her your support.
You were distraught. It was the one time you really came face to face with the reality of your relationship with him.
“Vox, my friends are in danger! I have to help them!”
“Friends?” He repeated. “Those fucking idiots aren’t your friends!”
“Please!” You begged. “I can’t just do nothing—Adam is coming straight for the hotel!”
“Which is why you’re staying here.” He harshly grabbed your chin in his hand, fingers wrapping around the sides of your jaw as he forced you to look at him. “I told you I didn’t want you to get involved.”
“Vox—please—” You tried to speak, but he only squeezed harder. His eye began to swirl with intention, and no matter how much you tried to look away, he kept your head in place.
“You will stay here and watch your friends die on camera for all I care.” He growled. “Maybe then you would think twice before disobeying direct orders.”
Tears rolled down your cheeks and dripped off his hand. Your mind began to numb and you felt your strength fading. The fight in your veins was stripped from you, leaving you as nothing more than a shell. Trophy turned toy once more.
He found it oh so satisfying to watch you sit there all pretty and obedient as you watched your friends fight against the angels on the big flatscreen that was tapped into his cameras. The very people who were trying to take you away from him were actively fighting for their lives, and the possibility of having you all to himself again was thrilling.
As the hypnosis began to wear off, you started to squirm and frown in confusion, and if you caused too much of a ruckus or became lucid enough to realise what you were watching, he’d immediately push you back under the trance.
Needless to say, you didn’t return to the hotel after that. At least, not as far as Vox knew. (He knows you pop in to visit, of course. But he finds the idea that you think you could hide something from him amusing). He’d shut it down immediately if it meant you started to spend any less time by his side or were put in danger by them again.
Which, of course, never stopped him from putting you in danger from trying to take over Heaven and start another war.
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 for nothing as he curled them into fists.
The worst part was that he couldn’t carelessly fling aside the rifle slung over his back and collapse onto the couch to wallow. No, Alastor had to suck it up. He was a married man, and 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 organizing the meat into a neat pile in the fridge, or 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 plastered 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, wearing 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 thrashing, 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 moving, 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 when the furious rapping echoing in the tiny hallway separating your bedroom and the living room began.
“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.
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 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, pulling a whimper from you.
“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… tired, 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.
𑣲 SYNOPSIS. Alastor proves to you precisely why your body is beautiful as is.
𑣲 PAIRING. alastor x afab/female!plus-size!reader
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 3.4k
𑣲 CONTENT WARNINGS. (soft) dom!alastor, non-sex-repulsed asexual alastor, sub!reader, porn without plot, body worship, praise kink, mirror sex, reader has body image issues, yandere-lite behavior on alastor's part, implied murder, size kink (if you squint), dirty talk, affirmations during sex, creampie
𑣲 A/N. hi everyone, this is my first ever alastor x reader fic!! written very self-indulgently and was originally supposed to just be for myself, but i decided to make it a general x reader oneshot. i hope you enjoy it as much as i had fun writing it! ♡ (this was healing to be honest fjlsdfjsgh) here's the ao3 mirror link. MINORS DNI.
Your eyes were downcast, the crease between your brows furrowing further after leafing through the latest issue of “The Flapper.”
You looked nothing like any of the girls featured in it—this was a fact you were well aware of. Perhaps too well aware, considering how often you compared yourself to them, and how much a select few men would harshly remind you. When you stood in front of your vanity mirror after a shower, or while undressing, gaze fixated on all your least favorite parts of your reflection you felt the least pretty. Where other women were slim in physique, conventionally attractive, and well… everything you were not—you were softer at the edges, curvaceous with a little extra, and far from the beauty standard.
You weren’t as rebellious or so daring as to challenge the status quo of the 1920s. You didn’t smoke. You didn’t frequent jazz clubs.
You were, on all accounts, a good girl.
If your friend Mimzy hadn’t encouraged you to start going to the local speakeasy with her, you would’ve been an irrefutably good girl to the core. But after a few visits, you relinquished your initially tight grip over your goody-two-shoes persona—giving into your inhibitions more easily. Not only that, but there was one gentleman that seemed to be a well-liked regular.
Alastor Moreau.
He was tall, lean, charismatic. And rather gifted with musical instruments and his singing voice. Women flocked to him and his perpetual, dazzling smile, whereas you would simply admire his dashing visage and radiance from your seat at the bar a few feet away. At this point in your life, you were also well acquainted with the fact that men like him never looked twice your way.
This, you were convinced of as a truth steeped in bitterness… until Alastor began occupying the barstool next to you more than the stage where he’d typically be. It all began with the average niceties—nods of acknowledgment, “how are you’s”, and the cookie-cutter responses that came with asking such pleasantries to strangers.
Over time, the fragility of societal etiquette cracked under the pressure a little more moonshine granted you, leading to a rabbit hole of badinages and exchanges of witticisms that surprisingly Alastor engaged with you in. Weeks would soon come and go, and with it, the initial wall you never thought you’d have the opportunity to find yourself on the other side of.
You discovered his penchant for his mother’s jambalaya. You learnt about his dreams of being on air as New Orleans’ next best radio show host. You listened to the stories he’d share with you—though you wouldn’t come to realize just how carefully curated they were, so you would never suspect even a modicum of the identity of his he’d hide in broad daylight. Nonetheless, you were enthralled by them all; it wasn’t often you came across a man as charmingly eccentric and as intriguing as Alastor.
But the one thing you had never expected to hear, was the suggestion of a date—the offer for a day you two would spend together away from the familiar environment of the speakeasy. He had asked so casually in that refined manner of his he was never seen without, an enigmatic smile donning his lips. It was a smile and voice you found yourself becoming more and more susceptible to with every passing moment the two of you dwelled in the other’s company.
So, naturally, you accepted.
Mutually shared laughter and smiles turned into intimate whispers and locked lips. Alastor would form a habit of whisking you away from beneath your parents’ noses, to lay with him underneath his own roof. The close proximity would lead from one thing to another, and you would eventually expose yourself with all your insecurities laid bare and plain for calculated hazel eyes to see. Your shyness—which he thought of as rather adorable—would soon give way to a reassurance that he saw you as beautiful, curves and all.
But unfortunately, on some days—the ones particularly where the melancholy would rear its head and threaten to burst forth from your chest—such a notion seemed too bizarre. Anomalous. Out of place.
You frown at your reflection, dissatisfied with what you saw.
Your hands squeezed at your stomach pudge, then your love-handles; the frown on your face deepened, and you sighed as you closed your eyes.
Just what did he see in me? You couldn't wrap your head around it.
Too caught up in your own haze of self-deprecating thoughts, you failed to notice when the door quietly creaked open, and the following light footsteps that stopped right behind you.
"Mon ange, why the displeased face?" murmured Alastor, his mouth a hair's breadth away from your ear. His longer, lithe arms slither around your waist, the nimble digits tracing imaginary patterns on the soft surface of your stomach.
You jumped with a startled gasp.
"Such an expression does not suit such a beautiful face," he continued on, murmuring as he nosed at the side of your neck.
"…Alastor?"
"Yes, my dear?"
Your voice came out small; uncertainty and trepidation brewed within your stomach as you spoke.
"What do you see in…" you vaguely gestured at your reflection, "…this? I mean—you're very handsome, Al. You can have any broad you want, yet you chose me. People like Tommy and his friends at the speakeasy always tell me so, poking fun at my weight and all that… So why?"
Alastor froze behind you. Swallowing the thickening lump in your throat, you force your gaze to meet his. Sharp, dark hazel eyes stare into yours as if they were peering into the window of your soul.
When you begin to slightly shuffle from foot-to-foot, the ever-present smile on his face softened—but only slightly.
"Why, she asks, when she's the most stunning little thing I have ever had the pleasure to lay my eyes upon." Alastor chuckles, though there was no derisive edge to his words. Just blatant, plain, and undressed verity.
"Why would I not choose this," he said, curiously, while one large hand cupped your cheeks.
"Or this," he added, this time with both hands feathering down your sides—causing a shiver to run down your spine—before squeezing at your love-handles affectionately.
"Or, simply… all of this," Alastor whispered as he allowed his hands to roam around the expanse of your skin that was beginning to warm beneath his tender ministrations. You squirmed in his hold, gaze cast to the side, to which he responded by gently yet firmly jerking your chin up in the mirror.
"Besides, Tommy and the rather unpleasant company he keeps would not know the first thing about beauty if it struck them across their hideous mugs," he said, tone sharpening with disdain.
"Now, mon ange take a look."
You obeyed, albeit with a crease beginning to form betwixt your brows.
"What I meant was really look," he elaborated, "and dare to question why I chose you again."
Opening your mouth with the intention to reply, you come to find that no words came forth to counteract his; the grin on his features widened at your sudden inability to talk.
Because he knew that you knew it was foolish to continue this train of thought.
Alastor then fell backwards onto the bed, not without pulling you as well to plop into his lap. You squeaked with his name rolling off your tongue in a gasp, having not expected him to have done that.
"Sweetheart, I do not want you to break eye contact with this mirror until I've thoroughly shown you the answer to your query," he asserted in a firm voice.
You nod in acknowledgment just as anticipatory arousal started to coil and churn within your stomach. Your eyes remain trained on the way both your reflections mirrored his promise to prove that he had, indeed, chosen you and only you.
One hand danced down towards your waist before sneaking underneath the band of your cotton panties to circle your clit; the other hand wound up atop a breast, lithe digits fondling the plush skin there as it spilled in-between them.
Softly, you moaned, eyelids dipping into a half-lidded stare.
"Al…"
He hummed as both hands worked at unraveling you. A couple of long digits slid from your bud to glide between your slick folds, a teasing gesture that had you beginning to desire more. Another two closed around your nipple, tweaking it slightly.
"My my, you're positively soaked," Alastor said, amusement evident in his tone.
It took everything within your power to avoid averting your gaze away from the debauched sight in the mirror. God, why was he so sinfully good at this?
His fingertips then moved to hook into your panties' seams, pulling back and causing the elastic to snap against your skin. A small yelp left you as you jumped slightly, the movement making his hardening length rather noticeable behind you.
"Off with these now, darling."
It was neither a question nor a suggestion.
You obeyed with a pliant nod; shimmying out of them. As you did so, you instinctively looked down, but your gaze was quick to flicker back up at your reflection. Alastor gave the side of your leg a stern pat.
"Eyes. Ahead."
"Yes sir," you breathily said. The undergarment became discarded in a little heap on the carpeted floor.
Alastor cooed in approval, long lashes framing his toffee-hued stare as it followed your every move. "Good girl."
The praise sent a spike of arousal straight to your core, and you swore this man would soon come to be the utter death of you.
Slowly, he slid the straps of your brassiere down your shoulders, rolling the cups of them beneath your breasts. "How astoundingly beautiful…" He said with a voice imbued with awe. Then, he went to unclip the back hookings before dropping them.
His fingers curled one-by-one around your shoulders as his lips leaned closer to your ear.
"There's my gorgeous, gorgeous dove." Alastor whispered in unfettered adoration, which in turn sent a shiver down your spine.
"You really think so?"
"Oh my dear, I know so."
A giggle—your giggle—filled the air while you smiled, abashed. "You sure know how to flatter a lady, Mr. Moreau."
"Hm?" Alastor tilted his head to the side. "Is it truly flattery if it's the truth?"
You fiddled with your fingers, the shy smile gracing your expression now wider as you squeezed your thighs against each other.
"Mm, I suppose not…"
"It is a shame that you do not see what I see within the same mirror," Alastor said in a low, disapproving tone, "why, I daresay you're quite the feast for the eyes!" Then, his face became buried within the crook of your neck. Without a warning, the feeling of teeth marrying flesh caused you to yelp with a jump, though the pain that followed soon took the shape of something more lascivious.
He laughed as you squealed his name before laving over the blossoming bite mark with his tongue almost apologetically—the small act felt more reverent than anything reminiscent of a sorry, however.
"That hurt, Al!"
"Apologies, I just couldn't help myself when you look so divinely delicious."
A pout formed on your lips. But before you could respond, Alastor's inquiry beat you to it; it was phrased like a question, yet the commanding note coloring his voice told you it was an order.
"Now be a dear and help me out of my trousers, will you?"
"Yes sir," you replied as you got up from the seat of his lap to turn around and sink to your knees. Your eyes were now level with the sight of a rather prominent bulge that made your thighs squeeze together.
It took a little canting of his hips in your face to remind you of your task. You hadn't realized you were staring as if you were in a trance.
"I assure you that it won't pull itself out of the garment, ma cherie." Alastor teased with a faint tsk, one brow quirked down at you.
"Ah, sorry—it's just… it never fails to amaze me how you hide a third leg in there," you giggled while your hands worked at undoing the buckle of his belt.
He chuckled, clearly amused by your words. "It'll amaze you even further in the next few minutes."
After unbuttoning his pants and giving him some space to drag his boxers off, your breath hitched in your throat.
Precum beaded the tip of his cock so beautifully that it made your mouth water; you made a move to wrap the fingers of one hand around the base, however Alastor stopped you.
"Back in my lap now, sweetheart. I want to be inside you."
Instantly, you rose to your feet; how could you say no to such unbridled desire? With a turn, you reached around to align the head of his cock with your entrance, and slowly you pushed it further and further within yourself. Alastor watched behind you as every inch was swallowed greedily by your cunt.
"That's it, just like that," he groaned in tandem with your soft moans.
Once you were settled back against him, your lover wasted no time in hooking each hand underneath each one of your thighs and spread you open, your bare pussy—now stuffed—on display.
Scandalized at such indecency, you gasped. "Good heavens, Al—"
Your words morphed quickly into the sweetest, most dulcet noises he adored hearing from you as he spread his own legs a little wider, feet planted on the ground before he began thrusting up into you.
"Remember, don't look away." Alastor said, lips curving upwards with delight when you forced your gaze to remain on both of your pornographic reflections in the mirror.
Such a sight would have a mother—like yours—to clutch her pearls in abject shock.
Yet you couldn't pry your eyes away, nor could you put a stop to the mewls of pleasure that kept tumbling out of your mouth.
You watched as his cheshire smile morphed into a wide grin.
"You were made to take me like this mon ange," he cooed as his strong arms relentlessly bounced you in his lap.
"Oh—you liked that didn't you? Naughty girl." Alastor tutted at you when your walls fluttered approvingly around his length. He sucked in a sharp but small breath while you continued to squeeze around him, the gradual and blissful haze rolling into your head making your gaze half-lidded.
"Repeat after me, and don't break eye contact," he commanded, "I am beautiful just the way I am."
What? Did he really want you reciting affirmations in front of a mirror like this?
Hesitating a moment too long, he slowed the bucking of his hips to an agonizing pace. An involuntary whine left your lips.
"Well?" He said, one brow arched as his piercing gaze was trained on your face.
"You don't want me to keep this pretty little cunt empty now, do you?"
That was the very last thing you wanted him to do.
You swallow shakily, a deep breath following right after.
"I-I am beautiful just the way I am!" you stammered with haste, though that didn't seem to bother your beloved. In fact, he looked much akin to a cat that got the cream.
Alastor began to regain the momentum of sliding in and out of your heat, causing the obscene schlick sounds to return. "Yes, that's right dear. Now say: I am worthy of being physically admired."
"I am…" Your voice trailed off, to which he responded in kind by angling the tip of his cock in the precise spot that nearly made your eyes roll back into your skull.
"…worthy of being physically admired!"
As a small reward, he planted a chaste kiss to your temple.
"That's my good girl. Next: I will never speak ill about my appearance ever again."
This time, you repeated his words more confidently—albeit with intermittent moans—and punctuating them with an expletive.
The affirmations continued and you complied readily more than before.
"My body is desirable to many, but it only belongs to the man making love to me right now!"
"I no longer compare myself to others and embrace the beauty I was blessed with!"
"I love and appreciate my body!"
Alastor's pace started to falter just as you felt yourself also steadily approaching your climax. The sloppier it got, the more you felt the telltale coil in your stomach wound up tighter and tighter.
"Oh, Al! I'm coming—"
Just as the words fell off your lips, he ruthlessly continued abusing that area within you that made you see stars that dappled your vision.
With a cry ripped from your throat, your cunt spasmed, drawing a few final thrusts from his cock inside you before he followed suit; his white spend then coated your inner walls, some of it even dribbling out of you.
Both of your chests heaved as Alastor leaned backwards until his back met the plushness of your bed, arms having looped around your frame in an intimate gesture that caged you into his front.
A few brief moments of silence followed, your respective euphoric highs eventually ebbing away into the quiet around you. The humdrum happenings of the outside world beyond your room's window could be heard with more clarity now.
You maneuvered yourself so your chest was flush with his, now effectively making the both of you a sinfully entangled mess in the sheets. As you do so, you can feel his cum dribbling slowly out of you, but neither of you pay it any mind.
Alastor's typically sharp gaze regarded you curiously, albeit softened around the edges; you were the one thing in all of this world that could manipulate him so sweetly and unintentionally. He then quirked a brow at you.
"Still not convinced?"
Shaking your head slightly, you breathily giggled.
"I may be a bit more than convinced, now."
His grin widened, a pleased smug look crossing his features. He clasped one hand in yours before bringing it tenderly to his lips, the soft plush flesh there brushing over your skin as long lashes fluttered shut.
"You are a goddess, ma cherie; Greek sculptors crafted the finest statues after beautiful bodies like yours," he murmured as he punctuated his words with a kiss.
"Don't you ever forget it," he continued, "but if you do… I will be there to remind you again."
Your heart swelled. You were quite fortunate to have such an appreciative man like Alastor Moreau by your side.
He chuckled when you told him as much.
Oh, if only you knew how the fearsome things that went bump in the night were actually rather afraid of him.
"Perhaps."
Exhaustion began to seep into the marrow of your bones; you stifled a yawn.
"Tired, are we?" Alastor asked while booping your nose affectionately. You gave him a small nod in return, and he took that as a cue to run you both a steaming hot bath.
After he had tucked you snugly into bed, you couldn't help knitting your brows at how he hadn't dressed himself into his pajamas just yet.
"Al, will you not be joining me?"
In the midst of adjusting his wristcuffs, his eyes shift over to meet yours. If the room were any brighter, perhaps you'd catch a glimpse of the yawning darkness that swirled within them.
"Not yet," he lightly said, walking over to plant a kiss to your forehead. "I have some business to attend to, but I'll be back before you know it!"
"Mmn…" you sleepily blinked up at him, not thinking to further question him and what these late-night plans of his entailed exactly, "okay… Stay safe. And don't come home too late."
"Oh, you mustn't worry about me at all," Alastor replied pleasantly, the smile stretching his lips widening just an ominous fraction imperceptibly within the dimness.
"Sleep well, mon amour."
The bedroom door clicked shut with a finality, much like the impending one for a few unfortunate souls he would pay a brief visit to. He had ensured his prized butcher's knife was sharpened to a lethal point before slipping out into the dead of night.
You would remain none the wiser, even when he returned soundlessly, hands peculiarly cold as he pulled your half-asleep form back into his embrace.
Even when the front page of the news a couple days later spoke of the Bayou Butcher and his latest poor, poor victims.
And even when those same hands that killed in cold blood continued to caress you and all the parts of you that you had once hated.
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.
May I request SFW headcanons about Johnny Splash getting jealous. Like how would he act? Would he say anything, etc.
SAY NO MORE, COMING RIGHT UP
(Also, I love Johnny's little similes, but jesus christ are they hard to write off the top of my head)
~~~~~
Johnny Splash gets Jealous
Doesn't like to admit it, but Johnny gets jealous pretty easily when it comes to you
And he can't hide it to save his life
His pouty face is just adorable! Just the way his cheeks puff, bottom lip out, eyes avoiding yours. It's just absolutely endearing, made only better when he tries to deny his jealousy
Ever since your first meeting he's been sweet on you, but after actually getting together, Johnny fell super deep! Not only were you gorgeous, but everything he learned about you was better than the last
He wants to simultaneously show you off and keep you close. Everyone deserves to experience you! …just not too much, ya know?
If someone start getting a bit too comfortable with you, like putting an flirty hand on your shoulder, you can bet on Johnny walking up to "assess" the situation
It'll be hard to hide your smile as he tries to sass the other person into leaving you be (just don't laugh out loud if he gets sassed right back, Johnny's self-esteem can't take another hit)
Jokingly mentions the idea of siccing Duke on them
Likes to give you his letterman jacket to wear when you go out (don't worry, you've managed to make sure it's always dry moving forward) It feels like he's marking you so the whole world knows you're his baby
Not to mention you also just look damn cute with it on~
If you take baths more than showers, he'll definitely feel slightly jealous of Bathsheba. Taking showers together is really intimate for him, even if you don't have the Dateviators on. Not even in a sexual way either, it just feels personal
If he really pisses off Amir, he'll choose to compliment you more in front of Johnny just to see the steam come out of his ears. One time Amir purposely kissed your hand very intimately in front of him (You could see the grin on his face when Johnny stormed over and lightly smacked his hand away)
He's quite confident in his future as a singer, no doubt. But he definitely feels a little threatened by clearly better singers. When someone is clearly a more skilled musician, Johnny gets kinda nervous
Once you both get alone and everything cools off, the situation kind of hits him and a wave of embarrassment washes over. Johnny will get quite apologetic
"Gosh, I'm sorry baby it's just... the way he put his arm around you all casual like... Well, it just made me more heated than an egg on the sidewalk in summer!"
No matter how jealous he may get, you never get a feeling of overprotectiveness or him being overtly clingy. Johnny isn't that kind of guy, he doesn't care who you hang out with (of course as long as they treat you right)
Debrief: flowers are hard to come by on the ground. Bro finds a different way to confess his feelings.
Case Notes: ugh. I love this Gachiakuta men so much. They’re all so pretty 😍
Anyway Nonnie, here’s your order! Enjoy!
Flowers are almost impossible to come by on the Ground. So when Bro Santa shows up at your door holding a bouquet, you assume someone has managed to scam him.
The paper wrapping is patchwork, tied with twine. It looks heavy. Suspiciously heavy.
You squint at him, “Did you… rob someone?”
He snorts, “First thing you think of is crime?”
“We live in a garbage abyss.”
He shifts his weight, boots grinding grit into the floor beneath him. He looks ridiculous standing there, broad shoulders blocking the light of the hall, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like a guilty teenager instead of a Cleaner who could fold most men in half.
You notice something else. He’s nervous, you can tell in the way he shifts, the way his brown eyed gaze seems to avoid yours. You glance at the bouquet again.
“…You know flowers wilt in, like, twelve minutes down here, right?”
“Firstly, no they don’t. Second, they’re not flowers.”
That gets your attention, your brows furrowing in confusion as you reach out and tug one “petal.”
It’s soft. Squishy beneath your touch and dusted with colored sugar. Your eyes widen, each “bloom” is carefully shaped confection. Candy molded into roses and stargazers and tiny clustered buds. Some dusted in color, faint but pretty. They look almost real at first glance.
“…You hate sweets,” you say slowly, suspicious of why he’s standing at your door with a bouquet of sweets.
He shrugs, “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re always telling Dear not to rot his teeth.”
“Yeah.”
“So why—”
He clears his throat, cutting you off before your brain can sprint ahead, “I commissioned a viander. Enjin knew a guy.”
You blink. Of course he did. Somewhere, Enjin is absolutely aware this is happening and probably grinning like a menace.
“You paid for this?” you ask.
“Cheaper than tracking down real flowers,” he mutters. “And they last longer. Thought… you could eat ’em instead of watchin’ them die.”
It comment is heavier than he intended. Because that’s the Ground, isn’t it? Everything wilts. Everything rots. Everything gets thrown away.
Except this. He didn’t even like sweets. But you do and he knew that. You look back at him.
Broad hands. Calloused knuckles. That permanent line between his brows that only smooths when he’s with Dear… Or you.
“You didn’t have to,” you say quietly, a soft smile tugging on your lips in a way that makes Bro’s heart does that weird little flutter.
“Yeah. I did.” There’s steel in his voice now. It not the Cleaner voice he uses in the field. This is the voice of a man who knows exactly what he wants.
He sets the bouquet into your hands. It’s heavier than expected. Solid with the sweets he had made just for you.
“I don’t got a garden,” he says, the timbre in his voice steady, “Don’t got much pretty to give you.”
“You’re pretty,” you shoot back automatically, a grin on those pretty plush lips that Bro’s thought about kissing for months now.
He chokes on a laugh, “Not what I meant.”
You always do this. Deflect. Tease. Keep things light, but he doesn’t let you this time cause he’s got something serious to say. And if he doesn’t do it now. He may never get the nerve to do it again.
“You’re good with Dear.”
You still, your teasing grin softening into something else.
“He likes you,” he continues. “Listens to you. You’re strong. You don’t scare easy. You don’t break easy. You mouth off even when you probably shouldn’t.”
You grin, a gentle shrug of one of your shoulders, “It’s a gift.”
“I know.”There’s warmth there in the acknowledgment. Thick and steady.
“And I…” He exhales slowly. Like he’s about to dive into something deep and cold, “I started thinkin’ about you stayin’. Not just around, but stayin’ with me and him.”
Your heart gives one traitorous, heavy thump and hekeeps going before courage slips away.
“I’m not good at this. I’m better at haulin’ scrap and breakin’ bones. But I know what I feel.”His rich, earthy, eyes meeting yours.
“I care about you. More than I planned to.”
Planned. Like love was something he meant to schedule between jobs and possibly forgot to do.
You tilt your head. “So what, this is a cost-effective romance strategy?”
He huffs, dragging a large hand down his face, “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” he echoes, silence hanging. Not awkward. Just honest.
You look down at the candy bouquet again. One petal breaks under your thumb and you pop it into your mouth. It’s sweet. And it’s probably the most thoughtful thing a man has ever done for you. You step closer to him, closing the distance a bit.
“For a guy who doesn’t like sweets,” you murmur, “you picked good ones.”
“Taste-tested one.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, surprised, “You did not.”
He grimaces, but nods that he did in fact do it, “It was awful. Too sugary. Knew ya liked ‘em.”
You laugh, bright and alive in a place that eats brightness. Another thing he adores about you.
Then you reach up and hook your fingers into his collar, tugging him down just enough so you don’t have to shout your answer.
“You’re a good man,” you tell him, “Strong. Annoyingly thoughtful. Good with your kid. Good at your job.”
His breath catches at the action, at how close you are. How he can see every line on your face
“So?” he asks, softer now.
“So yeah. I’m stayin’. But next time? Maybe commission some chocolates.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds like relief breaking through rust.
One big hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, careful like you’re something fragile even though you’re anything but.
“I’ll get you real flowers someday,” he murmurs.
“On the Ground?” you challenge and he looks at you like he’d drag the sky down if it meant making it a field of blooms for you.
18+ ignoring my 4 other wips because i NEED that autistic man
Subby!August who's so loud while you ride him that putting a hand over his mouth doesn't even help. he's grabbing at your waist, hips thrusting up wildly to chase the wet heat of your cunt while whines spill past his lips
Subby!August who loves and hates the idea of cockwarming. having you impossibly close to him while he works is nice until you start grinding your hips to try and throw his focus off
Subby!August who can cum just by eating you out, his hair pulled back in a ponytail and his thumbs holding you open for him (i mean y'all SAWW that tongue like)
Subby!August who forgets to breathe when you're making out. it never starts out slow, all quick and messy desperation that ends with him glossy eyed and painfully hard
Subby!August who gets so fucked out he's babbling against your neck and licking up the expanse of your throat. "feel s'good baby" "p-please lemme cum in you" "need you so bad"
Subby!August who starts to cry if he's edged for too long, fucking up into your hand or your mouth and whimpering when you stop. he lets out a pathetic mix of a yell and a shaky laugh when you finally let up
Subby!August who, despite being so needy he's panting, takes his time undoing the buttons of your shirt and setting your clothes or pajamas aside for later. he's a thoughtful menace
Subby!August who never bothers to check if the doors locked or who might be around to hear you guys. he ran a strict program anyways, nobody would think about walking in without knocking
