gen's quiet room

34, minors DNI | main for @degenerativeficsdisease

[degen-fics]

this is an 18+ blog; minors dni

hey hi hello! y'all can call me Gen. she/her. in my 30s. i'm usually busy doing life things but it's nice to sit down and write for fun when i can :) my only publishing is in poetry, but i love writing fanfics!

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current fandom(s): Hazbin Hotel, Love and Deepspace, Genshin Impact, KPop Demon Hunters, Arcane

completed fics:

Hazbin Hotel Alright Darling, You're On The Air! - Alastor x Reader [3 chapters, smut, see tags] Show Them What They'll Never Have - Alastor x Reader [one-shot, smut, see tags] To Break a Fever - Alastor x Reader [one-shot, sickfic, dubcon, see tags and additional warnings] Yours, From the Start - Alastor x Reader [prequel to The Mourning, see tags] Rites of Vitality - Alastor x Reader [one-shot, smut, sex magic practices, see tags] Device Incompatible - Alastor x Reader [one-shot, smut, told from Vox's pov before reader's pov, see tags] Eyes On Me - Alastor x Reader || chapter 2 [multichapter, smut, voyeurism, see tags] Vanish Into You - Alastor x Reader [one-shot, angst/slice of life] Left Breathless - Human Alastor x Reader [one-shot, smut, dead dove-ish, see tags] Fallacy of Fairness - Human Alastor x Reader [one-shot, prequel to Left Breathless] La Petit Mort - Human Alastor x Reader [one-shot, smut, first time, voice kink, see tags] K-Pop Demon Hunters His Inspiration - Jinu x Reader [one-shot, smut, exhibitionism, see tags]

in progress fics:

Aid and Abet - human!Alastor x Reader [one shot, smut, wip] Morally Sepia - Alastor x Reader [multichapter, unplanned plot based on reader votes] The Mourning - Alastor x Reader [multichapter, wip, started in may 2025] Use Me Well - human!Alastor x Reader [multichapter, wip; started in march 2024]

will write:

reader-inserts for: hazbin hotel, love and deepspace, some genshin impact. canon character fics for: hazbin hotel, arcane, genshin impact, link click smut, horror, psychological, experimental, angst, fluff, slice of life, AUs.

won't write:

underaged anything. kinks regarding bodily fluids. certain AUs (hp/hogwarts, steampunk).

[gonna update this in the future but here we are for now]

[languid-lamb]

Right Dream, Wrong Name

Synopsis: Zayne doesn't love the way another man's name sounds on your lips. It may have been a dream, but you owe him an apology all the same. He's already lost one chance to love; he won't lose you, too. He will, however, enjoy making you squirm a little bit.

CW: 18+, mdni. Jealousy, light bondage, gags, overstimulation, forced orgasm, light praise, light degradation, there's a phone call to another guy

Pairing(s): Zayne x NonMC; potential Zayne x NonMC x Caleb

Word Count: 1.3k (Part 1 of a potential 2 part fic)

Zayne operates on logic and reason. He knows, deep down, that dreams are little more than a byproduct of brain activity outside of your control. But the way you mumbled- no, the way you moaned Caleb’s name in your sleep stoked the embers of jealousy running deep in his veins, and Zayne's not going to make the same mistake twice. He already lost MC to the passivity sparked by fate's deceitful strings; he won't lose you too. Whether it's written in the stars or woven through tea leaves, Zayne wouldn't trust fate with your love. 

And he oh so loves watching you writhe underneath his touch. 

“Zayne, I really don't-!” A gasp silences another flimsy excuse tangled up on your lips, twisted by the pleasure brought about by Zayne's lithe fingers swirling around your clit. Your hands dart out for his shoulders, still woefully unable to make him slow down. “I don’t remember last night's dream, I'm sorry, I…” Your eyes roll back in surrender, legs shaking at the added pressure Zayne applies without apology.

“You do.” The already loose knot of Zayne's tie comes undone, his other hand snatching your wrists. “I also remember telling you to keep your hands to yourself.” He cracks a smile at his work, amusement flickering in his gaze every time you tug against the makeshift bindings. “I'll ask one last time.” Zayne's lips find your neck, peppering kisses up your jaw until his teeth graze your ear. “Whose name fell from my pretty girl's lips?” 

Your hips buck into his hand, but Zayne's not having it. A whine tears through your throat, the hand once pleasing you retreating from your pussy and into your line of sight. Your slick catches the dim lamplight in a perfect taunt made worse by Zayne's analytical gaze; his sullied fingers hover a few painful inches from his lips, hazel eyes roaming over the evidence of last night's dream and this morning’s punishment. A name sits heavy in your chest, but it won't move, caught by the dry knot pulsing in your throat. 

“You're not leaving me with many options,” Zayne sighs. He holds your gaze, and for a brief, stupid moment, you think his tongue will lap up the remnants of your arousal. You should know better than to expect mercy. “You can tell me what we both already know,” he says, “or you can try your luck and see if you can endure the punishment I have in mind.”

In other words, you can come in the next five minutes, or experience the pain and agony of denial for as long as Zayne sees fit. A quick glance at the clock perched on your bedside table confirms your suspicions; he has 90 minutes at his disposal, and you? You're still stuck on the first of two syllables Zayne's asking for.

“Very well then.” Cold disappointment nestles into Zayne's face. “Safe words.”

The demand trembles down your back, the hem of your silk nightie drawing goosebumps over your exposed flesh. “Red to stop,” you mutter, “yellow to slow.”

“And if your mouth is otherwise occupied?”

You swallow thickly. “Sign ‘r’ with either hand.”

Zayne chuckles. “If only you’d been so agreeable before…” Like cradling a porcelain doll, Zayne caresses your face, thumbs swiping apologies over your heated cheeks. “Behave,” he whispers, “and it won't be too painful.”

And other lies as told by Zayne Li. 

Zayne skips the warm-up entirely. No basic commands, no spankings; he swapped his tie for proper silk restraints and forgoes his fingers in favor of an unrelenting massage wand shoved right up against your clit. 

“Keep squirming and I'll turn it up.” 

Even with Zayne's legs pinning you down, you can't help but try and thrash away from the onslaught of heavy vibration and Zayne's mocking smile. He shrugs off his jacket and undoes his waistcoat, sighing over the wrinkles in his shirt and ignoring your muffled cries in favor of scolding you for ruining his outfit for the day. “Have I really been spoiling you that much?” He asks, basking in the sparkle of your unshed tears and the cries stifled by the makeshift gag wedged in your mouth. “Oh, sweet girl, I'm so sorry. I can't understand you when you're holding onto last night's mistakes like that. Does your dream taste as good as it felt?” 

Whatever essence your panties once held has since been lost to copious amounts of drool. An answer paired with an apology both strain against the gag, Zayne looking down expectantly. How he hasn't come in his pants already is beyond you; the wand doesn't relent, and he holds you down at the price of his cock enduring the same torture you've been through for the longest three minutes of your life. 

Zayne tilts his head. “Come again?”

Oh, what a dick. 

Another orgasm tears through you, and usually, Zayne would praise you for it. You're met with a stern glare, your thighs trembling, arms tugging against the restraints digging so kindly into your wrists as you try, in vain, to warn Zayne that you're about to squirt all over his shirt and pants and to please please please move the wand so you can breathe again. Your back arches. Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, mumbling about his newly-ruined slacks. 

“As much as you'd love having me carry your scent to work, hospital standards dictate clean clothes.” Zayne fishes your panties out of your mouth. “Are you ready to talk now?” 

You nod, sweat dripping down your neck and brow. “It was Cay–?” You don't recognize your voice, raspy and dry and screaming for water. Ever the doctor, Zayne grabs your water from your nightstand, cradling the back of your head to make sure you don't choke. 

“You were saying?” Zayne idly toys with your sweat-laden hair, finally freeing you from the endless string of vibration. “Go on,” he whispers. “Be a dear and tell me who else was in our bed last night.” 

Your eyes flutter shut, but Zayne won't allow for even the flimsiest of shields. His hand cups your jaw, squeezing until you meet his gaze. Knots curl through your stomach, guilt churning in your chest; even with his pupils wide and hungry, even with all logic and reason, you feel bad for dreaming about another man. For dreaming about, “Caleb.” 

A beat of silence washes over the master bedroom. No sunlight peeks through the blinds, clouds heavy and grey with a crisp winter morning and a fresh wave of panic, because Zayne's not getting up. 

“It was Caleb.” You try again, louder, taking ownership of the untameable mistake. “I–”

“Shh.” Zayne rubs your shoulder. “Relax.”

You never should've let your guard down. Zayne doesn't do mercy. Not in the bedroom. Never in the bedroom. Your eyes slip shut, tension melting into his warm embrace. 

“One more time,” Zayne murmurs, weight shifting above you. You miss the sound of thumbs tapping against a screen. You're blissfully unaware of the prompt Zayne's setting up, because you foolishly thought that a simple bout of overstimulation would be enough to repent. “Say his name again,” he whispers. 

“Caleb.” 

Reality crashes into the room. Zayne's wicked chuckle. Your sharp gasp. The trill of your phone against your ear. 

“Greedy girl.” Zayne nuzzles into your neck, smirk gliding over every tender inch of your stilled frame. “Calling for him twice in one day…” His teeth nip at your neck, breath hot, voice low. “I did say you'd be trying your luck. Maybe…” Another kiss. Another trill of the line. Another hitched breath. “Fate will take pity on you.”

Fate plays out in Zayne's favor this time.

“Hey!” Caleb's voice chirps against your ear. “What's goin’ on? It's kinda early for you.”

Zayne finds your pulse with his lips– “Say his name again.” And finds your clit with his fingers. 

Once again, Caleb's name falls from your lips in a breathy moan. 

Zayne won't let fate tempt you with another man. Your love belongs to him, and he'll do whatever it takes to remind you of your rightful place in his arms.

[playinghuman]

🔪 CONTRIBUTOR SPOTLIGHT 🔪

When it comes to zine writing, we're looking for wow, pizzaz, and just a little bit bizarre! There's nothing generic to be found in @degen-fics' writing! Find their amazing article in our zine!

PREORDERS OPEN APRIL 19TH!

[degen-fics]

help

alastor x reader, modern human au, snowed in, childhood friends and ex-lovers

holiday hating reader x christmas connoisseur alastor

you're seven drafts deep just give up and do nothing

something else

Voting ended onDec 2, 2025

[degen-fics]

i'm actually factually still working on this, i just got sidetracked by details i won't end up using :)

[degen-fics]

help

alastor x reader, modern human au, snowed in, childhood friends and ex-lovers

holiday hating reader x christmas connoisseur alastor

you're seven drafts deep just give up and do nothing

something else

Voting ended onDec 2, 2025

[degen-fics]

La Petit Mort [Human Alastor x Reader]

Rating: Explicit / 18+ (minors dni)

Tags: Dubious Consent, Degradation, Praise, Dom/Sub, Overstimulation, Voice Kink

CW/Notes: Set in same timeline as Left Breathless and Fallacy of Fairness

[fic masterlist here]

---[read on ao3]---

---

The optics of the situation looked bad, but in your defense, you weren't expecting Alastor to come home before midnight, nor were you expecting him to nearly kick the front door off its hinges.

“Putain de merde, cher! It's me!”

Your stomach drops in time with your arms, a breath of relief clashing with the eerie pricks of dread tumbling down your spine. You want to tell him to put his hands down and show him that your finger wasn't resting on the trigger, but his palms… They're clean.

Alastor's home early, and his hands are perfectly clean.

“Sorry! Désolée, désolée.” The gun finds a new home on top of the quaint accent table in the hallway, your fingers trembling more than you'd care to ever admit. “Shoot, I'm sorry.”

“I'd rather you didn't, actually!”

Oh, no. His puns lack their whimsical flair. Granted, you did latch onto the worst possible word to use in this situation, but it's so uniquely unlike Alastor to turn up his nose at a joke, no matter how ill the timing. Puts the “fun” in funerals, as he likes to say; a commodity he's apparently been denied tonight.

You scurry off to fix him a drink, returning to a string of mumbled French and English and a distinct lack of eye contact, his glasses dangling from the chain around his neck. You wince at how quickly the amber liquid goes down, surprised when he doesn't immediately hand the glass back for a second round. “No luck tonight, then?”

“Rotten luck, rather.” Lithe fingers loosened his tie with a rough tug, the other threading through his hair in search of a calming lifeline. “Couldn't get him alone long enough to coax him away from the bottle. Poor bastard was dragged home by two other men and a gal with too big a heart before I had the chance.”

Still not used to it, are you? The greenery blooming in your throat at the mere mention of another woman. You should've pruned those vines before they weaseled their way between your ribs. But no, you let them fester; assumed them to be weeds and not these incessant perennials brambling into every nook and cranny of your head. You're well past the point of no return and into a fucked up realm of concern and, dare you say, affection, for the man who killed your father in cold blood.

If only you could conjure the guilt required to feel like a normal person again.

“I'm sorry.” Oh, now that's rich. Sorry you lost your mark tonight honey! Tomorrow will be better. Yes, tomorrow he'll have another chance at murder, and isn't that just the bee’s knees! “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“En français,” he sighs, reminiscent in the way a tired teacher would reprimand a struggling student.

“Aide… um… Puis-je vous aider?”

Alastor melts into his chair with a grunt, the plush upholstery sinking under his restless weight. Idle hands don't suit him, and he knows it, evident in their flight from his hair to his tie, his bouncing knee, his glasses that can't stay perched on his nose for longer than a handful of seconds before he takes them right off yet again. You swallow the damning desire simmering in your veins, unable to look away from the caged animal gnawing at his unfortunate enclosure. “No, my dear,” he finally sighs, “there's nothing to be done. You aren't an appropriate target. Nor am I. Good heavens,” he chuckles, “you actually pulled a gun on me. Not many people would walk away from that unscathed.”

Ohhh no. An opening. Served up on a silver platter.

Don't you dare.

“You could… pretend to kill me, if you'd like.”

“Hah! Your delightful absurdity is appreciated.”

There's your out. Take it. Giggle and walk away. Put on the smile he seems to like so much and just… don't take advantage of the idea that he wouldn't actually kill you for making such an audacious request. Stop ogling his bare forearms like it's 1825. Stop following the singular vein bulging with rage in his arm. Stop equating the concept of a lost kill to the idea of a ruined orgasm. Stop salivating over the thought of edging the murderous, sadistic monster who - let's not forget - coerced you into following him down a path of rubble and blood hacked into existence by his own two hands.

Those two… clean… hands…

“There are other ways,” you offer.

Arousal bolts through your core, chills brushing the length of your back as if his fingers are trailing down your spine. The delicate scrape of a blunted nail across the nape of your neck, the minute constellation of calluses on his right hand, the one wielding both pen and sword. It's only fair, isn't it? He stared down the barrel of your pistol not two minutes ago - he should be allowed to pull his knife on you in return. Hold you down and wrestle you into submission. Keep you pinned beneath him, mesmerize you into a puddle of pleas and agreements with the frenzied rise and fall of his chest. A carnal desire wrapped in a death wish… How would you even float such an outrageous idea?

En français, of course.

“La petite mort.”

Alastor stills, breath hitching, eyes snapping to your presence. “I beg your pardon?”

“Was that not right?” Provoke him. Poke the bear. Armed with the uncited confidence that he won't mutilate you for getting a little flirtatious, you make your approach, mindful not to rattle his cage just yet. “I promise I've been practicing like you told me to… Correct me?” Fuck it. Your life ended the day you met him; might as well go down swinging. “Or did I go too far?”

You take a breath, put on a smile, and pull the metaphorical trigger. While not a bullet, the soft caress of your hand against his warm cheek startles him all the same.

“Or have I not crossed enough lines to be the center of your attention?”

Maybe you've had it longer than you realized.

Alastor's hand shoots out for your wrist. Pain boils under his touch, planting seeds of bruises in its wake. Your breath hitches; not at the pain, but at the look. The smirk fueled by indignance and something on the sweeter side of sinister. Nothing of the tender sort; the kind that burns going down, the tantalizing heat left behind by bad decisions and coin tosses. The delicious reasons behind your eventual arrival to Hell.

The look that already said the word before Alastor could speak.

“Run.”

You don't even get the front door open before Alastor clamps your mouth shut. Laughter fans over your neck like a foreboding roll of thunder as you try, desperately so, to squirm and wriggle free from his arms to no avail. Taunts in murmured French tickle your ears - “starved, foolish, easy” - and the frisson sparked by his voice lights your core aflame in a dazzling second.

You hit the bed with a whimper, the ghostly scent of whiskey hovering right over your lips.

“I can hear your heart beating, cher,” he says. “You sound just like them, and yet… yours is somehow louder.” Alastor's hands find your waist, mapping the shape of your torso down to your hips. “Care to tell me why?”

You struggle to find your voice, too enraptured by the way he explores your body.

“Come on, darling,” he purrs, already finding his way underneath your nightgown to knead at your plump thighs. “You were so confident in your studies a mere moment ago. Tell me why your heart yells so much louder than the others.”

“I-”

“Ah ah ah,” he scolds.

“Je te veux.” You blurt it out like a bat outta hell. You can't take the teasing anymore. Can't handle the way his thumb just barely grazes your damp panties. “I want you. I'm not scared, I don't care what you do, I just want you to fuck me.” Funny thing about living with a gorgeous man after years of fooling around with your ex-fiance - the murder streak doesn't make him any less attractive. “I know you see me look at you, and I know you've probably pretended to never hear me touch myself in bed, but-!”

“What was that, dear?” Alastor's grin stretches in unholy angles, restraint wavering. “In bed? Right next to me?”

Oh. Ohh fuck. You can't tell the difference between a murderous glint and an enraged spark of arousal; one of those swims in his eyes, and neither of them seem particularly forgiving. You swallow a whimper, and nod.

“Oh, you filthy little wretch.” Alastor yanks your panties to the side. Gone is the teasing, sultry slant in his voice, replaced by a gravelly rumble already pulling at all the right strings near your core. “To think I'd planned on playing fair with you. Give you a little time to adjust to my tastes and standards.” He makes quick work of his belt and zipper, cock hard and begging for more than just freedom. You aren't even sure you could take all of him at once, but oh, does your mouth salivate at the thought. “But it seems you've already had plenty of time to practice, non?”

“W-wait, wait.” You snap to your senses, trying desperately to squirm your legs shut despite his imposing legs keeping your glistening cunt on display. “My fiance-”

“Don't bring his name into my bed.”

“I've never done this!” You squeak, cheeks aflame. “Or, I mean, not the… you know. I-I’ve fooled around but only,” you swallow, “only with hands and mouths.”

Oh. … Ohhhh. Alastor really, really seems to appreciate that little tidbit of information. The wolfish grin on his face beams with delight, a sign of his ever-inflating ego. You swear you see his dick twitch at the thought.

“Ohh, my sweet, darling girl,” he coos. “Why didn't you say so? I might be a bloodlusting sinner, but I'd never judge you for something so typical and mundane.”

“It… never really came up…”

“Would you like me to tend to you properly, cher?” Alastor looms over your prone figure, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger as his eyes swallow your silhouette. “Get you undressed so I can press little kisses all over your soft, precious body?” It's like a switch flipped, the way his lips meet your cheek, your jawline, trailing down to your neck to savor your frenzied pulse with a languid swipe of his tongue. “Play with you a little bit, help you get comfortable underneath me… Your face lights up every time I utter a note of praise in your direction. Wouldn't you like that here?” Hot breaths sweep across your ear, lips close enough to skim, but not linger. “There are so many ways I could call you my good girl.” His smirk seeps into his voice. “Je peux te faire jouir rien qu'avec ma voix.”

Some of those words are new to you, much like the heat budding between your legs without so much as a simple flick of his wrist. He could probably breathe on your engorged clit and watch you fall apart like a wet paper doll, but he persists, whispering beautiful filth into your ear, the occasional velvet laugh vibrating across your nerves. Silent pleas dance on your lips, begging to come undone while Alastor plucks at your strings. Closer, closer…

“How does that sound, hm?” Alastor cups your chin, the threat of a kiss inches from reality. “Do you want to be absolutely spoiled by me, cher?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

His lips fall to yours; delicate, precise, like threading a needle for a dress of lace and silk. An instant addiction to a luxury you just can't quite afford.

“Silly girl,” he smiles. “That's not how I kill.”

A demonic shriek tears through your throat like a woman possessed, but you refuse the exorcism, already swayed by the honeyed groan Alastor bestows upon your neck as he thrusts himself into you. You've never felt so full, so hot, so utterly defeated by your own body; your hands lash out for something, anything, finding fistfuls of lapels and waistcoats as if they'll grant you any semblance of control.

Naturally, he takes that as his cue to thrust harder.

“Fuck,” he growls, speech devolving into a jumbled pattern of expletives and adjectives that may or may not be for you. He's either admonishing the mark that got away, or he has some very pointed thoughts about your character that he's never once mentioned. It hardly matters - Alastor revels in your choked gasps and broken smile, finally tending to your clit with paced, precise circles. “Look at me.” There's no room for discussion. “What an absolute mess. Are you drooling, cher? Really? My, my. You look less like a virgin and more like a starving whore. You didn't lie to me, did you?”

“Nnn-! Ah! Fff-ahh…!” Your legs tremble, body flailing about like a rabbit trapped in a wolf’s maw. It's too much. Your nerves sizzle underneath your skin, sweat prickling at your brow and neck, and you try, really, to tell him you said nothing but the truth. Your voice fled the scene a while ago, making guest appearances in the form of staccato moans and other sounds depraved enough to send a nun into cardiac arrest. You're close. Fuck, you were already close, but that orgasm would've felt akin to taking a soothing dip in a fresh bath. This one coils around you like barbed wire and rose thorns, ready to throw you off the cliff and into the deepest pits of Hell.

“Ohh Lord,” Alastor groans, the tip of his cock hitting your sweetest spot over and over, pummeling pleasure into every crevice of your body. “I'm gonna make you watch next time, make you look at what you're puttin’ me through. Take you right in front of the mirror so you can see how fucking desperate you look, all because of me.”

That does it. Whether it's the promise of future fucking, the threat of absolute humiliation, or the sexy drawl of his native accent, you're dangling right over the edge, and he knows it. You can't help it, the way you clench around him, so tight and warm and god, you're gonna come-!

“Don't you dare.” Alastor snarls. “I'm not done with you yet.” Yet his thumb continues the onslaught against your clit, never losing pace, never stuttering or pausing. “Ohh, what, can't help it, can you?” He taunts. “Go on then. Come. Give me a reason to fuck you harder. Show me how much of a bratty little slut you are so I know just what I'm workin' with.”

A desolate cry of his name and an apology attempt to break the spell of salacious moaning and whimpering, but it's far too late for that. Your orgasm hits harder than you've known, flooding your vision with a starry haze further muddied by the curtain of teary lashes at your eyes. Euphoria never lasts this long, and you should be grateful for the extra seconds of bliss, but Alastor won't allow it. No, he needs to remind you who's on top, and if that means holding you down and fucking you into oblivion, then so be it.

“You don't want me to stop, do you, cher?”

You muster the strength to shake your head. “Non,” you rasp.

Alastor grins. “Good girl.”

Good girls probably don't take every opening they get to be a royal pain in the ass, but you're banking on his definition of “good” to be ever so slightly unconventional.

“En français, please.”

Lesson learned: Backtalk is worse than pulling a gun.

[degen-fics]

Fallacy of Fairness

[Human Alastor x Reader]

Rating: M / minors dni

Tags: Prelude, Grief and Loss, Bereavement, Narcissistic Parent, Implied/Referenced Emotional Abuse and Neglect, Blood, Murder

CW: See above.

Notes: Just wanted to explore how reader and Alastor may have met prior to Left Breathless (18+, smut, see tags)

(can be read on ao3 here)

--- [fic masterlist here] ---

Death took your father before you could ask him why. All of the other pieces fell into place with uncanny simplicity. 

Who molded him into the shoddy, fruitless shadow of a man he came to be? Himself, with his own hands, by bottle and blood. Hollowed into a disfigured image of unconditional love by a lack of his own, a refusal to deviate from his family's tradition of denial and ignorance. From your earliest memories to your last recollection, your father stood with slouched shoulders and a permanent frown, burdened by the weight of his debts and decisions. He gambled on card games and fate’s other faces for years, swindling and deceiving his way out of one pit and into the next.

He changed when Mom died. The simmering anger he called love was channeled into a weapon none could ignore. It called to people, beckoned them to his side - poor him, oh, how awful it is, the loss of a life, the loss of your other half. 

But you were the one at her bedside, weren't you? The one who cradled her tepid hand to the end. You asked her once: Why him? 

She smiled. “I don't know.”

She didn't know. How could she have known? You only found out today, and you, your eyes weren't burdened by the glaze of affection. You saw his lies, his masks; you heard his charming ruse and smelled the alley musk on his coat. You saw your father for the horror he denounced, and even still, you couldn't believe it. 

Not until he handed you the pieces. 

Not until the reaper collected his debts. 

“Dad?” You called, the spare key to his house clutched in your unruined hand. Heavy was the finger that wore the crown, the promise you craved; the life you wanted to hide from his pillaging claws, the plague he bore in his every breath and bone. Moonlight spilled over the living room, pierced by a tender glow from the kitchen. Small, inconspicuous in its warmth, as if it were an unwanted guest. Perhaps he harbored pain behind his eyes, a familiar consequence of overindulging in spirits and wine. It would explain his silence, his stillness; the running sink meant to chase away the bitters. 

You were relieved. You could tell him, and he'd forget all on his own. He wouldn't take this from you. He couldn't.

He couldn't. 

“I know it's late.” You invited yourself into the kitchen, the echo of your short heels counting down to your moment of catharsis. No guilt would follow you into your marriage. Your new life would be untainted. Pure. Unconditional. “But I wanted to tell you in person that I-!”

Found him.

Blood. Viscous, vicious blood. On the floor, the walls, the countertops; dirtying the dishes, staining the rug, an explosion of pent up retribution painting everything an unholy shade of crimson and sin. Time stilled, your heart stuttering in a cacophony of confusion and pain, of terror, each beat a question left unanswered. Why? Why, why, the why pounded in your ears and throat, and why was he dead? Why did he get to flee without warning? Why didn't he close the door on his way out? Why did he need to be a permanent engraving in your head? Why didn't he never mean what he said?

Why did he never change? 

Why did he have you?

“Why am I here?” You didn't recognize your own voice, a rasp of its monotony, void of the vibrance bestowed upon your left hand. Gone was the cadence of relief in your breath, the strength in your stride sapped by the corpse of your father, his face turned to the ceiling as if the skies called upon him in earnest. Irony branded itself over your heart, your why; you wondered if he'd ask the same, should he wake up down below.

“Why indeed!”

You snapped to attention. Death's voice clung to the air, a giddy stench of euphoria wafting from his sullied shirt. He wore your dad with pride; patches of blood wept through his once white shirt, each a scarlet trophy in its own right. You saw his sense of humor in his rolled up sleeves, and you almost laughed - cried - at how well blood and cocoa complemented one another. 

You gagged on reality, but nothing came up. Strangled, heaving breaths scraped the length of your throat, and by all accounts, you should choke on the sour memories clouding your better judgment. Strings of resilience kept you on your feet, but your muscles wouldn't twitch. The stranger stalked forward, knife in hand, and you stood there and watched; a marionette waiting for the guillotine, already dangling from its last strings. 

Shing!

Your name fell from the killer’s lips, and you followed, knees first. 

“What a surprise! You were the last person I expected to see.” He walked like he was greeting an old friend, all smiles and unspoken pleasantries despite the gore smattered over his body. “I hadn't expected anyone at all, actually. Times like these, having an audience makes for a rather grave situation. Hah!” 

Hah. Haha. Hahahahaha. 

You knew that laugh from somewhere. 

“But you, of all people? Oh, my dear… You should be back home, dizzy with excitement and celebrating your engagement!” His knife caught the dwindling light, its fleeting sheen dripping down your back in a cold sweat. “Does Henry know you're here?” Haha! “A little more blood wouldn't bother me, but he's a good man. As good as a man can be, at least.”

Haha… hah…

Trumpets and saxophones seeped through the cracks of your mind like a sunrise through rain clouds. He's visited you before. He lived on one of the tidy shelves of your living room bookcase, never turning down an invitation to talk to you for an hour’s time. He warned you about this. About him. 

And he knew so much about you. You, your father- oh, God, your father, he's dead, gone, lost to the world, smeared all over the skin of a radio star gone rogue, and you…

You wouldn't see Henry ever again, will you?

“Would you tell me what he did?” You're a shell of yourself, floating away from your body as your voice shrinks into itself. “You- You're Alastor, the, ah, the radio… person… You report on…” Words stopped feeling real. “I need to know why. Please.”

Alastor approached you with a friendly disguise, similar to the one your dad wore out when he needed to take you to the doctor or pick you up from school. You knew better of it. “Now that's interesting,” he mused with a quick tug on his folded sleeves. “No begging, no screaming… You haven't so much as twitched to get up. I'm not quite fond of quitters, sweetheart.”

Quitter? You're still here, aren't you? You've endured. You've survived. 

“I'm still asking why.”

At that, he stopped. 

You looked to your dad, and thought of your mother's answer all those years ago. You looked to Alastor, and felt the ugliest parts of you churn in your stomach. You looked inward, and it fluttered higher, and higher, until the wings of Icarus unfurled on your tongue, and soared into the bloodied, massacred sun. 

“I won't tell anyone.” Tears trickled down your cheeks, or perhaps they'd been there the whole time. “I just need to know why you did it.”

Alastor blocked out the moon, silhouette sprawling into your vision inhuman angles. Your kaleidoscopic eyes still found his face, the many facets warped by all that you mourned. Your past, empty of what so many others had. Your present - Henry, and the life your father stole from you in death. Your future… 

The knife flashed into your blurred view, the blade dangling from Alastor's fingers as he got to one knee, cupping your chin with his every sin. The tears fell in silence, still unnoticed, until Alastor swiped at one with a stained thumb. Your vision ran clear; the water ran red. 

“Perhaps I was too quick to judge,” he muttered. “These tears aren't for him, are they?”

You shook your head. It wasn't true, but it wasn't a lie, was it? Those tears weren't for the father you knew, no… Those tears were for the father you would never have.

Alastor misunderstood. He threw a knife at the target, and hit the inner ring.

“How terrible he was,” Alastor whispered, “to make his only daughter cry so much.”

But it felt like the perfect shot. 

“I'm good at cleaning up,” you rasped. “Just… let me keep going. Please.”

You'd endured storm after storm. Heartache and heartbreak. Love and loss. Loss of love. Lack of love. You stood tall when your father slouched, pushed through when he stumbled; wrapped your arms around your trembling body in lieu of his own, always asking why. Always. 

You refused to give up now.

Alastor grinned. “Do you want to learn how to smile again?”

You nodded. “I do.” Goodbyes flowed freely down your flushed cheeks. Some waved, some blew kisses; some didn't know how to say farewell, pushed from the nest before they were ready. Perhaps they would never be. “Do you truly want to teach me?”

Alastor helped you to your feet with a laugh. “Plus que vous ne le saurez jamais.”

It took you almost thirty years, but you finally understood: Pretty words could mean so much when you knew so little. 

[degen-fics]

me, sitting on a pile of scrapped writing pieces: what if... modern human au fake dating alastor x reader... alastor hires dominatrix reader not for sex but to bring to his mom's house for christmas so she can finally rest easy thinking that he's found his special someone... or the other way around where reader hires pleasure dom alastor... becomes their ongoing christmas routine... reader gets into a relationship but still feels "oddly compelled" to keep helping alastor out (read: crushing on him hardcore and can't let go)... reader seeks guidance from an online friend because her irls are equally divided on what she should do...

slow burn vibes... jealousy... my signature "sex used as a maladaptive coping skill" flair... opportunity to write reader with lucifer or vox in between... can throw in some cute domesticity moments, a pinch of angst here and there, plenty of chances for a murderous alastor, reader can learn an important lesson about self-love and over-reliance on external validation...

i've been in such a writing slump chat idk what to do. so many scraps sitting in my google docs and so little to show for it. i look at my masterlist here and think, wow, i miss that version of me from three months ago, damn.

[degen-fics]

hello! Just wanted to say I love your fanfics and always enjoy reading when I get the chance …. I was wondering if it was possible to do an alastor x reader where she gives off Marilyn Monroe and Jessica rabbit vibes? Like alastor loves her voice and such even though she’s from more of the 50s/60s a bit after his era…alastor is a gentleman but also subtly dominant like guiding her with his hand on her back and such …. she is a performer that can sing and dance and just irresistible… and works and performs on the weekend at the hotel …. they start off as coworkers to friends then to lovers leading to a night where alastor possibly gets jealous from a lot of gifts and admirers reader gets… everyone in the hotel questions why reader is with alastor similar to how ppl would ask Jessica rabbit why she was married to her husband (btw English is something I’m still learning but I hope I’m explaining it well) something smutty and just kinda slow burn but there’s a lot of tension thank you thank you for your time! Also I hope I explained it well thank you so much 🥹

Aw, thank you so much! I'm glad you've enjoyed my fics so far!! Makes me happy <3

This is a really fun prompt and I do wanna see if I can do something with it. My knowledge on the 1950s and 1960s leaves a lot to be desired though (and I haven't actually seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit). If the era-specific details aren't terribly important I could give this a shot!

[degen-fics]

Left Breathless [Human Alastor x Reader]

Rating: E / 18+ (minors dni)

Tags: Smut, choking, edgeplay, near death experience, blood kink, hand&finger kink, outdoor sex, unhealthy relationship, vaginal sex, fingering, dead dove

CW: Mentions of murder, grave robbing, banging on someone's grave

Notes: There's no necrophilia.

--[read on ao3]--

---

Alastor always managed to catch you off-guard in the worst possible ways. 

“Shhh. Quiet now, dear. You don’t want me getting caught, do you?” 

The tepid, sticky blood on his hands leaves love letters along your inner thigh, sneaking under your dress with precise fury. Taut with tension as a dozen footsteps clamor down the rain-soaked streets of downtown, barking orders and questions at one another in a once-hot pursuit of their infamous local killer. A tall man with a long coat, you hear them shout, and Alastor would otherwise blend in with the rest of the men fitting such a vague description if it weren’t for the blood staining his hands and cheeks. A crisp white shirt sprayed scarlet and screams, portraits of unpunished crimes and someone’s vengeance seeping into his clothes. 

Into your clothes. Your dress. Your panties, one of his sullied hands finally slipping underneath the damp fabric. Your body jolts in eager response, and you can’t help but bite down on the other hand clamped over your mouth. 

Alastor hisses under his breath, a suspicious grunt trailing off on his breath. “Cheeky little thing,” he scoffs against your ear, jerking you into his lap. “You said I could trust that pretty mouth with my secrets. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, dear?” Another swipe at your swollen clit lurches you forward in his grasp, your heel scuffing the dusty wooden floors of the long-abandoned speakeasy. The partition’s flimsy, holding on for dear life, much like yourself. Your nails dig into his arm, two fingers slipping right into your wet, aching slit. “Careful now,” Alastor says through a wide, frenzied grin, cock twitching against your ass with every ounce of added pressure you inflict with your hands. “Getting me worked up won’t help matters.” 

The harsh melody of rainfall and boots stomps closer to your hiding spot. City lamps leak through boarded windows, bleeding across the floor to remind you of the grim reality lurking right behind your back. You refuse to let the light touch your feet, curling your legs closer to Alastor’s lap to make up for his poor choice of shelter. Darkness runs deeper down the way with plenty of shadowed corners to hide in, but the sliver of shade between two rotting windows and a rickety wooden divider added more finesse to the madness, he said. You would’ve argued against it, had you been able to speak. 

“Mmfh!” A stifled curse presses sacrilegious kisses to his palm. Just getting used to the second, and he’s already added a third, the bundle of fingers pistoning into your cunt in time with his heartbeat. You feel it at your back - bass deep, frantic, shaking with laughter in every pulse. 

“Oh, cher.” The airy whisper of a laugh loses itself to the cacophony of cops just down the street. “Do you hate me? Is that why you’re trying to get me killed?” 

Voices chatter ever closer, perplexed by the lack of body and weapon, wondering how just one man could manage to outrun so many armed enforcers of the law. One mentions a shorter silhouette at his side. Panic seizes your every bone and muscle; Alastor only chuckles. 

“Oh my,” he drawls, “famous already?” His thumb circles the hood of your engorged clit, adding pressure, going slower, faster, toying with you as he pleases. “I’ll have to report on it, you know. Mention the shadow of a gal seen with our local killer.” He clicks his tongue, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “I’m so terribly sorry,” he coos. “It seems I’ve gone and damned you to Hell with me.” Speed bursts through his fingers, chest draped over your back to reach that perfect little spot deeper down. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sacrificing your angelic afterlife to stay with me - it excites you, doesn’t it?” 

You try to nod. Between the cresting arousal and strength of his grip, you manage a weak twitch of your neck, specks of a scream glistening over his palm. 

Someone hears you.  Murmurings of “what was that?” and “did you hear that?” flutter away on the wet, swampy winds. For the first time, Alastor stiffens against your back, cock straining against his pants as the danger of reality sets in. 

He works fast, swapping his tie to your lips before you can find even a fleeting breath. Rust and copper settle against your tongue. The rattle of a zipper barely reaches your ears, blood pounding in your head like an unforgiving omen. Alastor doesn’t even get near the edge of the shadows as he works, meticulous in every motion. Deadly precision as he hoists you onto his cock, sliding in with little resistance. You knew you were wet, but shame still colors your cheeks. 

The salacious moans rumbling in your throat, though, die before life can greet them. A tough, pliable length of leather snakes around your neck, stifling the shock when you realize just what Alastor’s done. 

“If you’d been on your best behavior, I wouldn’t have to do this.” The belt tightens around your neck. The generosity you imagined in the form of a hooked finger around the makeshift chokehold fizzles before it reaches your lips. He’s serious. “You won’t die,” he mutters. “Not if they leave.” Alastor’s lips caress your neck, right above the belt. “Not if you quiet down. So listen well, and I won’t have to strangle those sweet little noises out of your filthy mouth.” 

Breathe. Breathe. You have to breathe. Your body fights for air, twitching at the neck for Alastor to interpret as a nod. 

His smile sounds like crackling firewood below your ear. “Good girl,” he drawls. “Now muster up what little strength you have left, and move.” His hips jerk just enough to get his point across; just enough for a delicious heat to surge through your body. 

You want to oblige. You really want to bounce on his dick and make a mess of yourself in his lap, but your heart won't cooperate. It claws at your sternum, threatening to burst with every frenzied beat. Hot tears prickle the corners of your eyes, a sob settling on top of your lungs, crushing your chances at a fresh, life-saving breath. The shallow motions you were able to make fizzle into little more than writhing; squirming in his lap, clenching down on his cock as your fight commences.

For a moment, you're at peace. Teetering on the sweet release of a dream come true, lightheaded and weary, the pressure building between your thighs crawls up to its peak. The tie in your mouth falls victim to your teeth, your lips trying to shape themselves into praise for the cock filling you up and making you whole. Jaw unhinged like a dummy abandoned by their ventriloquist, you snap, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt spasms. Your orgasm transcends the limits of life, your mind floating up and away without a thought or care; euphoria swarms your senses, diluting time and space until you're all that remains.

The belt around your neck, unforgiving in its embrace, tightens. Alastor drags you down to the decrepit walls and splintered floors, anchoring you back to the present. Air and its relatives vacate your body, claiming your arousal in their wake. You don't remember making any noise, but you are the unreliable narrator; Alastor's holding all the strings. Your life rests in his hands. 

You're going to die here. 

The voices outside are both near and far, warped by an enticing black fog spotting in your eyes. “Y’see anything?”

Survival outweighs everything. You try to raise your arms, aiming to smack or nudge the wall just enough to rouse suspicion; just enough to gasp for air. Alastor, though, is a seasoned murderer. He knows how to tighten his grip and snuff the light from your eyes, and you hope that, in a final act of mercy, he'll want to watch you fade to your death. You hope he'll want to watch you die on his cock, spasming with your last breaths and one final orgasmic release. 

“Check… … boarded… might…”

Words warp and twist into demons of themselves, rasping at one another in greeting - welcome, they say, to the start of your end. Your body goes ragdoll limp, mind just as useful, as darkness floods your eyes. The coils of lust spark and fade in your core, and oh, how heavenly it feels to die in his arms. 

The belt falls. The tie follows suit. Your guardian angel swoops in, lips pressed to your mouth with a lifeline of air. 

Breathing hurts. Swallowed knives and simmering acid, a pain you've never known, puts you into a different sort of chokehold. Burns and stab wounds littering your chest from the inside out as you breathe, breathe, breathe, greedily sucking in lungfuls of air. 

Alastor beams with pride, wide and big on his lips. “There she is.” He cups your flushed cheeks, “My resilience incarnate. You gave me quite the scare, you know. Handcuffs clash horribly with my physique.”

Rain taps against the roof, drowning out all but the sound of your ragged breaths and thrum of your heart. You can't hear him - you can barely make out his silhouette in the dark - but you just know he's waxing poetic on close calls and self-preservation. Drenched in cold sweat and a pinch of death's touch, too far gone to fire back with a witty quip, you nod in agreement with whatever he says. You almost signed away your rights to life - nothing could be worse. 

Alastor chuckles under his breath, lacing his fingers through your hair with unneeded vigor. “I'll assume you didn't hear me. I asked if you had enough, mon sourire.”

Of course not. You're not done until Alastor empties himself in each and every hole you have to offer. Rebuttals and apologies fall from mute lips, your throat struggling to produce any noise without added force. The world flips on its side, vertigo hammering behind your eyes when Alastor lifts you from his lap to tuck himself back into his slacks. Still hard, still devouring your body behind blood-speckled glasses. 

“A wonderful suggestion, my dear. Let's take a breather and do away with this body, shall we?”

Right, yes, your job. The deal you struck with Alastor the night he killed your dad: Help him dispose of his victims, and you get to live. At his side, exclusively; if anyone asks why you left your fiance, you're to tell them Alastor’s simply the better choice. You haven't seen an invoice a day in your life since then, but you figure it's because you're already buried in insurmountable debt of a different kind. 

Alastor wipes the blood from his glasses when you arrive at the designated burial site. “Dare I ask what happened to the original owner of such a fine abode?”

You rub your throat, wincing at the marks the belt left behind. They feel like instructions for the undertaker. “Train,” you rasp. “Vacation to Texas. Unmarked luggage.” 

“You loaded a dead man's bones into a plain trunk and tossed it onto the train?” Alastor shoves the body down into the open casket, stifling a giggle at the sound of flesh against wood. “What a humerus choice.” 

You’re tired. Blood and mud burrow under your nails as thunder claps from above, rain pouring from bloated grey clouds while you work. You used to find comfort in the scent of summer storms and moss, but there’s no aroma potent enough to wash away the throbbing pain around your neck. It runs deeper than any grief you’ve known, and hotter than any flame. A hot shower and sleep would work wonders right about now. But the second you’re done packing the dirt back into the defiled grave (‘your second brush with death,’ if you could talk well), Alastor grabs you by the wrist. 

You gasp, throat raw. “Ah-?”

“Shhh,” Alastor pets you as if you’re a wet stray cat, “you’ve done enough talking.” There’s a fleeting moment of relief when he picks you up, your dazed and tired brain assuming it’s time to go home and rest. The rain immediately washes away what little hope you had. Alastor lowers you to the ground, back pressed against the water oak leaves and cypress twigs you scattered around to mimic the neighboring graves. Water drips from his limp curls, his tie askew when he pins you down at the shoulders, and his smile… Any other man would be guillotined for such a grandiose display of sadism. The corners of his lips stretch farther than you think they should; somehow, you’re not afraid. 

“I want to hear all those pretty moans you denied me earlier,” he whispers into the night, breath caressing your injured neck as he speaks. “Don’t blame me if you start to scream.” 

He teases you, rubbing the tip against your weeping slit, bumping into your clit to see the depraved beauty crumbling across your face. Every hitch of your breath, every searing whimper bubbling in your throat; each noise drives him just a bit deeper into your cunt, glistening with God knows how much of his victim’s blood mixed in with your natural lubricant. A fleeting note of realization flashes in your breath, and he grins, sheathing himself from tip to base. 

“Does it upset you?” Alastor tilts his hips backwards. “Defiling a dead man’s grave like this?” He thrusts back in, his smile twitching when you latch onto his arms. “It shouldn’t,” he says, finding a comfortable pace for himself, one he can use to lie to himself, to tell him he’s fucking you stupid for the entertainment. “If you knew all he’d done… All he planned to do.” Something lower than a laugh drips from his lips, water splashing onto his back in a halo of mist. “Everything he could have done to a weak little thing like you.” 

Alastor fucks you like a man on death row, savoring the moment for all it can be. The slap of skin, the squelch of more than rain, the pathetic gasps you choke on when he rams into your g-spot. You want to be strong. You want to claw open his shirt and mark him with your nails. Add to the canvas of scars already adorning his back, spit words vile enough to make this dead guy turn over in his grave. But you’re a weak little thing - his weak little thing - and only manage to clutch his arms, voice lost in the throes of blinding pleasure.

“I’m protecting you, cher.” 

Something cracks. A dam of your internal creation, meant to save you from the worst of yourself in times of distress. But Alastor keeps poking. Alastor keeps fucking you, keeps smiling with smug satisfaction to hide the way his eyes roll back, the way he grunts and loses himself in you. To you. He laughs, raindrops falling from his lips to your cheeks, and you snap. You let go of his arms and lunge for his neck, not to crush his throat, but warn. His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm, drawing one thick line in your hand. It bleeds, not with fright, but delight. A twinge of surprise, perhaps, but his gasp is one of ecstasy, and you manage to wring out a moan before he pins you back down. Hard. 

“You– nngh…” Insults dance on his lips. “You… wicked– ohh, wicked girl.” The venom loses its sting, his hips stuttering to a rapid, erratic beat. He finds your clit, trembling when he strokes the nub with his thumb, and you fray at the edges, gasping and groaning and begging for him to start and stop at the same time. “You’re fortunate that I… I-I…” The man you’ve come to know as your captor turned caretaker crumbles above you. “I’m g-…!” Close, you assume, but his guttural growl speaks to the contrary. A melody of desperate moans unravel from his ego, some sharp, others reserved, a journal entry on his lips. He comes with abandon, sticky and silken webs filling you to the point of overflow. “Doing this for you,” he snarls through the tail end of his orgasm.

“On your knees.” 

The order sparks confusion. You reached for his glistening cock, knees caked in mud, ready to suck him off at his beck and call. A yelp rips open your wounded throat as you tumble back, catching yourself with your hands, fingertips swiping over the length of a tombstone for a man long gone. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

It’s a shorter gravestone. One you can use to prop yourself up while he takes you from behind. A one-way ticket to Hell, most certainly; the Bible doesn’t say so outright, but your common sense hasn’t been entirely fucked out of you. You swallow, wincing at the burn.

“Ass up. Now.” 

A frigid gust of rain and wind pummel your now-exposed lower back, and Alastor wastes no time shoving himself right back in. His only mercy? He’s not bringing the belt back out. His hand nestles past your lips, and to your surprise, his fingers taste like salt and little else. Maybe you’ve grown used to the copper. 

“Prends-le, mon lapin.” Alastor rattles off stuttered phrases in broken French. “That’s it,” he rasps, “good– ngh, good girl, fuck… Say my name for me.” 

You mumble around his fingers, eyes watery from another orgasm ripping through your core. Your clit begs for a break, but doesn’t beg well enough - your overstimulated screams push against Alastor’s hand. 

“Write it, then.” 

Your tongue laps the letters out in wet, hot strokes, gagging at the sudden introduction of another digit. You can’t quite describe it, the orgasms that feel like half of themselves; as if your body’s given up on climbing up to the top again, settling for shorter drops to keep you going as long as Alastor needs. They trickle through you, a stream of praise for the way he touches you, the way he ascends you into a high you’ll forever chase. You can’t let him go. That hoarse, strangled cry of your name, decorated with broken syllables and whimpers - you can’t give that up. 

Alastor admires the mess when he pulls out, gasping for air in a way that makes you giggle despite how much it hurts. The audacity to act like he’s been choked. Your cunt can squeeze pretty tightly, but it’s not the same. You collapse next to… You don’t actually know the name of the man whose grave you tore up. Edward? Edwin? Whoever it is, you hope he enjoys his time in Texas. You collapse next to Alastor’s newly buried victim - another name you don’t know - and drape your arm over your eyes. A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder resound in your bones, and the fatigue and pain hit just as quickly. Your giggles fade, smile falling despite how ridiculous this is - soaked from head to toe in a ruined dress, leaking what feels like an endless amount of cum without your panties to catch the residue. 

“Hmm?” Alastor kneels at your side. “Tired, sweet girl?” Among other things, yes; you nod. “Do I have to carry you home?”

After all that’s happened tonight, Alastor still manages to surprise you. Expectations plundered by haphazard thoughts you can’t even begin to imagine living in your own head. When you expect him to scoop you up into his arms and end this nightmarish fairytale by walking into the night, Alastor simply follows your cue, and lies down. In the mud. The grass. Everything that could possibly stain his shirt and waistcoat - aside from the aforementioned blood. 

You frown. “I can’t get that out.” Your voice sounds like a ghostly combination of nails on emery boards and pops of burning firewood, but you can’t just lie there and not lament the mess of it all.

“Neither can I.” Alastor rolls onto his side, searching you for something you can’t quite place. “Makes a little more sense to ruin it entirely, no?” He wants to do something, say something, but the crooked smile you’ve grown accustomed to in these situations is nowhere to be found. “Fits the theme of the night, if you ask me.” So he’s rambling now - let him hide behind his pretty voice and pretend to be clueless. You don’t expect anything close to an apology. “You’re lucky you didn’t get us caught. Fortunately, I’m in a charitable mood.” Quite generous to cuddle in a thunderstorm, yes. He must agree - the laughter rumbling in his chest feels genuine. “No one’s ever pillaged a grave for me before. Is it concerning that I find it rather charming?” You nod. Multiple times. “Ah, I suppose that’s no surprise.” 

Alastor’s as strange as he is attractive. Always keeps you guessing, some patterns fixed and permanent, others completely off-the-wall and dangerously spontaneous. Both hedonistic and sadistic, fucking you in ways that should nauseate you more than they do. All the blood, the dehumanizing acts you put on for his pleasure; it never occurred to you to try and run away. 

You suppose that’s no surprise, either. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, cher.” Alastor pats your shoulder. “Given how precarious our situation was, it’d be wise to expect additional reprimand.” 

You take it back. He could definitely stand to be far more unpredictable. 

------

<a href="https://youtu.be/RXXi_wCri4w?si=WIA-jlPis9r5ku1O">songweek inspo</a>

[degen-fics]

Vanish Into You

[Human!Alastor x Reader]

Rating: T

Tags: Grief and Loss, Mourning, Death, Angst(?), Slice of Life

CW/Notes: Writing exercise, songfic week adjacent

--[read on ao3]--

Keeping the photo was a mistake.

August 25th, 1925. You could see the date scrawled across the back without taking it out of the frame. He wrote like he spoke - precise strokes of ink, eloquence in every measured space - spinning daydreams and memories with just the flick of his wrist and a smile. His voice whispers over your shoulder, a phantom of his elegance seducing tears from your hollowed heart. 

You're never fully dressed without a smile!

When did he ever enter a room without one? He woke up with sleep in the lines of his lips, an invitation to greet the sun and dewdrops with a cozy radiance leftover from the world of dreams. You witnessed his ire just once, teeth built out of smoldering embers and lined by kindling bundled at his cheeks. Every smile was defined by the sort of warmth you craved after heavy rain and wind; gratitude blossoming from the inside out, chipping the chill from bone until your eyes lit up beside him. It offered more than any joy could hope to muster; it offered relief. Shelter from the ghouls in three piece suits, a shield to hide behind when the grim tendrils of reality took aim at your heart. Dread could crest over the horizon, and he'd save you. He bled watercolor and diamonds wherever he went, unapologetic and authentically him. 

Did he smile that night?

Under the night sky, yes. Stars fell onto his face and draped him in ethereal eternity, promises glistening from every breath and laugh. The ache of your feet melted into the frosty summer breeze, odd and embraced, just like him. You shivered and rolled over to his side, prone and starving for an air tender enough to soothe the burn in your lungs. He laughed still, a hushed lullaby for you alone as he wrapped you into a hug of uncertain death. Blood seeped into your dress, smeared across your arms as his hands sculpted your body. You were his canvas. You saw yourself in his blood-splattered glasses and wished the sparkling veil of night would wipe away your reflection. Perhaps it was selfish, taking his glasses off with a flourishing grin. But they were in the way. You wanted to see yourself in his eyes. You wanted to know what you looked like when your smiles were earnest.

Did you scare him? 

Nothing ever fazed him. Startled, yes, but only once. It seemed so innocent at the time, the way he jerked upright at the sound of a camera’s flash. Walking at your pace, his velvet voice snaking around your every worry without trying; so absorbed in you and himself, as if he forgot life was passing through on all sides. He hadn't noticed the photographer, and oh, how you giggled and laughed and teased him without fear. That was the day he told you about his eyes - the right, specifically - and how he thought, for the longest time, that he'd been cursed as a child for misbehaving. That he'd done something so wicked to lose the privilege of sight. He never questioned it. 

I'm not a good man, chouchou. 

Good men don’t stomp in puddles and ruin their polished shoes. Good men don’t take you by the hand and run through the streets, dodging the consequences barking orders at his back. Good men don’t make bodies a hobby, a habit they swear they can’t break, and pretend that it’s righteous and just when they’re wiping bloodied hands over misty grass and silken skin. But you never claimed to be built out of virtue and apology. Never did you think yourself the ideal, the admirable, the good. You were tarnished silver to his sullied knife. 

Was that not enough?

I know I should stop, but God help me, I can’t let you go. 

The photograph trembled. August 25th, 1925, shook inside its gilded cage, smiling through an eternal grief it can never know. 

Don’t let me ruin you. 

Summer came and went, and your side of the bed stayed cold. Winter crept in underneath the window, and your side of the bed stayed colder still. Every night, you curled up under blankets that used to smell like him, and buried your face where he laid, pretending the vanilla woods and spiced leather were real. He’d only just woke up. He’d come home from work and rest his ear to your chest, wondering why this little rabbit decided to move into his space. And it would be okay if he left. If he came home smelling like rye and death. Because he’d still be smiling in the doorway; on the grass with you in his arms, grinning against your neck, giddy with sin and sincerity. Brushing his lips down your neck and denying that there was ever a kiss between the tickles of affection. He’d be with you, and you’d be nothing but smiles.

Don’t let me keep you from smiling. 

And in that photo, you listened. You embraced the past into your present, etched time into your soul until nothing else could ever fit in. Nothing but the two of your smiles. Nothing but him. 

Nothing but Alastor. 

In the dead of August 25th, 1934, you shed tears onto Alastor’s visage, and you smiled. Your cheeks begged for the relief they once knew, your lips dry and salty as they pleaded for one more day, one more hour, one more word. Mourning to the static lullaby of Alastor’s radio - always on, always tuned in, just in case he faked it. Alastor loved to make you laugh, and what’s funnier than pretending to be dead?

Would he laugh if he saw you pretending to be alive? 

Your sobs broke into a choked mimicry of humor. The delicate, electrical hum of the radio stuttered in response, and you could’ve sworn the static cried with you. 

“Did you smile when you cried?” 

You pictured him hunched over, face cradled by his familiar hands, shoulders shaking with silent tears. If you found him, you’d hold him. You’d peel his hands from his face, and kiss the corners of his pained, fractured grin, until he became the seven words he lived and breathed. 

And if you were in the right corner of Hell, you’d find him as you imagined. 

And you’d finally remember what it feels like to smile. 

("chouchou" is/can be a pet name along the lines of "darling")

[degen-fics]

Eyes On Me (Ch. 2 / 2)

[Alastor x Reader] Chapter 2 of 2

Rating: Explicit / 18+ (minors dni)

Tags: Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Penetration, Praise Kink, Mild Degradation, Mild Bloodplay, Biting/Marking, Edging, Dirty Talk, Sex With Feelings, Romantic Tension

CW: Brief dirty talk about inappropriate fantasies

Notes: Starts and stops with relationship introspection but the bulk of it is just smut.

--[read on ao3]--

“With your accent, it’s bound to sound horrendous.” You glance up at him, drumming up the courage to rest a hand on his hip. “I’ve been dying to know what you sound like when you come.”

The height difference disappears, swept out from underneath your feet by Alastor’s eager arms. Your legs lock around his waist the moment his lips ache for yours, your hands weaving into his crown of scarlet satin as you arrive at your coronation. Glimmers of honeyed metal greet your tongue, a portion of whiskey and a day’s work corrupting your senses. It possesses you, drives you to push the limits of his untried lips. 

“Don’t be shy.” Your words skim over golden knives and pale pillows. 

“Subdued,” Alastor says. A polite synonym for his nerves, or a hoax to hide what he’s holding back. “Unless you’ve imagined me a bit more… zealous.” Another kiss, firmer in approach. “Hedonic.” Whetted canines dip against your lower lip, coaxing a wispy moan from your body. “A lust so sinful it rivals my very pride.” 

Words fail you, fingers digging into the back of his neck and scalp to answer his question in fervent, sloppy passion. Chapped lips and a pulse in your ears, harmonizing with his sharp breaths and the thunder rising in his chest. Through your devout worship, you feed him scraps from your sanctuary of the mind. Only once did you picture him a tender lover; you tell him otherwise, painting vivid landscapes of wild marks over your skin. How you ached for burgundy tulips to bloom over your chest and thighs. How you’d blush at the mere thought of his tongue. Alastor’s lips ravish you all the while; groaning, you realize, whenever his fantasies aligned with yours from the shadows. 

Strong as he may be, Alastor stumbles, backing you into the wall with the weight of his body. Your breath hitches, seized with a promise of what’s to come. Tepid hands fashioned by bladework and magic slip under your shirt, mapping out your torso, as if to sculpt you himself. Memorizing every hill and valley, squeezing and palming at blanketed insecurities and humble pride alike. 

“Heavenly,” he rasps through his teeth, eager to return to your swollen lips. Your abdomen aches, thighs trembling above his hips with fatigue, begging to be put to bed without losing your sewn proximity. His hands tell you to wait, cupping your breasts with the patience you forced him to practice. Thumbs sweeping over your nipples just enough to make you melt in his embrace, core muscles and legs caving under exhaustion and euphoria. Alastor’s own breath hitches, scrambling to catch you.

You yelp, eyes wide and hurried as an icy wind brushes over your back. 

“Did your depraved fantasies not include the spectral parts of me?” Alastor doesn’t stifle his low laughter. “How strange. Was this not what gave me away?” 

Alastor’s shadow deposits you on the bed, unceremonious in approach and delivery. “Didn’t know it could touch things,” you mumble. “Are you joining me or–?” Yes. Alastor vaults atop you, arms braced on either side of your body; a cage to remind you that you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. Your heart leaps into your throat, a lump of delicious suspense controlling your voice. 

“A naïve question, wouldn’t you say?” Heat pools between your bodies. “After all you’ve put me through… You’ll want to stop long before I’m satisfied.” 

You shiver at the implication, far from terrified despite the threatening aura resting on your thigh. “Scary.” You confirm your suspicions with a deliberate test of sensitivity, loving the ache coiling in your core when he gasps. Rough, a grunt of restraint held together at the seams. “You remember how much I like horror.” 

An elongated claw slashes through your shirt with impressive precision, the apex breathing over your chest in mimicry of his past endeavors. A tempting fear washes over your features, skin prickling under his sharp gaze; raking over your naked body in silent wonder, awing at the full portraiture you’ve kept hidden every night. You’d offered glimpses and teases, and now that he has the complete view?

“Divine,” he says, a hushed promise grazing over your skin. “A beautiful secret you’ve kept, dear. Though I do wonder…” His fingers stop just short of your hips, leaving dewdrops of anticipation in their wake. “How did you undress me in that pretty mind of yours?” Nails kiss your skin, etching vows over your thighs. “I’ve no intention to do it for you, and I’m hardly one to concede a fight I can still win…” 

What happens next is a blur of flesh and fabric, a fog of madness watered down with heavy arousal. Missed swipes at his coat, hooked fingers yanking at his bowtie, taunting laughter seducing a smile from your sweat-riddled face. The Radio Demon could kill you, but Alastor swats away your hands and pins down your arms, adding pressure only when you fight back, constantly amazed at your ability to bounce back and lunge for another piece of him. In an act of thinly disguised humility, he allows you to tear off his coat. 

Your ego flinches, wiping away the last of your compassion. 

“That’s it, darling!” Alastor catches your elbow and tumbles backwards under your weight. “That’s the passion you’ve been spinning tales about!” 

Buttons fly from his shirt, a frenzy of frayed threads and cheap tricks tangled up in your hungry limbs. Every time you get near his belt buckle - every time you so much as graze the metal - he fights you off. His shadow intervenes, sneakily wrapping itself around your legs and pushing you down from behind. You’re outmatched - Alastor fights like he means it. Devoted to his cause, lapping up pinpricks of blood dotting your skin, insatiable tongue swirling over your galaxy of fresh bruises. Try fighting fire with fire, and he responds in kind, subduing you with a hand on your neck or his mouth on your breast.  

Douse him in your secrets, and he just might crack. 

“You sound so hot when you groan like that.” The hand pressed to his clothed, erect cock gives him another firm stroke, squeezing when you want to hear another snarl or stifled moan. “All that eloquence, and all you can do is whine. It’s better than I ever imagined. Wait, no.” You squeeze him again, clit throbbing as he slides a hand over his mouth. “That’s not true.” You get his zipper down, subduing him (and apparently, his shadow) with what seduction you can muster. “There’s the time I pictured sucking you off while you’re broadcasting. You tried so hard to hide those pretty noises behind music and screaming souls until you just couldn’t stand it anymore. Telling me to take it, telling everyone you were gonna come.” 

Alastor folds, prone on his back, shirt splayed out underneath him. “Depraved,” he chokes between labored breaths. “Utterly depraved-!” He says, as if he isn’t growling behind the back of his hand.

“Depraved? Aw, Alastor. You haven’t heard ‘depraved’ until I tell you about the stepbrother fantasy.” You finally unbutton his slacks. 

“Beg your–” He grunts, swallowing a moan as his cock springs free. “Beg your pardon?” 

“After you showed me that photo of you from your living days–” 

“Ohh,” he chuckles, almost deliriously, “you twisted little sinner.” 

“What, you wouldn’t have fucked me over the kitchen table in the middle of the night? Shoved your fingers in my mouth to keep me quiet?” He feels impossibly hard in your hand as you stroke him, almost petting him. “I’ll settle for being a spared victim then. Chase me through the bayou, put a knife to my throat. My inner thigh, maybe. A very good reminder to stay still while you have your way with me. Hm?” 

The world shifts upside down, darkness enveloping your vision. It’s his shadow, you realize, and your room comes back into dim view once your feet hit the floor. Alastor beckons you closer with a two-fingered ‘come hither’ motion. Legs spread, smears of precum just barely glistening under your black-shaded lamp. An eerie, exciting dread twists in your blood, and only now can you feel the slick collecting between your thighs. The familiarity of the room goads you into autopilot; you reach for your clit, only to be stopped by a screech of static. A glare you don’t recognize adorns his face, and he points to the floor. 

“Let’s put that filthy mouth of yours to use and get some more color in those knees.”

The throw rug provides little comfort, the carpet embossing itself into your skin. It’s been too long - you’ll need your hands. One wraps comfortably around the base of his dick, your clit pulsing at his shaky exhalations. Tension radiates from your shoulders. Every last detail needs to be committed to memory, and the pressure to live in the moment fights with the urge to preserve the occasion. Alastor isn’t flighty per se, but fickle in his emotions. You want this to be impossible for him to forget. Impossible for you to forget. 

Your lips flutter over the shaft, rewarded with another hitch of his breath. Shadows ooze up the walls, ink leaking from tendrils of Alastor’s silhouette. The lamp flickers, strobes of debauchery enshrouded by a solid curtain of darkness. Despite the dutiful fan in the corner, the ringing in your ears amplifies under the duress of insulated silence and privacy. A signal for you to finally wrap your plump, chapped lips around the tip of his cock. You gulp down the first buck of his hips, the crowning hiss of indulgence music to your ears as your tongue draws lazy, incoherent lines up and down his length. 

“Were you–?!” Alastor gasps, teeth clenched. “Were you this much of a tease in your head?” The thought wisps past you like a dying breath.

You bob your head to nod, giggles vibrating around him when his little trick registers with you. Message received. Your jaw pops as you slide more of him into your mouth, the salt of sweat and precum coating the back of your tongue. Another groan, one laced with incoherent swears, strikes like lightning, setting you ablaze with wanton need. As if sensing the curl of your fingers, he leans down for your wrists, bucking his hips before placing your hands on his thighs. 

“There you go, darling.” 

You hum in acknowledgement, stealing what you thought would be a glance at his enraptured expression. Garnets meet your curiosity, glowing with morbid attraction. He’s watching you. You should’ve known. Fixated on the way your lips mold around him, expression pulsing with fascination the longer you stare up at him. Something akin to pain - a macabre allure - floods his face, lewd squelching and pops of suction following in time with each jerk and wobble of your lips. His hands tighten around yours, breathing ragged as he mutters notes of praise under his breath. Still enjoying the feel of your wet mouth around his dick, but clearly conflicted. Barely rocking his hips when he finds a careful fistful of your hair, thumb stroking the back of your head in unspoken appreciation. 

Is he… new to this?

“Mmphhm?” You croak his name against his erection, gagging at the sudden thrust of his hips. The choke breaks him out of the hypnotic daze, pulling you off of him with a yank of your hair. A delicious heat throbs near your clit. “Are you a virgin?” 

A cacophony of scratching records and static drills into your eardrums. 

“Beg your pardon?” Alastor glares. “Are you implying I’m inept and disappointing, or has your better judgment been lost in the throes of your perversion?” 

“No, fuck no, there’s nothing disappointing about this, I just–!” 

Alastor slams you back onto his cock. 

“Just too chatty, it seems!” Gulps of much-needed air mesh with your throaty gagging, the tip of his dick prodding at the back of your throat. He’s lucky you have a decent gag reflex. “Curiosity kills, darling! Care to ask how I know? Hm?” Dulled pain takes root in your jaw muscles, eyes bulging with apologies. You can almost taste the vitriol on your tongue, an acrid mix of pleasure and remorse swirling in your gut. “What an absurd line of logic. Should I assume you were a down-on-your-luck street whore at one point? You just take my cock so,” thrust, “fucking,” gag, “well!” Your eyes roll back at the sound of his voice. “That must mean you’ve had every hole in your body stuffed by countless men with spare change and free time on their hands.”

Alastor finally relents, tugging you off his dick without another word. Tears and sweat mingle on your cheeks, evidence of your hard work and only encouraging your cunt to tighten around nothing. The dark, foreboding expression clouding his eyes only fans the flames. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say with a cough, voice hoarse with abuse. “It was a poorly worded question. You looked a little… pained? I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

With a click of his tongue and a snap of his fingers, you’re back on your bed, still warm and disheveled. 

“And to think I was going to return the favor,” Alastor sighs.

“Oh, fuck, wait. No no no, please do return the favor, I’m sorry! I misspoke, that’s all. Christ,” your head falls back, “please, I need your tongue. I’ve been so turned on and, fuck, it hurts. Please.” Your pleas fall like a frantic prayer, begging for more than just forgiveness. “I’ll do anything you want, I promise - please?” 

The shadows amplify your heartbeat, thrumming in your ears as you wait for his response. He pretends to think about it, finger tapping at his lips as if pondering a philosophical question about life and death. “You do sound quite lovely when you beg for it.”

Just like that, he’s back. You don’t understand it. Say he’s not a virgin - that’s fine and dandy, but it doesn’t explain the conflict waging war over his face. Awe and admiration glistening in the iris of his eye, gleaming in rings of shock; a deer in headlights, almost, if not for the soft corners of his jagged maw of a smile. You know how to hide behind a shield of deceit; his defense is a good offense. It fascinates you as much as it worries you. 

Alastor derails your train of thought, hoisting your legs over his bent shoulders to best kneel at your altar. The chill of his shadow lurks over your shoulder, empty eyes fixed on you like a hawk waiting for its next meal. “Don’t move.” Alastor plants feathery kisses along your inner thigh, taking in your scent with deep, purposeful breaths. Starved for oxygen and oxytocin - a dangerous combination indeed. “And don’t stop begging for it.”  

The kisses mutate into aggressive nips at your sensitive skin. You gasp, almost worried that he’s going to sink his teeth in and rip out a meaty chunk of flesh. They skim over you like hot knives and jagged arrows, harvesting a humble bounty of blood for his hungry tongue. Sucking from the shallow wounds like a vampire starved, moaning behind sealed lips; and you keep asking for more, more, please, you want more! Only the worthiest begging prompts him forward. 

“Convince me.” Alastor’s breath rivals your heat, a fresh blight of goosebumps plaguing your limbs. 

You sprinkle a generous helping of pleading in with your stories, regaling him with imagined anecdotes about riding his face and how good it must feel to have a silver tongue devoted to your pussy. It’s enough to show you mercy, finally dragging his tongue between your folds. Alastor derives great fun from grinding to a sudden halt, drinking in the sight of your writhing body and pained expression. His shadow wraps an inky tendril around your wrists when you try to force him back into your cunt, the vibration of his muffled laughter almost enough to make you come then and there. 

Never in all your life have you ever shed a tear for a man’s touch. Pent up, frustrated, and teetering on the edge of an orgasm; making blank check promises and degrading yourself into that aforementioned street whore. The tip of his tongue circles your clit, doodling cryptic messages over the swollen bud, only to suckle them away without warning. Your thighs tense and tremble, toppling over the edge as he groans against your cunt, as if savoring a fine wine and sacred meat from the farmlands of Helios. Adamant to lap up every last drop of your slick, even if it means getting choked out by your quivering, overstimulated thighs. 

“That’s– fuck! Ahhl-Alastor, you-!”

“Hmmm?” Faux innocence blinks up at you, releasing your hypersensitive clit with a small pop and fine thread of saliva. Your lungs burn, dreaming of a full breath of air as the world in your vision fuzzes over. “Too much? How curious. You were begging for more the entire time.”

You collapse onto your bed, wondering if it’s possible to hyperventilate to the point of numbness. A fine tingling sensation engulfs your face, trapping you in an expression of sexed-out addiction. “You told me to keep begging.”

“Did I? Hmm.” Alastor stands up to shrug off his shirt, belt thudding against the floor in a pool of sweat stains and life. He licks his lips for the taste of you, mounting your prone frame with a cheeky grin. “That would align with much of my history, I suppose.”

You snort, trying to smile through the stiffness. “Sorry for asking such a rude question.”

“Well, as much as you’d love having the honor of being my first…” Alastor trails off. Alastor, the gift of gab incarnate, somehow stops talking. Another vacant pause filled with a sort of frightened, enlightening introspection. “That ship has long sailed.” As if convincing himself of the fact. 

Makes sense when you think about it. People of the early 1900s rarely deviated from their assigned paths, and by the time the liberating era of the 20s came about, Alastor would’ve been… old enough to raise eyebrows and suspicion if he didn’t surround himself with verifiable rumors. Still, the latency of his expressions gives you pause; just not enough to squirm away from the blunt heat introducing itself to your thighs. 

“Now be a good little girl and let me fuck you properly.”

Your breath hitches. 

“What, did you think I wasn’t listening when you rattled off those fantasies of yours?” The head of his cock pushes past your silken lips, pausing at the tip and twitching when you clench around him. “Your penchant for praise and pet names was painfully obvious.” 

Alastor teases the length of his dick into your sex, and you lose your head in clouds of giddy euphoria. 

“Oh my–” Alastor bites his tongue, heavy breaths and groans adding to the fog of pleasure coiled through your head. Better, fuck, it’s so much better than your watercolor daydreams. “Fuck, you’re… divine.”

The stretch burns. Exquisite and raw, the stuttering of his hips spawning a mind-bending frisson from head to toe. You don’t know where you stop, and where he begins. You can’t even tell if your words make it onto your tongue, whether they’re shrouded by wanton depravity or simply dead on arrival. You’ve created the ultimate paradox, building a slice of Heaven in the depths of Hell, and time has never felt this kind. 

Alastor must be on the same page. You expected something primal, something so deeply embedded within him to surrender to the tides rocking over your bed. Patience is a virtue - the only one to exist here and now. The muscles of his smile unwind, knots loose and pliable, still carrying the sword without brandishing the blade. 

“This,” he whispers, “is not like I imagined.” 

He pulls out, thrusting back in with renewed vigor. 

“You must have been made for me.”

He does it again. Deliberate in how deep he goes, writing the rhythm as he sees fit. Your fingers aim to curl around the sheets, finding his obsidian doppelgänger in their wake. You don’t know what part of him you’re holding, but it molds to your hands without resistance, not even a hiss of complaint when you cling to him like a woman drowning. Sparks glitter over your spine, the faint crackling of muffled static popping over your back and making you moan with, per Alastor, “shocking depravity.” The tempo of his hips soars higher, and the hand once on your shoulder drags its claws down your naked breast, retracting into blunt brilliance when he teases your clit. 

You can’t think well enough to speak. 

“My, my, look at that pretty little face of yours.” Alastor’s voice dips into something sultry. Something human. “If you’re going to come on my cock like the sweet thing you are, you’ll do it with a smile, won’t you?” 

You can’t find your voice. No sound, no words, just the heaving breaths of a crescendo nearing its drop. 

“That wasn’t a suggestion, darling.” Faster. Alastor’s hips shove into you with abandon, grunting, gasping; a feral beast sucking thirsty breaths through his teeth as he chases after you. “It - hahh - it was an order.”

It’s hot. Christened with sweat from your body and his, you manage a nod. You can feel yourself holding out, trying to make this last despite the taut coils of fire threatening to snap at a moment’s notice. Smile, smile, you have to smile; you need a smile. Powered by the promise of an ecstatic release, you swing a leg over his shoulder, and he wastes no time lunging for the other. 

You don’t know what to call it. A shriek. An invitation for his dick, spotted in your drool and juices. A fractured invocation of surrender, guttural and all things unholy. 

“Again.” A ghost of Alastor’s voice speaks, fuzzy on waves of static and soundbites. “Look–” He chokes on an arid breath. “Look at me, dear, look at me and smile.” 

You have never seen Alastor in such disarray. Bangs matted to his forehead, bowtie made crooked by your hand, one pant leg clinging to his ankle; gasping for air, as if you’re the only oxygen he needs. The sight gives you that final push to get you over the edge, and God, if he would only turn his head to see himself in the mirror… Well-

He’d be humiliated.

He just looks so. fucking. sloppy. 

And it brings a brilliant grin to your face. 

Your cheeks hurt. Your eyes clash with your face. A look of unadulterated lust, a show of servitude to the brain and body that’ve yearned for his touch. Your orgasm peaks, his name shattering alongside the rest of you. 

The way he says your name - like an epitaph on crumbling stone - devastates you with power. For just a few seconds, you are omnipotent; driven higher into your ascension from reality as you clench around him. Every drop of him will be yours. Every scalding, pearlescent drop. 

For just a few seconds, you were a virtue. A blemish of his persona peeking out from his mask of a smile. A most magnificent Achilles heel. 

And as the high drops you back into bed, darkness and sweat abound, you know for certain that you’re addicted. 

Alastor almost topples onto you in a heap of raw flesh and soul. His shadow intervenes - and drops him when it sees your face. Gravity reminds you of the existence of pain, all those bites and bruises shouting at you upon his collapse. Of all the wounded skin, your cunt cries out the loudest. You’d keep the pain if it meant keeping a part of him. 

The necklace of cum dripping down your thighs will definitely serve as a reminder. 

“Would you believe me if I said I could keep going?” You don’t know if you’re kidding or not. Yes, and no. You’d at least need some water first. Time to prepare for what new features of Hell you’ll learn about once he takes his leave. 

Alastor scoffs, a gentle huff of fading static tickling your chest. “Ten minutes,” he says, intimately noticing the hitch of your breath. “My refractory period lasts just a tad longer than yours, my doe.” 

“Hm?” You blink. “Sorry, my ears are ringing.”

“I said I need a moment to recharge, mon chou.”

What a terrible shield he makes. You suppose it’s part of the charm and allure, but if all he has to hide behind is a smile… There are other ways to lie. You might teach him - passively, of course, in casual conversation where he doesn’t feel as much like a student. Still the expert of deceit. Still the Radio Demon. 

“Why is your shadow under me?” 

Alastor snaps his fingers, face still buried against your parted breasts as upbeat jazz tunes play from a phonograph hidden in the inky spell coating the walls. Your overworked lamp illuminates your nest of blankets and bodies in fading golden hour light, casting sharp shadows over Alastor’s face. As familiar as the song sounds, the sight of him captures your full attention. Here in your bed - in your spotlight - he wears nothing but shades of exhaustion and those peculiar hues of something fleecy, like crushed velvet forced between the gentle hug of a hot iron. A trick of the light, perhaps, but you doubt it’s a mere coincidence.  

We’re all alone, no chaperone…

The lyrics glide over your enmeshed limbs, their vibrance tickling your neck. “Because it likes to misbehave, I get it.” Oh. It’s not the aged recording of a well-loved classic brushing over your neck. It’s the tip of his fluffy ear, seeking validation in precious giggles and grins. “Ohh-h my god, I laughed already! You can stop now!” 

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean,” you can hear the smirk in his voice, “but please, do keep telling me how funny I am.” 

Between the musk of sex and tinny antique instruments - through the refreshing chill of his shadow’s hug around your waist - you hear him. 

Humid summer nights painted with bloodstains and the stench of muddy water. A stuffy radio booth to call a second home, air doused with old books and sepia photographs. Tongue-twister rehearsals on chapped lips and the temptation of rye in the face of accented mistakes. A conflicted love and resentment of his person, mourning the loss of his roots for the sake of passion and self-preservation. No radio interference, no practiced pronunciation. All of it, him and his. 

You hear him, and you let him know with a chaste kiss to the crown of his head. 

“Why did you start watching me?” You mutter into his hair, committing the unique scent to memory and hoping for the safety net of nostalgia. “Not mad. Curious.” 

Alastor laughs - an actual, unfiltered laugh, small as it may be. Goosebumps and flutters of your chest respond to him in kind. “Someone came knocking at my door. Gone by the time I answered.” He tilts to look at you, something shining authentic in his eyes. “Naturally, I’d assumed it was you. Finding you in such an indecent state was not what I expected.” 

“And you kept coming back because you liked the view?” 

“I…” An internal debate furrows his brow. “Wasn’t entirely sure if it was a standing invitation or a misunderstanding.” 

“You didn’t think to ask?” 

“A bit untoward of the hotelier to ask a resident about their proclivities behind closed doors, if you ask me.” An impish flicker of a smile rolls over his lips, idly stroking your collarbone, mindful to dodge the evidence left behind by his teeth and lips. “In fact, I’d argue you could have said something yourself, but it seems you liked my presence more than enough to let me stay despite my… transgressions.” 

You should be more upset. The anger simmering underneath your skin escapes from every puncture wound, every steady breath releasing the pressure to snap and scream or simply tell him to leave. But all you feel is the smile tugging at your cheeks and the horizon of a mortifying dream looming in the distance. The muggy swamps and well-loved vinyls in his voice sway what little annoyance you harbor for him in your heart, and you can’t find it within yourself to be mad. Not when you remember the bright eyes of a sinner not just regaling you with vintage pastimes, but inviting you into his home before he even knew your name. 

The name he held on his lips until he couldn’t help but put it on the air between you. 

“If you liked the way our names sounded together, then I’ll forgive you.” 

Alastor sighs, drumming his nails on your shoulder to the beat of old-timey jazz. It feels familiar, like a distant memory of a friend seen in another’s face. “Darlin’,” he chuckles, “it was the most horrendous thing I’ve heard across both of my lifetimes.” 

That temperate glaze floods his face again, and for a split second, you’re afraid. Not of him, but of being wrong.

“We can make it sound worse.” You cup his cheeks, feeling around for the makings of an incredible lie, and finding nothing short of what feels real to you. “Just give me more of that accent, and we’ll be an absolute terror.” 

You know what awaits you. Hotter kisses, heavier breathing; you’ll be bent over your desk and pushed up against the wall, screaming his name and falling deeper into affection beyond arousal. Indulge your patience. Let your lips meet in a reenactment of your first impressions, and a promise to talk about it later.

You hear him, and you know he knows it. 

[degen-fics]

Eyes On Me

[Alastor x Reader] Chapter 1 of 2

Rating: Explicit / 18+ (minors dni)

Tags: Voyeurism / Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Eventual Smut, Mind Games, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension

CW: See tags. Additional tags to be added for chapter 2.

Notes: First half of the songfic week event thingy.

--[read on ao3]--

Secrets weep through the door in thin rays of inhuman light, intentions scratching circles in your skin, draping you in a sheet of targets for a greed-stricken audience of one. Hidden, he thinks, disguised as the shadows cast from embellished walls and the nature of Hell itself. A fly on the wall, stalking the corners of your privacy from angles you never felt until he made his accidental appearance. You could have brushed the fleeting dancer off as a trick of the light, but you knew; his crooked grin coated you in ephemeral chills, pearls draped over the back of your neck and through your spine. Pops of static camouflaged between the whir of your fan and the hum of a single black lamp illuminating your figure. 

You don't undress. Not usually; not the first night. An accident morphed into intentional wonder, the origin of his visit unknown and unimportant. Voracious eyes caught you compromised, one hand flexing underneath your panties, the other teasing a hard nipple through your shirt. You felt him devour you in the distance, his hunger flaring with every flick of your wrist, every thrust of your fingers. It wasn't a show, every whimper and groan an unscripted surprise, but the spotlight called for you. In the fragile glow of lamplight and crumpled sheets, of your descent into reality, you held up your indecent hand, marveling at the stretch of your sin, the sheen of your scent. Taking a bow with your drenched fingers near your lips, an interrupted kiss between pining lovers. Even if he doesn't need the bait, you continue to tease him, begging him to return every night. 

It's gone on long enough.

Night falls over your bedroom walls. Window curtains drawn shut, the overhead light flipped off with a faint click; a metallic clamor of chain and deadbolt securing your illusion of privacy. The invitation only needs a few seconds to be accepted, your visitor melding into the night with confidence abound, settling in just behind the barrier of darkness. Always a patient audience, controlled in his cravings despite your allure. You unhook your bra, slipping out of the exquisite lace with your shirt still on, maintaining the ruse through weaponized normalcy. The chill registers immediately, nipples pebbled and prominent the moment you lie down. A hitch in your breath marks the start of your exchange, arousal blooming, vines aimed straight at his chest. Tonight, you want to push him. You want to shatter the silence with more than ardent breaths. You want sacrilege; to be the Eros to his imprisoned Psyche.  

You want to set him free.

You want to humiliate him.  

A wispy curse flutters off your lips, fingers swirling atop your clothed clit as if getting to know the perfect stranger. Methodical circles too tantalizing, too hypnotizing to ignore, your mind’s canvas welcoming the splotches of blood and shadow as they take shape. Moans bubble to the surface as his face engulfs your dreamscape, feeding off of golden glimmers of a smile desperate to crack. You imagine the tightness in his chest, the quiver of resolved lips buckling under pressure. You wonder if his facade fades at the right touch, if agonizing bliss laces through his eternal grin when you writhe against your fingers. How euphoric it would be to find him embracing his indecency, smile agape with rasps of your name. Guilty pleasures congregate at your slit, slick with images of an eye peeking through the cracks of a bedroom door. All the ways you've pictured him - demon and dapper alike - at the mercy of your moans. 

“You'd destroy me.” Your confession glides across the room, slipping under the door like an unsigned note of apology. Talking to his ghost, the specter conjured to appease you and your aching sex. “Want you so fucking badly. God, if you knew…” 

He thinks he knows. You need to prove him wrong. 

“All the ways I've imagined you.” You shimmy out of your panties, a milestone marked by the faint crackle of passion in the air. Your legs part, beckoning him to respond. “The parts you’ve played.” Your teacher. Your king. Your stepbrother. “Already so wet…”

Bursts of whimpering sighs accompany the flex of your fingers, toes curling as you press against your g-spot. You unravel with intoxicated laughter, a hymn of delicate silk and glass bells dangling from the tension of the moment. You never exaggerate anything for him; the hitching breaths are spontaneous, the broken moans a slice of reality. Every jerk of your hips and twist of your fingers, the way you find fistfuls of anchoring sheets as you fidget and writhe… You’re a picture of freedom in motion, void of judgment and embracing your insecurities. Your voice rivals that of sirens and angels. Your body’s an irreplicable work of art. Genuine. Uncensored. Unapologetically you.

And he keeps coming back for more. 

“Alastor…” His name is your confession, whispered like a pinky promise under starlight and rainfall. “Fuck-!” You underestimated him, how easily his existence would make you shatter. Your fingers leave your velvet caress, wild and frantic in their drawings of small circles and messy letters. “Oh god…!” Sweat glides over your palm. Locks of hair scream within your grasp, violated and eager. “Ahh-Alastor, I need y- ah!” Coils of molten euphoria challenge your resolve, threatening to snap at any second. “Alastor– fuck, gonna come, fuck, Alastor…!” 

Your orgasm peaks at the thought of him staring you down, committing you to memory from his spectator's throne skulking in the night. Strangled cries for more - for him - puncture the bubbles of doubt as you picture him palming at his erection on the other side of the door. Gripping his cock with exact fury, stroking himself in the corners of your room. Murmuring distorted pleas of your name, as if a pact waiting to be signed, or a deal to be made. Rasping filth under his breath as he comes onto his torso, decorating his skin with an appetizing lack of shame. All for you. All because of you. 

The descent back into Hell rests heavy in your heaving chest. Your core still aches, fluttering in anticipation for more, regardless of your patron’s wishes. One will not be enough. Not tonight. Not when Alastor haunts your every thought and breath. 

“Christ,” you pant, draping a restful arm over your eyes. Blissed out babbling overrides your senses, words spewing forth in diary-worthy proclamations of lust and admiration. Only one needs to fly true - a rasped wish adorned in unrefined diamond and an assumption turned truth.

“Fuck, I wish you were here.”

Name it as you'd like: a morbid infatuation, a high school crush, a cliche in a romance novel. Leave it nameless and let it fester. Let the attraction consume you in earnest. Let yourself embrace the horrific beauty of Hell. Fantasize about Alastor - the Radio Demon, a serial killer - and exist in the moment. Your moment. This moment. This afterglow of slick thighs and fuzzy vision, encased in the sanctity of your space and time. Wear a lazy Sunday smile and catch your breath. Close your eyes, and let yourself dream. 

The fan blows cool air over your flushed cheeks. The lamp casts a dim, golden haze over your face, illuminating the darkness behind your eyelids. Trinkets stare at you from their perches on shelves and desks like stars of a personal galaxy, books hiding other worlds between the pages. You paint your world with abandon and indulgence, ready to lose yourself in the tall grass of imagination in preparation for round two. 

The light fades, preyed upon by the demon at your doorstep. Cautionary tales prickle over your bare skin. The white noise contorts into an eerie shade of grey, dousing you in hidden messages played in reverse. You don't open your eyes, serenaded into a spring trap disguised as tranquility in notes of firewood and coffee. You know full well who stands at your bedside; you see him every day and night. 

A dry smile captivates your lips. 

“You’re here.”

You see the tight grin from beneath your eyelids. “You knew,” it sneers.

“When did you start watching me?”

“You knew.”

You nod once, relaxed in the afterglow despite the venomous danger lingering right above your face. You knew, but you didn't know . How his breath hitched when you teased your clit. How hard he was when your fingers dipped inside. How he stroked himself in time with every flick of your wrist. If he watched you squirm and whispered under his breath. That's it, come for me, darling. Show me how you fall apart. Make those grotesquely pretty faces you keep behind closed doors. Let me steal this secret from you. 

You knew, but not enough.

“It was fun,” you reply. “Are you mad?”

“Yes.” Alastor leans over your prone, half-naked body, bending at the waist to glare into your soul. Sparks of irritation swims in pools of blood when you finally meet his gaze, glistening like little diamonds in the rough. Tiny secrets that beam with pride from the right angle. Atoms of what you felt staring down at you over the last dozen nights. An entranced longing for what couldn't be reached, now mantled in the palm of his hand. 

You startle at the gloved hand hugging your cheek. 

“You toyed with me from a distance,” Alastor mutters, “when you could’ve had me here.”

The dissonance lingers on your tongue, but the chance to call out his hypocrisy withers on coarse static and whetted teeth.  

“How many nights has it been?” His antlers sprawl, casting disfigured shadows over the walls of your room. Without faces, they look at you, a jury sentencing you to a fate worse than his own. “How many times did you come undone,” bones snap in his back, lurching him into your existence, “knowing that you had my full attention?” The hand on your cheek neither retreats nor retaliates. It frightens you. “How many times did you get off on humiliating me?”

You scoff, your tender smile wavering beneath rolled eyes and the viral disbelief fanning over your face. “Enough to know I wanted you.” Eldritch forms recede into normalcy. With your clean hand, you meet his embrace, lacing your fingers together in offering to your altar. The corner of your lips greets his thumb, rites sealed with a kiss. “Enough for you to want me too. Or did I wound your fragile ego beyond forgiveness?”

No, he won't take the bait. Not this time. You've introduced him to shame once, and you know how particular he is about who he lets in. Lithe hands worship your waist, brought to your feet by a flash of irate sensuality. Tumbling into his chest, made to stare at him with a restrained hand cupping your chin. You feel the tension radiating from his palms. It's you - under his skin to set fire to his heart and mind. 

How long has it been you?

“I intend to take back the time you wasted.” Alastor brushes his thumb over your cheek, clashing with the burn in his eyes, the smoldering of his grin; the paintings of sadism ripped from your mind and into the present. “All of it.” His lips ghost past your ear. “I want to hear every little secret. Every filthy thought and dream you've had. How it felt being under my gaze.” A breath tickles your neck, your laughter stifled by the moment. “I want to hear how beautifully you beg, see how far you'll go to take control.”

His smile bleeds into your body, bathing in the stunned silence and cherishing the rapid beats of your heart. His thumb brushes over your pulse, lingering in beautiful torment as he speaks.

“I need to know how hideous my name sounds next to yours.”

--link to chapter 2/last part will go here when it's done (it's almost done)--

[itzahazbinwriter]

Push His Buttons

A/N: I'M BACK, BACK AGAIN

so uhhhhhh, that long of a break between fics was unintentional and i'm really sorry. but! this is the next of the infamous poll fics!

blame @degen-fics for this lmao

and it's not smut!

Summary: When Alastor's away, the shadow will play.

Tags/Warnings: inappropriate use of shadow alastor, possibly ooc.

-------

The first time was an accident. Really. 

You sat with your knees tucked to your chest as you read through a novel that Charlie recommended to you. Out of the corner of your eye, a black blur moved next to you on the arm of the couch. As you reached over to pet KeeKee, your fingertips stroked along something a little too soft, cold, and… ethereal to be the pet demon cat key creature. Loud static noises erupted from next to you, and you jumped back, withdrawing your arm quickly.

Red eyes stared at you with an equally scarlet scowl baring teeth at you. “Sorry!” The word escaped you in a breathy squeak as you drew further back away from Alastor’s shadow. You felt silly, apologizing to a shadow… Then again, for all you knew, Alastor would appear, ripping you apart in seconds before anyone could stop him. 

A long moment passed before you realized that wouldn't happen. Oh… Duh. Alastor left yesterday, you remembered, and left his shadow around to protect the hotel in case something happened while he was gone. Your body relaxed a little once you realized you weren’t currently in any danger. 

The shadow narrowed its eyes at you, letting out another static noise before dipping out of sight to resume… whatever it was doing before. Confused, relieved, and more than a little curious than you had been before, you tried to go back to your book. But you couldn’t get that interaction out of your head. You’d managed to touch a shadow and it felt… more tangible than anyone could have expected.

The second time - well, it was for science, okay? 

After that interaction, Alastor’s shadow was a minor fascination for you. How did it work? It seemed to both be the same as while also separated from him. Every other time you’d seen it, it mirrored Alastor - it reacted to the same stimuli, though more expressive than the real Radio Demon. Now the shadow was still here, red eyes watching periodically from the corners of the rooms. It patrolled around like a faithful guard dog, but you wondered if it was more than that. 

You watched it from your place at the bar, nursing your second finger of whiskey. No one else loitered in the lounge at this point in the night. Husk had given you permission to get what you wanted from behind the bar, as long as you didn't raid his personal stash. The night ticked away as you contemplated the existence of this faux Alastor, swirling the amber liquid around in your cup between sips.

Those cold eyes focused entirely on you - or maybe no one else was around to watch. A terrible, wicked, and drunkenly hilarious idea came to mind. Could you…? You finished your whiskey in a single swig before shakily standing from your place at the bar. 

“Are you bored too?” Your voice felt a little too loud in the empty room, but it accomplished what you wanted - the shadow tilted its head to the side and pointed at itself. “Yeah, of course you,” you clarified for the shadow with a small laugh. “I bet you’re like Alastor and you get super bored when things aren’t interesting enough.” You used air quotes around the word interesting since what its master thought was interesting very often wasn’t to anyone else.

It tapped its chin as if considering the idea, and the motion made your heart beat a little faster. It was actually going to interact with you! And it was positively adorable in how it reacted to you. The alcohol in your veins made you feel a little bolder. What Alastor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him or you, right? Right. 

Once the shadow nodded at you, you smiled. This would be so interesting! You watched the shadow Alastor as you kept talking, whiskey keeping your mouth moving even when you needed to shut up. “I shouldn’t be able to touch you, but I somehow can.” You waved your hands as you spoke, taking a step towards it. 

The shadow’s exaggerated features scowled at you, presumably out of mistrust, as you took another step towards it. You paused, raising your hands to show your palms. “Oh, shit, fuck, you don’t like that. Sorry. We don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to. Charlie’d kill me if I did something here without consent.” 

A static-filled canned laugh echoed in the room - at least you could say you made the shadow of the scariest demon in hell laugh. Fascinating, you thought as you watched it, still laughing along. That was exactly how Alastor would have reacted, wasn’t it? Why did you find that so… adorable? Or maybe charming was the right word? Either way, you were enamored. “Yeah, I guess that was a pretty good joke.” Nodding towards the couch between the two of you, you lowered your hands. “Can I sit? I won’t touch you without permission.” 

The shadow seemed to consider this. It felt like you couldn’t breathe before it nodded its consent. That was promising, you told yourself as you moved to sit on the couch. It watched you with those same glowing red eyes that were a little too close to Alastor’s own. The whole situation unnerved you while feeling on the edge of parody. Sitting comfortably on the loveseat, you watched him with almost the same intensity it gave you. The urge to fill the silence compelled you to speak, and the whiskey lubricated your tongue. “You’re so interesting,” you said as you watched the shadow creature. This was either the best or worst idea you had since dying. “Are you part of Alastor? Or just some magic he knows? A mixture of both? I’ve thought about it a lot. I’d like to know more, if you can tell me.” 

A long, silent pause followed, and you took that as your answer - of course Alastor’s shadow would be as secretive as him. You rolled your eyes a little, disappointed and drunk enough to not care if it saw you. “Well, in that case,” you spoke again, trying not to let this put a damper on your mood and experiment. “If you touched me, I wonder what it’d be like. Would I be warm to you? Could you leave marks? I’d assume so, but...” You shrugged one of your shoulders before turning towards the TV and reaching for the remote.

The shadow not responding to you anymore finally took the wind out of your sails. Fine, you decided, so much for your science experiment. “I’ll just watch TV for a while.” You pressed the power button on the remote and the silver screen came to life, immediately showing Vox’s smug face in an ad for some new show he was producing or something. Boring. 

But before you could change the channel, something stabbed the top of your hand holding the remote. “Ow, fuck, what the fuck?” You looked straight up to see Alastor’s shadow looming over you, one claw poised right above your hand, frowning at the image of Vox. Oh. Of course. Before you could fully react, it smacked the remote out of your hand and turned off the colorful box. 

All you could do was stare up at the visibly annoyed shadow. Okay, so it could touch you, was just as anti-TV or jealous of Vox, and you could touch it… You opened your mouth to speak, but the shadow shook its head, placed a cold finger to your lips to shush you, then disappeared from the lounge you sat in. “...what the fuck,” you whispered to yourself before heading up to bed - your next step needed careful consideration. And sobriety.

The third time… Okay, fine. The third time was because you were enamored with Alastor’s stupid asshole shadow.

Ever since it stabbed you in the hand out of jealousy, you hadn’t been able to think of anything else. You brushed your fingertips against where it touched your hand, then your lips. Part of you was a little disappointed nothing else happened, but still, it touched you - presumably of its own volition. Alastor still might control it from a distance, but it seemed to have its own personality, so it made sense it could have its own free will. Right? Especially since Alastor was known to not touch anyone. 

You let out a frustrated groan. There wasn’t exactly any way to talk to anyone about this - they’d call you insane, tell you to give up whatever you were trying to do with the shadow and Alastor. Maybe you should, if only for your own sanity. But you were in too deep now. Nothing would stop you from figuring this out. So, you took a deep breath as you realized exactly how on your own you were with this. Mission: Harass Shadow would now continue.

Going to the lounge, you peeked around for the shadow - that was where all your previous interactions with him had been. You absently waved to Husk at the bar as you looked around the room. Damn, no sign of the shadow. Okay, where else could he be? There were only a few rooms that you really ever saw Alastor in, so it would make sense for his shadow to go there too, right? 

With no other leads, you headed towards the kitchen. Your heart beat faster as noise came from the kitchen. But when you checked, Angel’s head popped out from around the cabinets. “Hey sugartits!” He greeted you before going back to digging through the pantry. “Hey Angelcakes,” you greeted. “Don’t let Vaggie see you going through the cabinets again - you know how weird she is about people in the kitchen since Alastor started cooking again.” 

The white spider demon waved you off, completely absorbed in looking for whatever. You rolled your eyes and left the kitchen to continue your search for Alastor’s stupid, adorable shadow. Actively calling it adorable in your head should have frozen you in place, but ever since it’d touched you, you couldn’t get over the giddy feeling it gave you. It’s not like you had to tell Alastor about your… crush? Was it a crush? That's probably the best word for it, but it still felt weird. Oh well, it was fine. That was a problem for future you.

 You climbed the stairs to the library, pausing at the door as a chill settled over you. Goosebumps prickled at your skin, and you turned sharply. Alastor’s shadow was there, grinning evilly and invading your personal space. Its scarlet eyes seemed more… intense than they did before. “Oh, hi,” you squeaked, its shoulders moving in response, laughing mutely. Blushing, you took a step back until you pressed against the library door. “What’re you doing up here?” Even though it couldn’t answer verbally, it made a show of trying to pantomime what it was doing by waving its hands around and gesturing.

When you nodded in faux understanding, it let out a chirpy noise before going wide-eyed and shaking its head wildly. It waved its arms in front of its torso like no, that didn’t happen. You cooed at how cute it was and reached forward to reassure it, but it dashed to the side to avoid your touch. With a giggle, you dropped your arm and watched its apparent embarrassment. “You’re so cute,” you whispered, barely audible to yourself. 

If only you could have made sure the shadow didn’t also hear it. It froze in place, mouth twisted into a frown, eyes wide with confusion. Now it was your turn to pantomime that you didn’t mean it, that it didn’t happen. “I… I mean,” you stumbled over your words as your heart pounded. “I meant - it was--”

You stopped as the shadow closed the already small gap between the two of you, red eyes glowing and staring you down. With your breath caught in your throat, all you could do was wait it out as it stared you down, pinning you in place. You opened your mouth to speak, but a cool, ghostly hand reached up and stroked down the side of your hair. It felt like a weird mockery of how you first touched the shadow. 

Alastor’s shadow leaned in, and your breath caught in your throat. You watched with wide eyes as it brushed its lips against yours in a mimicry of a kiss. Frozen in place, you could only watch as it slowly pulled away, eyes just as wide as you imagine yours were. There was a moment where the two of you simply stared at the other in shock and uncertainty.

A crash came from downstairs, a commotion of doors slamming and yells that you couldn’t distinguish whose or what they said, making the shadow quickly pull away. You opened your mouth to speak, but the shadow locked eyes with you again as it slipped away. You assumed it was recalled by its owner. Static danced along your skin, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Alastor was back. Oh fuck. You were so completely and totally fucked.

You could have never expected a fourth time. Easy to assume, really. 

Days passed before you realized that something was off. Every time you went into certain rooms, it felt like someone was watching you, even when you were alone. No one else seemed any different. Were you losing it? That explained it, right? 

The confusion couldn't last forever. 

“Good afternoon, dear,” Alastor’s overly filtered voice startled you out of your thoughts. A squeak escaped you as you whirled to look at him. “I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you since my homecoming.” He loomed over you so easily as you sat. “H-hi, Alastor. Sorry, I wasn’t feeling well when you came back,” you lied, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer to you.

“Is that so? Why, I would have thought that you’d be shadowing me since I returned.” Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest. Oh fuck. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes darted behind Alastor, looking for the shadow. He caught the eye movement and chuckled darkly. “Ah ah ah, darling. You and I need to have a little… chat.” 

Alastor waved his microphone staff, and you sank into the floor before appearing in the radio tower. Fear took over - no one ever came or went from the tower except Alastor himself. Your breath caught in your throat as Alastor loomed over you as you stood in front of him. His shadow-self broke away from its master, giving you an unreadable look before Alastor cleared his throat to draw your attention back to him. 

All pretense of friendliness dropped as his antlers spread like thick, black vines. His voice distorted more heavily and louder, and you covered your ears, cringing from the noise. “Now. Tell me what, exactly, you have been plotting against me before I rip your soul apart, darling.” The pet name felt like more of a threat than what else he said. You knew there was an unspoken implication in those words. You looked to to the floor with a shaky deep breath. “N-no, Alastor - I mean nothing! There’s no plot,” you tried to assure him as you took a small step back. A shadow tendril shot out from his side and grabbed your ankle to keep you from backing away further. It squeezed you in its own threatening way, and you flinched away.

“Then what, pray tell, were you doing with my shadow?” Alastor nearly snarled. You flinched away to avoid both pairs of glowing red eyes. “You should know that I could feel your presence around it. You touched it.” Oh. Fuck. You wanted to disappear into nothingness. There was no way to convince one of the strongest overlords in hell that you weren’t plotting against him or attacking him when you were… touching and teasing his shadow form. “You touched me.” His form began to change, joints popping, crackling as they contorted. His head fully tilted to the side as he filled the entire area with his eldritch form. You tried to move further away from him but the shadow tendril kept you rooted in place with another painful squeeze. Oh fuck. He knew.

Alastor's normal smile twisted into a jagged, hateful shape as he opened his jaw to engulf you - and all you could do was close your eyes and accept your fate. The tendril around your ankle slid up your leg before it pulled you to the floor. Fearful tears fell as you hit the floor and he dragged you closer for your inevitable doom. You couldn’t stop the words that escaped you next: “I just wanted to kiss it - you - I don’t know!” 

Everything stopped in less than a heartbeat. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. The tendril whipped away from you, and Alastor reverted back to his normal demon form in an instant. He regarded you with narrowed eyes for a long moment before silently turning sharply on his heel to stare out of the windows of the radio tower. His shadow made a more distressed version of the chirping noise you heard it make before. 

The radio demon turned to his shadow and slammed his microphone cane on the ground. “Nonsense. You don’t get to tell me to do anything. Come along,” he snapped, static tinging his voice as he ordered the shadow back to himself while you still sat on the floor, trembling with shock. The shadow made its own static noises as it seemed to argue with its master. Confused, you looked back and forth between them. What the fuck was going on? There was a whole argument or conversation happening that you couldn’t understand. 

Alastor and his shadow stared each other down for a long moment before the shadow moved to stand between you and its master. It held out a hand for you as if to help you up; you took it reluctantly, expecting a trap. But there was no trap - the shadow simply helped you up and held your hand. Radio static crackled as it stayed between Alastor and you, grip tight and cold around your hand. 

With courage you didn’t know you had, you dropped the shadow’s hand and took a few brave steps towards the radio demon. He narrowed his eyes, regarding you coolly. His smile became strained as he stood his ground. “This is preposterous. What is it you want from me?” he asked sharply, clearly on edge from the whole ordeal. You couldn’t blame him - you were just as anxious as you looked up at him.

“Can- can I kiss you?”

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

If you enjoy this, want to talk about this besides in comments, or just want to - maybe come join the VoxTech discord server where I'm (almost always) feral as fuck. And also there are some other amazing artists, writers, and fans! https://discord.gg/e6GXYCwqtu

also! i have a ko-fi where you can support me or get commissions! maybe even convince me to write faster? who knows

https://ko-fi.com/A816PUZ

[degen-fics]

wait, anon who sent the ask about chris arclight here—I thought I would elaborate, bc when I mean it altered my brain chemistry, I’m not kidding, it seriously did

I think I probably first discovered the first two parts of the series, The Scientific Method and Hypothesis, in April 2021? At the time I had known very little about yugioh, much less who chris was. But your two fics had me FEINING for more, I remember stalking your ao3 looking for a tumblr or more fics or anything, only to find your account was recent and you had no pfp:( nonetheless, I distinctly remember subscribing to your account and screaming for joy when you posting part 3 to the story, and for all subsequent updates after. I hadn’t been to your account in a very long time, but around last year, I remember pulling up your fics and seeing that you had started writing for hazbin hotel, had a tumblr linked, and more content to feed the masses😍 it’s honestly been so rewarding seeing how far your account has come from 2 fics for a very niche character in a pretty much dead fandom with no relation to the IP’s plot

getting into specifics, I just hope you know how much I love that series, because honestly—it’s easily the most relatable fic I’ve ever stumbled across (sans all the professor/student romance-weird-creepy-relationship stuff). At the time of discovering it, I was an undergrad student, and just like the reader character, a history major desperately trying to complete my gen ed requirements. I had decided to take a physics course that semester as well. it was hell. But all the physics references and jargon I could very much appreciate, as well as all the history references (the conversations between reader and Michael will always be my favorite, as well as reader’s thesis defense/presentation). But outside of general plot, your writing is just so captivating and descriptive that I distinctly remember you writing about how reader owned a peplum top and chris wearing wire wrapped rings—the latter of which influenced me to start a spree of buying wire wrapped rings off of etsy for the next few months LMAO

Getting to part 3 of the series, I was still, at the time, a history undergrad student who had no idea what I was going to do with that “useless” degree other than some form of grad school or college after college, and I would soon be in the process of applications. I was applying for phd programs, but honestly, I just could not justify the cost especially considering the competitive nature of professor positions and the lack of them, combined with overproduction of history phds. It just wasn’t worth it, but also, I had no idea what else to do. Welcome to america and the everlasting deprioritization of humanities, I guess. (Btw, if you’re curious, I got my master’s in library science and I’m living my dream life rn:)

But anyways, the breakdowns and existential crises the reader character experienced over their grad school rejections spoke so much to me and were so vivid and real, I had to spend some time away from that fic because it was hitting too close to home. The fic and your series in general was also just overall so surreal to me that the reader character managed to have such a specific planning, that I couldn’t help but wonder the whole time how self indulgent the series must be (in the best way possible, bc it’s literal ART), and if you, the author (still a pfpless ao3 profile at the time) had experienced something similar. I always wanted to reach out and comment, but I was scared at the time, I don’t know why😭but I’m glad I am now

The other part that hit close to home was the reader’s relationship with their parents. The way you wrote about it was so compelling and I think hit close to home for many of us readers. For me, coming from an immigrant family, I could relate a lot to the out of touchness exhibited by reader’s parents (not gonna lie, it was extremely easy for me to self insert myself as a 2nd gen south asian/poc person onto the reader character, which I usually don’t do in x reader fics—I tend to read them as their own character. But here, you wrote everything in such a dynamic way that it was not hard at all to.)

Also, not to even mention the bartending —> alcoholism pipeline (not relatable, just a really interesting experience to showcase and adding another layer of complexity to the reader’s already nuanced character). And, the fact that BOTH the reader and chris are bi (twin!!). Always love to see that in fics, just made me even more obsessed with the series. There’s so much more I could go on and on about, subtle details that I remember clearly and major plot points that I enjoyed. I’m typing this ask one handed, so my deep, dissertation level analysis will have to wait!

Anyways, this ask is getting very long, and I’m so sorry for sharing my life story and giving TMI😭I just thought you should really know how much I love that series and how near and dear it is in my heart. I still don’t really know who chris arclight is in the yugioh lore but your writing made me fall in love with him and I’ll forever think I’m dreaming about your series whenever I’m not actively reading it, because such a well written series for such a niche and random character is almost unheard of. But I’m obsessed and so are many of your other readers so it’s okay😍

I'm speechless.

First, I had no idea you'd never seen the show. The fandom's so small, I'd just assumed you were a fan. Holy shit. You stuck with a three part series for the writing. That alone is such high praise. Hearing that the story as a whole resonated with you so deeply? I can't express how touched I am to hear that. I've been staring at and rereading this message trying to put my thoughts together, so I'll probably just sound wildly incoherent typing this all out.

A huge congratulations to you for not just getting your undergrad degree, but your master's in library science too! The humanities are so undervalued in American society; I'm elated that you stayed true to what you wanted to do, even though this country discourages education in non-STEM fields. You're amazing. I think you clocked one of the major themes of the fic right away, too. Not just the mental health aspects, but the crossroads between the pressure to perform according to a culturally-determined life script, and the desire to be true to one's individual values and ambitions (and the subsequent deterioration of self-esteem when these two things don't line up). The power to isolate people via silent expectations (and loud ones) goes beyond hurt feelings and into a questioning of how much "value" we have to others, and subsequently, ourselves. Academia promises that perceived value at the cost of our well-being, and the systemic abuse inherent in advanced degrees is so disgustingly normalized. Super competitive, low paying, no sleep, no flexibility in deadlines or hours spent in the lab, thousands of thesis and dissertation revisions, and being treated like a lesser being by your professors, all disguised as the normal "earning your stripes" process. And that promise of prestige? Not even guaranteed. (In short, it's a predatory system and I'm jaded LOL. Stopped after my master's for a reason!!)

The details you remember offhand are blowing me away. The clothing? The conversations? I'm floored. And I cannot stress enough how deeply your comments on the reader character hit me (in a positive way)! The idea that I crafted a persona that you could resonate with in ways other reader-insert stories couldn't is just... Insanely high praise. I'd hoped to create a character that felt a little more relatable in that their lived experiences were obvious to them but not as apparent to onlookers; someone with a backstory that wasn't all doom and gloom in an extravagant way, but in subtlety. A lot of lived experiences like that often go overlooked despite how painful they can be, and the impact it has on self-exploration is so multi-faceted and nuanced. You were 100% right to call it a self-indulgent piece.

I'M SO FLATTERED YOU'D LOOKED FOR A SOCIAL MEDIA LINK ON MY AO3 PROFILE 😭 I promise I would have been elated and supportive and happy to get a comment on ao3, but I really resonate with the anxiety of reaching out via fic comments. Like... Y'all want me to put my heartfelt praise into a little box for everyone to either read or not acknowledge at all? Just like that? It's easier said than done!! So thank you thank you THANK YOU SO MUCH for writing out such a thoughtful message. Hearing that you liked the story is already such a treat, and the compliments on my writing style, story structure, and character development are honestly gonna stick with me for a long, long time. I'm still in shock that you don't belong to the fandom because how on earth did you even find the fic?! Also the overlap of being a history major also taking physics as a gen ed requirement, applying for PhD programs... I'm still in shock.

Anon, you're wonderful. Thank you so very much for this message. It was in no way tmi and I'm so grateful that you decided to share your thoughts and experiences with me. You're always welcome to drop by, anonymous or otherwise! (You're so real for the etsy purchases btw. I ended up buying a pair of boots similar to the ones I'd mentioned in Hypothesis Testing 😅 we're adults, it's allowed!)

[degen-fics]

i think about your chris arclight series every single day. genuinely altered my brain chemistry

!!!!! WHAT

Oh my god, anon, you've made my day!! 😭 This is genuinely such an incredible compliment to receive, thank you!! The double take I did when I saw Chris Arclight mentioned in the year 2025... We will truly never die.

Seriously, I'm so happy you found enjoyment in the series. And hearing that some of it stuck with you after reading? My heart. It's so full right now. Thank you for reading, and thank you for going out of your way to send this. ❤️ I appreciate you!

[degen-fics]

Hi new followers!

Just wanted to remind y'all that I don't have any sort of posting schedule. Some people put their whole ass into their blogs, and I admire the heck outta that, but I'm just here to have a good time. I'll write stuff, I'll read stuff, do some reblogging and commenting... just not on a regular basis. Fic frequency might pick up a bit when season 2 of HH airs, and I might have a few stray LADS or KPDH pieces here and there (maybe some Genshin), but nothing regularly getting updated. I'm still working on the human Alastor x Reader piece from last decade's poll though. A lot of my energy's just getting funneled into original pieces, and those are just a smidge more time sensitive right now.

I also work a pretty emotionally exhausting job, and my mental health does a lot better if I'm not trying to keep up with content creators who can push out a shitload of writing in a short period of time. I admire the grind, but it's not for me.

If you want someone to read your fics though, just shoot me a message and I'll read your stuff!