﹑Hazbin Hotel, Helluva Boss, COD, RDR2 and Creepypasta writer﹒🍔﹒⤿
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YES i’m on a hiatus NO i’m not dying this time i’m just a lazy fucking chud💕 i’ll get back to writing maybe this spring or summer because mother is busy with being an academic weapon.
💫 ⁺ ⛧ ﹒ — ˚
I hate AI. Don’t use my fics for AI, don’t ask me anything about AI, fuck AI.
a/n: Here I am! This one is a tad short, but I loved writing it! I love a yearning man, especially when paired with Alastor. Reader was very much based on Lilith(cannot wait to get even a tiny bit of content of her in S2!!!).
I might continue this… I love the idea of Alastor secretly having a bride!
warning: Alastor is DOWN BAD for his wife, references to sexual content, but no actual smut (I am in a gentle romance mood today don’t look at me like that), alcohol consumption, swearing, and that is all I believe!
as always, let me know how you liked it and… ENJOY!<3
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The people of the hotel thoroughly believed that they knew Alastor. He was a scary and cruel Overlord who enjoyed sarcasm, but was a sweetheart underneath the “cold” behaviour. Little did they know that Alastor had quite the secret in the deep of his bayou.
Once Charlie declared war against Heaven, Alastor knew who he had to reach out to. The person who owned his soul, his powerful hidden secret. As painful as it was to admit to himself, he couldn’t protect the hotel by himself, he knew who he needed to ask, even though he knew she would understand and support his decision.
After the heavenly meeting, Charlie was stressed out. She was clueless and lost. Paying a visit to Cannibal Town and meeting Rosie did help, but there was still a lot of work to do. Alastor sat in Charlie’s room, while she and Vaggie spoke tactics.
“Using angelic weapons, and sticking together might be enough!” Vaggie said, but Charlie continued to jolt more ideas down onto the piece of paper in her hand.
“Also, we have all of the cannibals on our side, and they would do anything to stick their teeth into some angelic flesh.” Alastor attempted to ease Charlie’s mind.
“I know all that! And it does mean a lot, don’t get me wrong, but we need more. It wouldn’t be fair to risk the hotel without something more powerful on our side. I just have this feeling… We need something else. Adam and his army have been doing this for decades, they have their trained angels, and perfected weapons. What do we have that guarantees us a win? Dad will only interrupt when he must… Oh fuck!” Charlie transformed into her demonic form as she rambled, but Vaggie was quick to soothe her girlfriend and calm her down enough to go back to her proper form and let go a little.
“We still have a few days to figure it out. Maybe, we can get Carmilla Carmine to get us more angelic weapons and maybe lend us some soldiers. The exorcists don’t know that we intend to really fight back against them.” Vaggie spoke once again.
“Well, ladies, it has been a long day full of excitement. I, myself, am pretty exhausted and I believe tomorrow morning we will be smarter! So relax, and don’t let those bed bugs bite!” Alastor quickly said before disappearing within a shadow, not even waiting for Charlie’s and Vaggie’s response.
He went into his own room and disappeared into his bayou, no one would bother him there. He took the well known route to the little mansion within the soppy woods, he did do this trip every single night and morning. However, on the way, he tried to form what he was going to say to her, even though he knew she was going to agree and help her dearest husband out.
He arrived at the familiar front door and welcomed himself inside. He stepped into the living room and there she was, draped across the sofa in her silky robe with a martini in hand and jazz playing in the background. Her hair was spread out all around her and her eyes fluttered open at his arrival. Her lips curved into a smirk when she spotted him.
“Hello there, dearest.” She sat up and put her martini on the side table. He went up to her and kneeled before the sofa, right before kissing up her neck and leaving a long kiss on her lips. After that, he buried his face into her lap, and she welcomed him warmly, as always.
“What a foolishly long day I had, my darling.” He mumbled. He purred as she began caressing his hair and antlers. If anyone else would ever dare to touch him like she was in that moment, he would most likely tear off their arms and shove it down their throat. But she was his darling wife, his reason to wake up in the morning, to make himself more powerful. However, most would be surprised to know that she was more powerful than the Radio Demon. All the souls he owned, she owned too. But… she had one more soul in her possession, Alastor’s. He gave her his soul willingly. He didn’t want her to be his equal, he wanted her to be more powerful and stronger than him. He wanted to know that if trouble ever graced their door, she would have the upper hand, and have more of a chance to come out victorious in any situation.
They were married during their lifetime, and he was the one who died first. People found it strange when Alastor’s wife didn’t cry or break down the days after his death. Just days before the incident in the woods, they struck the deal with the certain demon in hell. She knew that the weak line between her and her darling husband was death. So, she tied up all the loose ends in life, and made herself a cocktail with stuffed olives and an extra amount of poison. Since she didn’t die the way Alastor did, she had no resemblance of a deer in the afterlife. Instead, her lips were stained a darkish red all the time, other than that, she looked nothing like a sinner. Her hair was already abnormally long in life, and her face was as pretty as it was in her time of living. It made more sense that she didn’t step into the spotlight in Hell like he did. Alastor didn’t want to share her with those filthy low-life sinners, and she enjoyed lounging around all day within their mansion, away from hell’s dangers. Her husband couldn’t care less how powerful she was, in his eyes, she would always remain his delicate and fragile little darling.
She gathered his worried face in her palms, and tutted at his helpless eyes. Only she could make him go all putty. “Tell me about your day, dearie.” She said softly, as if he would get spooked if she spoke too loud.
“The hotel is fucked. It’s not guaranteed, but it is a high possibility. Adam and his mindless creatures still hold the upper hand. And that…” His antlers and limbs grew as he himself grew more frustrated. His pupils formed into radio dials and his smile widened painfully. “Al—“ She furrowed her brows as he continued his fit, not even realizing that she spoke. His clawed fingers began making their way to his hair, a bad habit of his, pulling out chunks of his hair in anger. “That drives me crazy! I—“ Before he had the chance to harm himself, she loudly proclaimed in her “Overlord voice”.
“ALASTOR.” The walls quivered and for a second, dark red smoke travelled among them, only to wrap around her fingers and connect it to the smoke ring around his neck. “Enough.”
All of his anger calmed down and got replaced by pride (and some arousal) when he looked at her. Her eyes maroon, the stain on her lips getting darker and her hair floating around her.
“Stop behaving like a child. We are talking on behalf of the future of the hotel, there is no time for this.”
He chuckled loudly and held the smoke that connected them. “Oh, so right you are, darling!” As he began leaning towards her direction, she made the smoke go away and welcomed his lips on hers. He sat on the sofa and pulled her into his lap, while still kissing her. The kiss grew heavier with every passing moment, and soon, his tongue was exploring her mouth. He broke away from her to hum.
“Vesper?” She hummed in answer, with a heavy breathing. He looked to the side and took her martini glass in hand, a second later he tasted the sweet cocktail, which was followed by a low purr of satisfaction. “Lovely.” With a snap of his fingers, two ice cold vesper martinis appeared on the little table. However, his fingers still held the glass his bride drank from. His fingertips touched around the rim, where her lipstick adorned the glass. “My darling, everything you leave behind is a masterpiece. Your lipstick on the glass, the shape of your delectable body and warmth on our bedsheets, your delicious arousal on my tongue.” He said as his huge hands were palming at her hips, the plushy flesh that he adored.
She purred at his words and touches. “Oh, Alastor dear, your words turn useless things into art. And you make me sound like a masterpiece.” She giggled.
He joined in on her laugh and plopped his body on the backrest of the sofa, while maintaining the intense eye contact with her. His claws reached out to grip her chin gently and bring her lips down onto his. After a passionate kiss, he whispered on her lips.
“You are a masterpiece, my darling.”
With a smooth movement, she tore his shirt in half, so his chiseled torso was on display for her.
“Fuck Heaven, we’ll talk tactics later.”
With that, they pounced on each other like wild animals.
I don't cry I just write him into doing his slutty little dances with my reader-inserts because neither God nor Vivienne Medrano could stop me simping for this catty bitch
𝐂𝐖: Oral (M! Receiving), Penetration with tendrils, Rubbing, Teasing, Mentions of blood, Established relationship, Alastor hates being called daddy
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: After Alastor admits that he’s a virgin — better yet, that he’s never had someone else pleasure him, you jump at the opportunity to be the first to do so. Since he’s inexperienced, and incredibly overwhelmed by the onslaught of pleasure, he uses his tendrils on you to gain back a semblance of control.
The first time you sunk down onto your knees before Alastor, he stared down at you through a mask of unwavering confidence and indifference that almost deterred your nimble fingers from working away at his slacks — almost. But you were far too wet, brimming with excitement, anticipation, the unforgettable revelation he’d murmured against the shell of your ear that nobody had dared to venture to touch him between his legs fresh in your mind.
Alastor was a virgin.
So, when you asked him if you could pleasure him with your mouth after a rather drawn out affair of exchanging kisses, tongue, teeth and all, he withdrew from your swollen lips with a twinge of perturbation on his brow. After almost a year in your relationship, he was ready to engage with you intimately, but he never anticipated that you’d ask to pleasure him in a manner that he considered filthy — debauched, even. What happened to conventional sex? To missionary?
“It’ll feel so good, Al…” You leaned in, arms wrapped firmly around the broadness of his shoulders, and planted your tongue slack against his lips. “Like this — and you like when I do this.”
You painted the thin line that was his mouth with a slow, sensual stripe of saliva, and oh, his slacks tightened almost instantaneously. But when you lowered the swell of your ass onto his lap and jutted your hips forward, clothed cunt teasing the considerable tent he had with a meager wriggling, he turned away from you with a sigh that just oozed static and mock-contemplation. You were already familiar with his tendency to put on a cool facade in the face of temptation, though.
“I suppose you can,” He offered half-heartedly, but the way his clawed-hand patted your hip with a “Get going,” betrayed his true sentiments… including the drawled out “Attagirl.”
You rolled your eyes with a giggle, the bed softly creaking as you shimmied off of Alastor’s lap. You found yourself missing the sensation of his erection rubbing your clit through your panties, until you sunk down onto your knees and came face-to-face with the sight straining painfully before your eyes. God, was he big. He had to part his legs and jut his hips forwards, much like yours had earlier, except more slower, timider, to snap you out of your self-imposed trance.
And it worked, your stare palpitating with a stager in your movements as you leaned in and worked away at his slacks, nimble fingers trembling with a surge of anticipation. Besides the feeling of uncertainty and slight trepidation gnawing at him, an amused smile managed to find its way on his features. Your huffs and puffs of unsteady breaths mingled with the sound of his zipper being undone, and as it resonated throughout your shared bedroom, he managed to collect himself.
“Look at you, being so subservient to me,” Alastor hummed, the gratification behind his statement accentuated by the crackles and pops behind his radio filter. “You’re such a good girl.”
“Oh, let’s see if you’re still as confident as you’re making yourself out to be —” You dipped your hand into his slacks and groped the outline of his cock, “— when I do this.”
“Please, that’s nothing I can’t do with my own hand,” Alastor immediately scoffed, but you hadn’t missed the slight downwards twitch of his lip. “Now, are you going to —”
Your knees rubbed against the carpet fibers of your bedroom floor, but as you finally freed his aching cock from the constricting confines of his briefs, the head glistening with a thick layer of precum, you easily ignored that uncomfortable burning sensation threatening to spoil this moment. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek as you wrapped your hand around the base, the metallic taste of blood greeting his tastebuds at the tentative squeeze you gave it.
It was just so thick and heavy and everything your heart desired… but most considerably your mouth, warm and wet from your salivation, the perfect environment for that thick cock. The same one that only you would ever get the privilege to see, to hold, to suck, and to milk dry when you experienced your first rut together. But right now you had to suck him, you reminded yourself, especially as your cunt throbbed longingly between your shifting thighs.
“Sorry,” You batted your lashes at him innocently and rested the side of your head on his lap, tongue darting out of your mouth to lick at the underside of his cock, “For proving you wrong, I mean.”
Alastor scoffed at you yet again, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as he tore his heavy-lidded gaze from the filthy sight below him and stared ahead, and all while your tongue moved up, and up, and up the length of his cock, till it found the head, so red and weepy, and circled it slowly and sensually. His clawed-hands subtly gripped the silken sheets, but besides that, he refused to give into your ministrations, and to give into your need to prove yourself right.
“Why are you still speaking?”
He was confident, and he was also adamantly opposed to allowing you to feel as if you were in a position of power, your lips finally wrapping around his cock and swallowing whatever your mouth would allow you to take. Halfway — he mentally noted, your hand pumping the other length of his cock you couldn’t quite take without dissolving into a pitiful mess of flushed skin, teary eyes, and gags and sputters. You wanted to enjoy the process of pleasuring him for the first time.
You gave Alastor a little taste of what to expect by hollowing your cheeks and giving him a generous suck, hand squeezing and mouth leisurely moving up and down his cock. However, it was at that moment that he wished he had partaken in carnal pleasures in life. That mask of confidence and indifference fell as he dipped his head, his brows came together to form a deep crease in his ashen skin, and a small, shaky moan seeped past those razor-sharp teeth of his.
If you weren’t wet before, you surely were now, the cotton fabric of your panties bunching into your folds. To hear a man as powerful, as dangerous as Alastor produce such a sweet, innocent sound, that made you let out a moan of your own around his cock. And he felt the vibrations of your gratification, including the way the tip of your tongue worked in tandem with your mouth and caressed the vein on the length of his shaft. But he felt entirely opposed to you.
Alastor was mortified.
“Oh, fuck, that was…” You pulled back from his cock with a filthy ‘Pop!’, chest heaving at how breathless the sound left you. “God, you sounded so — and I mean so — fucking pretty.”
Out of all the noises that could have escaped his throat, a grunt, a groan, and perhaps even a meager ‘Fuck,’ it had to be a wretched little moan that made him sound so innocent, so inexperienced, like a teenager that had barely discovered sex. But when you said he sounded pretty, a statement he thought that he only he would tell you while making love to you, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt in deep, passionate thrusts, he decided he had had enough.
Yes, he was the virgin in the relationship, but he would not dissolve into a blushing bride on her wedding night, no matter how good it felt when you wrapped your lips around his cock again and bobbed your head up and down. As the room resonated with the sound of your relentless sucking, he dipped his head and carded a clawed-hand through your hair, scratching at your scalp rather affectionately. Like a pet — his pet — and while that irked you, you would not stop.
“And so do you, my dear,” Despite how close he was to finishing, he grasped your hair and encouraged you to take more of his cock in your mouth, making you choke. “Oh, now that’s pretty.”
But that wasn’t the only thing he had in store for you. His tendrils manifested from the ground in a series of wisps before slowly winding around your thighs, and they journeyed up north till they wriggled underneath your shorts. His mouth fell open with a staticky hum as a surprised sound, albeit gargled, emanated from your throat. Two tendrils found its way inside of your slick-drenched panties, one from the front of your waistband, the other from the seam of your thigh.
“Come now, you must continue to suck,” Alastor reminded you, his hips jutting upwards, the head of his cock kissing the back of your throat for a fleeting moment. “Fuck,” He added with a hiss.
A tendril curiously flicked at your swollen clit, while the other shimmied its way past your folds to get to your fluttering hole, slick with the pleasure you had derived from sucking off Alastor. Your eyes fell shut and your brows scrunched together as the thick, slimy appendage stretched your walls, whatever discomfort you would have felt assuaged by the other tendril working away at your clit, its movements ungraceful and yet pleasurable in its inexperience, flicks feeling similar to kitten-licks.
“Where is that confidence that you previously wore, hm?” Alastor asked you rather rudely, tugging your hair back and pulling you off of his cock before he could finish. “It’s gone.”
While he sounded so demeaning, you could see what he truly felt, even as your eyes remained shut, the tendril buried deep inside of your hole experimentally twisting and turning, grazing that spongey flesh within your walls that had your thighs shaking with an impending orgasm. His ears had fallen back at this point, and his skin was absolutely flushed — he just had an incredible amount of self-restraint in his favor. And you? Well, all you had was experience with sex.
“I can’t do what you’re doing — gah, fuck, right there!” You cried out in ecstasy, your other hand scrambling to grip his slender thigh. “Unlike you, I allow myself to feel — mm! — to feel good.”
“I am, you’re just being too… ” Alastor reintroduced your mouth to his cock, hoping to distract you, but it didn’t work. Not even as his tendrils began to properly fuck you. “ …smug.”
“You’re just the same, Al — uh, this is so weird,” You spoke every time you pulled away from his cock, prolonging the coming of his orgasm. “Never thought I’d get my pussy filled with ten —”
“Now, now, there’s no need for such crude language, my dear,” He scolded you, forcing your mouth down once more, no longer allowing you to speak. “It’s not becoming of a lady.”
But you were no lady, and you felt nowhere near like a lady as Alastor’s tendrils drove into your cunt and rubbed your clit at a feverish pace, the filthy squelching enveloping your bedroom instead of the usual mixture of soft jazz music and the ambience of the bayou just behind you. It simply amazed you that he was hesitant to sexually engage with you for a while, but the moment you finally did and you overpowered him, he did the least conventional thing imaginable.
“I don’t want you ruining my slacks more than you already have,” Alastor groaned as he felt a strong wave of pleasure wash over him, his hips stuttering and his length stiffening.
“I want you to swallow,” He added, but he had no idea that you were prepared to do that since you started. You wanted to taste the warmth and stickiness of his cum. “Have I made myself clear?”
Still, you nodded, your eyes flitting up to him and palpitating as heaps of cum painted the roof of your mouth, and all while your own walls began to clench around the tendrils working away at your cunt. Their movements were sporadic and hastier than ever, but the filthiness of it all to you was just enough to have you finishing right after him, a streak of cum cascading down the corner of your mouth as you pulled away from his cock and parted your lips with a long whine of ecstasy.
“My, my, look at you,” Alastor spoke almost adoringly, relinquishing your hair to hold your face in his palm so gingerly. “You look like an absolute mess, my dear — like a virgin, I daresay.”
“Ass… asshole,” You muttered, glassy eyes staring back into his heavy-lidded gaze, but they were fixated on the streak on your skin. “Just wait till I… till I peg you... then you’ll see what it’s like.”
His tendrils immediately vanished, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing. And while Alastor was unfamiliar with the term ‘pegging,’ he had a general idea of what you meant, an amused chuckle seeping past his teeth as he reached out and pressed his thumb against the corner of your mouth. Ha! He would never allow you to take his body in such a way that would force him to submit to you, he thought as he wiped the evidence of his pleasure from your flushed skin.
“Is that any way to talk to your partner?” Alastor tsked with a semblance of disapproval etched onto his features, his thumb prodding at your lower lip. “Today’s generation has no manners.”
“We do, we just don’t blindly follow that whole ‘Respect your elders’ bullshit,” You giggled as your tongue greedily darted past your lips. “Not unless they return it, of course.”
By they, you meant him, and Alastor narrowed his eyes at that. However, you weren’t put off by the look of obvious displeasure he loomed almost menacingly over you with, your tongue proceeding to swirl around his thumb, lapping up the remnants of cum that you had failed to swallow. In your defense, he knew what he had gotten himself into when he entered in a relationship with you… but you supposed your knack for all things history blinded him.
“You insolent little girl,” Alastor half-growled, and you would have laughed if he hadn’t retracted your thumb to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. “I shall do what your parents failed to do, then.”
You seized his face and craned your neck slightly, lips slotting against his so perfectly; and you stood up from your place on the ground, too, knees trembling and aching from the carpet fibers that had burned your skin. But at least he helped you up halfway into your pathetic ascent, a tendril manifesting around your waist and bringing you up onto his lap, soft cock grazing your clothed core as it relinquished you. You yelped, but he swallowed it with a gentle squeeze of your hips.
“Like my daddy?” You murmured sensually into the kiss, to tease him, to rile him up. He loathed when you called him that, and the rude strike he dealt to the swell of your ass showed it. “Hey!”
‘Don’t call me that,’ he told you with an authority that had your back arching and your chest pressing into his. His cock also stirred awake against you, but he could not go at it again — no, not when he wasn’t ready to. No matter how powerful, how confident, and how intimidating he could be even on the most normal of days, he was still a virgin. And if he hadn’t used his tendrils on you, you were certain that he would have given you more than just a breathy moan.
Perhaps a bleat… which you were also certain he would have given you if you would have slowly reached behind him and wrapped your hand around that tuft of fur below his spine. His tail. You sucked in Alastor’s lower lip and sunk your teeth into the swollen flesh, eliciting a grunt from his throat. He had no idea what sort of sinful thoughts were swirling in your mind. His tail, his ears, his antlers — you would tug and pull at each and every one of them next time.
Not sure if this is the right place to request, but my bday is in June 8th im turning 19!!! And I was wondering, how would Alastor from partners in life and death celebrate our bday? 🤔 in both hell and earth
12:01 a.m.
Paring: Alastor x Reader
Tags/ Warning: Establish Relationship
|Masterlist| Ao3|
A/N: Happy 19th birthday Nonnie!!!! Enjoy this little fic that I made and am dedicating to you!!! Specifically!!!
11: 57 p.m.
Alastor takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
11:58 p.m.
It’s times like these that he has to remind himself to be patient.
11:59 p.m.
Just one more minute.
Alastor can wait one more minute without making a ruckus, lest he accidentally wakes you up. It’s important that he stay silent. Your soft breaths fill the darkness of the bedroom as you’re sound asleep next to him.
Only the light from the moon illuminates the space, but it’s enough to see the softness in your expression as you burrow deeper into the pillow, blanket curled around you.
12:00 a.m.
That smile of his widens immediately.
Alastor stiffens his entire body, and promptly decides to roll around like some kid until he’s pressing his entire weight on you. The words are at the tip of his tongue—
“Happy birthday!” You press a kiss on his cheek, and then another, and then another, and then . . . well, another. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
Alastor slumps on top of you, rolling his eyes all the way to the side. “You’re awake.”
“Of course, I am,” you say, laughing at him a little. “You do this every year. It’s nothing new. I get woken up but your heavy body. Get off me already.”
“It’s important that I’m the first one to greet you.”
“Important to who exactly?”
“Important to me.” Alastor opens his arms wider, enveloping you with his entire body. It reminds him of those koala things at the zoo. “You ruined my surprise.”
“You ruined your own surprise.”
“Happy birthday, anyway,” Alastor says. “You’re one year closer to being an old lady.”
You push him away after that.
Pentagram City, XXXX.
One year after Alastor’s disappearances.
11:57 p.m.
You curl the blanket around yourself, trying to ignore the silence of the room.
11:58 p.m.
There’s a part of you that’s cursing Alastor right now, angry at everything and anyone, but most of all, angry at him.
You tell yourself there’s no point in the anger. He’s not here either way.
11:5.8 p.m.
It doesn’t work.
The evidence of his absence is just too much.
12:00 a.m.
“Happy birthday.”
Pentagram City, XXXX.
Three years after Alastor’s disappearances.
11:57 p.m.
11:58 p.m.
11:59 p.m.
12:00 a.m.
12:01 a.m
Hazbin Hotel, XXXX.
Eight years after Alastor's dissaperance.
11:57 p.m.
Alastor glares at the time as if the heat in his gaze could speed up time already. He’s missed seven of your birthdays, seven of this little ritual between you and him. How many more rituals has Alastor missed out on just because he foolishly died before he could fulfill his end of the deal?
It’s important that Alastor doesn’t miss it for the eighth time.
This had to be perfect.
11:58 p.m.
It’s difficult to tell if you were awake or not, but Alastor doesn’t dare to make a sound or any harsh movement just in case you actually were asleep.
Alastor is many things, and a coward just so happens to be one of them. There were things he’s yet to talk to you about, things that you definitely needed to know, things that he needs to explain but hasn’t yet found the courage to do so.
. . . It’s difficult to explain the reason for his absence.
How lucky he is that you agreed to take him back, not only that but to move you into this ridiculous hotel when he’s built a perfectly good home with you.
11:59 p.m.
“Are you going to roll on top of me?” Your voice comes out soft, muffled further by the blanket around you. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
Alastor glances at the clock, then back at you. “I know.”
“You missed the year before that, and the year before that as well,” you say. “You missed quite a lot.”
“I know,” he says, a little weaker this time. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“. . . That’s not something you can make up for.” You turn to face him, searching for this hand until you take it. “I’m scared you’ve forgotten about it.”
Alastor squeezes your hand. “I could never.”
12:00 a.m.
It’s still the same.
Alastor rolls on top of you like some mischievous child.
You shriek and try to push him away.
And those two words get uttered.
“Happy birthday.”
A/N: No, this is not sad. There's sadness in there, but to feel the happy, the sadness has to exist. These two come hand in hand. To love is to be sad, and to be sad is to love.
If you enjoyed this, why not buy me some caffeine? I have a KoFi now, but no pressure. And more caffeine in my system means I have more energy to write!
|Masterlist| |The Only Temptation|
Pairings: Alastor x Reader
Tags/ Warnings; f!Reader, Demon! Alastor. Heats! Ruts! Alastor and Ruts! dual POV, Handjob, oral (f! receiving), fingering, scent kink, p in v, knotting, antlers, tails, dry humping, pwp, cum eating, feels, Alastor just really loves his wife not even the sweet allure of a doe in heat can stop him from being the biggest simp ever.
[TLDR: It's been a month since he last saw you. With Alastor finally starting his rut, can he still keep resisting the temptation that is you?]
A/N: Wowwie! This was supposed to come out for my birthday, but hey! At least it's here. Special thanks to @ladyadrasteia666. This one is for you because I wasn't able to tag you last time, but you really helped me with all the smut parts. So, thank you.
Minors DNI
The doe is talking to him like they are friends. She’s a resident at the hotel Alastor currently works and lives in, nothing more. It’s that current hotel that’s keeping him from his wife.
One whole month – that’s how long it’s been since Alastor felt any trace of you.
The doe smells sweet, in the same way that powdered sugar smells sweet, but her scent prickles his nose in such a harsh way that he wonders how long he could hold his breath for. Pouring actual powdered sugar down his nostrils would be less irritating.
The waves of scent are just too much that it’s positively disgusting. Alastor would have already killed the doe had it not been for Charlie.
The mind . . . it’s a very fickle thing.
Except when it comes to you, it seems – it’s very generous when it comes to you.
As the doe babbles with utter nonsense, Alastor’s mind wanders back to you. It shows him instructions on how he should trail his lips down the skin of your stomach, feeling the heat from all the sensitive nerves on his lips. Alastor thinks about holding you closer until he can feel every inch of your skin.
This mind of his, tells him how exactly Alastor would crawl inside you, fulfilling that never-ending desire to feel you, and only you.
As if summoned by his very thoughts, Alastor’s nose twitches with the scent of you.
Alastor still cannot describe what exactly the scent of you even smells like. It just seems to be the scent of laughter as acid rain pours down the street.
It also seems to be the s cent of a smile as dinner is eaten under a candle-light. It’s all of these things and none of these things at the same time. It’s not enough to capture the full essence of you.
All Alastor knows is that it’s you. He turns behind him, ignoring the doe, just in time to spot you rounding the corner.
The smile on your lips grows the moment your eyes land on him. Alastor knows when it does, because he watches your lips inch higher and higher as your pace quickens.
You tilt your head, looking straight behind him. Now what would cause your attention to shift from him?
Alastor gets his answer because he knows the exact moment your eyes land to the doe behind him, and he has to watch as that once bright smile quickly drops into a polite one.
The closer you walk, the stronger the scent becomes. All these sudden waves of you almost leaves him dumb. The only thing flashing through his brain are the images of how shy you would look when he traces a path up your legs, only using the very tip of his finger to inch them apart.
The doe’s ears flick a little as she smiles. “Are you a new resident?”
“I wish that were the case.” You reach a hand towards the doe. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introd—”
Alastor catches your wrist, pulling your hand away before he could fully understand what he’s done. All he knows is that he cannot have this thing leave its filthy traces on you.
He slides his hand up the skin of your wrist, catching your fingers in his hold, and presses a small kiss between them. It’s not his proudest moment, but Alastor makes sure the doe sees exactly what he’s doing. “My wife.”
Deciding he’s had enough, Alastor doesn’t wait for a response, and crashes you into him, pulling you into the shadows below with a laugh.
Alastor can feel the way your fingers tighten around him, pulling him closer as you travel within the shadows. He holds you closer, reveling in the feeling of holding you until he’s popped into the bedroom, and crashing you into the mattress with tangled limbs.
The scent is even stronger now that he’s buried his face straight into your neck. It’s pulling him deeper into his mind.
You run a hand through the back of his head, scratching the scalp with the tips of your claws. Those heavenly fingers of yours trail higher until you’re tracing the outline of his antlers, and circle around the tip.
The pressure you place relieves the itching. You trail even lower this time, massaging the base of his antlers. This sends radio waves straight down, and out of his skin.
Your hand retreats when static glitches around the air.
“Don’t stop,” Alastor says . . . practically begging . . . and pushes his erection straight against the plump of your thigh. “Keep going. Cher, keep going.”
He presses his antlers closer to you, opening his neck as your tongue swipes one, long trail up the skin. “Alastor,” you say, whispering his name straight into his ear. Soft breaths tickle his ears, causing them to twitch a little. “Alastor . . . Talk to me.”
Alastor trails a finger down your cheek, tracing the outline, moving lower until his fingers swipe through your lips. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I received a phone call today,” you tell him, closing your eyes as you nibble on his fingers a little. “Apparently, you’ve been quite . . . disagreeable this past month. Someone finally had enough.”
Alastor watches you swirl your tongue around the tip, before taking it deeper into your mouth. The outline of his erection bulges against his pants, pitching a very, very obvious tent.
Alastor should send you away before his instincts take over. He knows this. It’s the rational thing to do, but rational isn’t what he would describe himself right now. Especially, when your fingers curl around the back of his hair, cranking his neck upwards.
Rut or no rut, it’s just nice to be underneath your fingers again.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen a doe in Hell,” you say, voice a bit softer than normal. The outline of your nose traces his neck, and the soft huffs of your breath warm his neck. “If . . . If you . . . I would understand.”
This annoys him more than it should.
Alastor presses his claw a little harder on the skin of your cheek, swiping down just to scratch at the surface. “How cruel of you, cher.” His eyes twitch, smile curling a little higher. “You would be so willing to let another bed me?”
“It’s biology.” Your fingers tighten around his hair, tugging on his head to look at you. “I would understand that.”
Alastor presses his lips against yours, nibbling on the bottom until your mouth gives way for his tongue. The taste of your mouth is even sweeter than how you smell.
It’s driving him . . . insane. Pure madness that’s sinking its claws into him, and drags him deeper into its clutches. The thing is . . . Alastor doesn’t want it to let go.
Consume him until there’s nothing left but you.
“Who do you think I am? I made a vow, cher, and I made that vow to you.” Alastor traces your jaw with his lips, and each word brushes against your skin. “All this time I’ve had to stop myself from devouring you, and here I learn you’re allowing such ridiculous ideas to run through your head.”
“Me?”
It’s more than a bit offensive to hear the surprise in your voice.
Alastor captures your lips once more, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss. “Who else except you?”
The scent of your . . . everything . . . envelopes him, consuming him deeper into his mind. You tighten your arms around him, and there’s nothing Alastor can do except melt into you.
The tips of your fingers trace up his spine, and back through his hair. Just a minute – that’s all he needs. A minute to memorize the sweet taste of your mouth. A minute to memorize the warmth of your fingers. A minute to memorize the scent of your skin.
In a minute, Alastor will send you away one more. “I want to feel you.”
“I’m right here.” You laugh against his mouth, pressing one last kiss.
“It’s not enough,” Alastor tells you, tracing your lips with his finger. “I want to be inside you.”
“You can if you want.”
“I want to open you,” he says, sighing against your skin. “I want to crawl inside until I can feel every inch of you surrounding me until all I can feel is you, and only you.”
You push him off your chest, using your hip to flip him on his back.
Alastor’s head hits the headboard just as your legs swing around his torso, and you sink your core straight above his cock. The pressure you’re sending into his cock forces a small breath tumbling out his lips.
The base of your hips leans into his dick when you shift forward to steal a kiss from him. Alastor melts into the kiss, unraveling underneath you with a moan.
“Will you finally let me help?” You run a sharp claw down his shirt, scratching at the buttons keeping him clothed.
“You can’t —”
Ypi grip his antler, yanking him to face you. The noise that comes out of his mouth embarrasses him a little, but you’re licking your lips, and Alastor knows you like what you heard.
“Tell me to go and I will, but I want to hear it directly from your mouth.” You stare directly into his eyes with a look so intense that it’s almost . . . dangerous. It’s intoxicating. “No more dancing around, Alastor. If you want me to go, you’ll have to send me away.”
The grip on his antlers tightens, and the pressure you’re pushing into him feels so good that no words can escape his mouth.
“My buck,” you say, smiling down at him. The smile of yours . . . it causes him to buckle his hip straight up into your core. “Shall we descend together?”
There’s nothing really Alastor can do but nod.
Alastor watches as you reach for the first button of your blouse, eyes trapped as you slowly unbutton them to reveal nothing underneath. Oh . . . oh!
The friction from the cloth brushed against your nipple until it perked and hardened. He takes one end of your shirt, helping you pull your arms out. It’s all done with such agonizing slowness, but Alastor can feel your skin from the tips of his fingers.
You’re sitting on top of his erection, rocking your hips to keep it alive as you reach for his bowtie. Alastor allows you to unravel it from his neck, keeping silent when you throw it behind you. The buttons on his shirt don’t get treated with the same gentleness as your own. You rip his dress shirt apart, smiling as the buttons pop out to reveal the fluff on his chest.
Alastor decides that he’s lost.
You chase him into a kiss as all clothes melt into the shadows, leaving you bare on top of him. His erection springs free from its confines, allowing your bare cunt to press against it.
Alastor groans against your mouth as he feels your wetness from those already too sensitive nerves lining his dick.
Alastor leans away first, smiling up at you as he traces circles around your hips. He swipes his thumb across your cheek, pulling you closer to pepper your face with soft kisses. The giggle that comes out crinkles your eyes, and that . . . that is everything to him.
You press your face into his neck, collapsing straight into his arms. Alastor watches your head rise and fall with every breath he takes. You’re pulling on some of the strands of his fur, playing around with it.
There’s a very pressing matter, like the way his dick presses against your stomach, but there’s just something so comfortable about being pressed up against you.
“I think I understand what you mean about wanting to be inside me. I could stay like this with you forever” You laugh into his neck, and blow into his ear. “I love you, always.”
Alastor presses his mouth against yours for a kiss. If he were to descend into this madness, he would rather do it with you pulling him in. Actually, Alastor can only descend with you.
“I will always lose when it comes to you,” he says. “That’s why I need you to be very, very good for me, cher. If I become too much, you need to tell me.”
You press another kiss, laughing. “When are you never too much?”
“I’m serious.”
You slide off his hips to glance at his cock. His erection is so hard that it’s pointed straight up. You press on his tip, barely touching it, but Alastor’s thigh tightens as the jolt of stimulation rushes down at him.
You’re watching him now, looking at every reaction as you wrap your fingers around, testing him. Just a light squeeze, and Alastor pierces his claws around the bed sheets, arching his back to drive it into your tight hold. That felt good . . . more than a little good.
The pressure stays light, but you eventually tighten it around him when you pump your fist up and down and up and down until he comes right around your fist. Spurts of his seed trails down your fingers. It only took very little stimulation, but Alastor is already a moaning and cumming mess.
You keep pumping because his cock doesn’t get any softer. It’s still so painfully hard.
“That’s . . . interesting,” you say, licking your lips. “You’re still so hard, my dear. Is this because of the doe? Is her heat keeping you erect?”
“I haven’t . . . .” Alastor moans into the sheets when you quicken your pace. “Ah, mph . . . I . . . I haven’t . . . exactly stopped to check.”
Cruel! Oh, so very, cruel.
You’re torturing him, pumping your fists around his hard erection until he’s cumming from just your hand, spluttering out his seed in hot ropes.
It hits his nose all at once. A sweet scent that he’s more than familiar with. Through the blur of his tears, Alastor stares at you, traveling his eyes to see you rubbing your thighs together. The slick from your cunt spreads around its plumpness.
Alastor takes a deep inhale, memorizing the scent of your arousal.
It brings something out from deep within him. Alastor pulls you into a kiss, pushing you until your back hits the mattress. “This is your last chance.”
“Is that a threat?”
Alastor latches around your nipple, tracing the sensitive area with each lap of his tongue. His hands trace down the expanse of your stomach until he’s swirling his fingers around your folds. Alastor quickly finds your clit, rubbing circles around it until you’re moaning straight into his ears.
The sounds you’re making for him are greater than any music he could play.
You’re jolting and writhing underneath him, but you’re also pulling him closer, urging him on as you rock against his fingers. Alastor keeps going until he’s found that bundle of nerves. The more he presses on you, the more that sweet scent of your arousal fills his nose.
He wants . . . no . . . Alastor needs to know what your orgasm would smell like.
It’s the most helpful thing that doe would ever do for him. Bringing him to his rut earlier than planned meant that he would need to send you away much sooner. Her heat was heightening his senses, and that means he would be so heightened around you. Alastor wouldn’t refuse a gift such as this. It’s the least that doe could do for bothering him.
It doesn’t take long for you to unravel underneath him, and your essence flows around his fingers. It’s heaven. The scent of your orgasm is so heavenly sweet that Alastor cannot resist. If the scent is this good . . . Then . . . Then what would it taste like?
Alastor forgets to give you time to gather yourself, diving his mouth straight among your folds to stick his tongue out. He gives your cunt one, long swipe, tasting the mixture of your orgasm and your wetness. It’s sweeter than normal. Alastor keeps going, driven by the need to keep tasting you.
His fingers swirl around your entrance before pushing it straight inside. You moan when he does, tightening your legs around his legs.
Alastor laps his tongue around your clit before giving it a hard suck. One hand trails up the expanse of your stomach until he reaches your nipple. Alastor traces around the sensitive bud, pinching it when you rock into his face.
His tongue can only go so far in this angle. It needs to go deeper. Alastor grabs your hips, lifting them higher into the air until you’re practically folded in half. You’re so close. He can taste it. Alastor doesn’t stop until you’re coming straight into his face.
It hits him like an ice-bucket. Gosh, what is he doing to you right now?
Alastor releases you, part of your orgasm dripping down his chin. Your chest heaves as you take time to breathe and calm down. Your legs are still draped around his shoulder with the muscles in your thigh twitching.
“We should stop here for today,” he says, pressing one last kiss on the inside of your thigh. “I don’t know what will happen if we go further.”
Alastor turns away from you before he could change his mind. It’s better this way. Safer.
Before he can get too far, you grab him by the tail.
The sudden jolt of pressure from the base of his back coaxes out such a pathetic whine from his throat. Alastor collapses into the bed, his ass sticking slightly up from where you’re grabbing his tail.
There’s an irritated look on your face. It takes a moment for you to find your voice. “What silly thoughts are running through your head now, cher?” you say, breast rising and falling with each breath you take. “Finish what you started.”
The pressure on his tail tightens. Alastor moans into the sheets, the hardest erection of his afterlife pressing against your thigh.
It’s an odd posture, but . . . well, Alastor loses control. His hips jerk against your thigh, and the feeling is so . . . It’s so . . . Alastor can’t stop sliding his cock against your thigh.
Pre-cum slides against your skin as Alastor humps against your thigh. That same pathetic whine tears through his throat when you massage the base of tail, running it through your fingers.
Alastor jerks his hips faster against you, chasing after his own release until he shoots cum on your thigh. He keeps rocking his cock against you, spreading his own release against your skin.
Despite all this, his cock still stands so erect.
You eventually release his tail, and you plop back into the bed, rubbing your thighs together. You spread your legs, circling a finger around your nipple before trailing down your stomach to insert a finger into your weeping cunt. Those fingers of yours try to massage your nerve, trying to find that sweet release that Alastor isn’t giving you.
“Alastor,” you mewl, frustration in your voice. “Alastor . . . Alastor.”
Alastor crawls back to you, hooking an arm around your hips to lift you enough to make room for himself underneath. Your back presses against his chest, face hidden into his neck.
Alastor spreads your legs even further, and inserts his own fingers along yours. The slow stretch of both your fingers has you gasping and moaning. He lays his hands on top of yours, and guides the motion of your fingers, massaging you in all the right ways.
Alastor takes your wrist when you cum, observing it with careful eyes before taking it into his mouth to lick it clean.
There’s an odd look on your face that tells him you’re nearing the cusps of overstimulation. That doesn’t stop him from flipping you over, and landing you to face him until you’re straddling his hips. His still very, very hard erection presses against you.
“One more. Give me one more,” he says, whispering against your lips. “I don’t know if I can stop myself. It needs to be you who sets the pace.”
You grip the base of his cock, swirling it around your folds before aligning yourself.
The arousal and cum dripping from your cunt lubricate him. Alastor’s head bangs into the headboard as you slowly sink into him. It coaxes a moan out his throat. The way your walls grip him . . . It’s so tight that he can barely think straight.
You start to rock your hips, keeping such a good rhythm. Alastor trails his hands around your hips then up your back. It’s all he can do to support your weight when you lean back, trying to reach that special bundle of nerves.
Alastor can’t keep his eyes off you. It’s all too beautiful. The way your breast bounces from the force of your rocking or the way your eyes are shut so tightly as you chase your own pleasure.
You’re consuming him . . . using him, and dragging him with you with every rock of your hip.
It’s hard to resist such a temptation. Alastor jerks his cock, meeting you halfway. The squelching of fluids fills the air. It’s such a sinful sound. Alastor can smell it – the mix of your scent combining with his. It fills his nose with such a heavenly scent that it forces him to come right then and there.
You tighten your grip on him when you feel his cum shoot straight into you, milking him for every drop. It makes him question who was actually currently in a rut.
With one last moan, you unravel above him and slow down the force of your hips.
The fog blurring his mind lifts a little now that he’s cummed inside you. Finally . . . finally. Oh, his darling wife. You were so good for him, taking everything he gave without a complaint. It brings hope into his chest.
Maybe, just maybe, he can spend his ruts with you. Alastor can finally hide you away for as long as it takes to end. It would just be him and you, and you and him.
You’re still seated inside him, breath rising and falling as you catch you—
“Alastor.” You whine straight into his chest, fingers tightening around his fur. The grip you have on him strengthens as you tremble within his arms. “Alastor . . . You tell me what is happening right now. What are you doing to me?”
Alastor places a hand on your shoulder, and . . . oh! It’s getting tighter – you’re getting tighter.
His forehead collapses on your shoulder as he tries to breath through his nose. It’s too tight. You’re suddenly clamping down on him, walls getting tighter and tighter and tighter. It’s a little hard to think right now.
With your knees, you try to push yourself out of him. All it does is pull on his sensitive cock. Once more, you try to pull yourself out of him, but it’s simply not working. Every tug your make sends radio waves straight into him until static releases from his skin, and distorts the air around him.
Alastor pulls your flush around him, bringing his arms around you in a tight embrace. It’s all he could do to keep you still. “It’s . . . mph . . .It’s a knot. It should probably last for about an hour.”
“Probably?” you screech, and bite down on his shoulder with a moan when you shift above him. “There’s a possibility that you’ll be stuck inside me for more than an hour . . . “
“This has never happened before.”
Despite the absolute horror in your face, you swipe your tongue across your lips to lick it, and clench tighter around him. You collapse on his shoulder, face buried into his skin as you adjust to the stretching of your walls.
It takes a moment, but you eventually relax against him. Your eyes are dropping low despite being stuck and sweaty and covered with so much fluids he doesn’t even know which ones belong to who.
Alastor peppers your face with kisses, trying to keep you awake. “Don’t sleep,” he says, pressing his lips on your eyelids. “We don’t know what could happen to you if you do.”
You’re nodding off faster than he can wake you. Alastor isn’t even sure you processed what he said. “I’m tired, my sweet Al.”
“I know.” Alastor presses his lips on the tip of your nose. “But you can’t fall asleep, not yet.”
“No . . . I . . . miss you . . . and I’m tired of not being able to be with you. Tell me to stay . . . and I will do so,” you say, mumbling against the fur on his chest, giving it soft kisses. “Just . . . tell me to . . . stay.”
Alastor doesn’t have the heart to jostle you awake. So, he allows you to fall asleep, still completely buried inside him.
“How completely unfair of you, cher. How can I deny such a request when you have that look on your face.” Alastor whispers the words into your hair. “Stay here with me. I never should have allowed you to leave. You’re staying right where I can see you.”
Alastor will always lose when it comes to you – the only temptation in his world.
♥︎ afab!reader, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, suicide attempt, kidnapping, captivity, manipulation, emotional abuse, mutual obsession, partners in crime, cannibalism, fake relationship, fake engagement, vomiting, eventually real relationship, slow burn, explicit sexual content, 1920s New Orleans, happy ending, blood and gore.
♡ Summary: After a chance encounter in the Louisiana woods, a young woman becomes entangled in the life of a charming radio host with a talent for keeping secrets. Unfortunately for both of them, she adapts far too well.
♥︎ Authors note: (Tags apply to the entire fic unless otherwise stated in individual chapters! Same with the summary!!) — This was my first time writing a series with more than 1 chapter! I really hope i captured his character well, thoughts are appreciated! ♡
Chapters: The Scar (I) :: The Lie (II) :: The Home (the current and final one)
The dining room is suffocatingly elegant. The politician, a loud, portly man named Alderman DuPris, sits between the two of you, completely oblivious to the freezing tension in the room. He laughs boisterously, downing Alastor’s expensive bourbon and running his mouth about city corruption, treating the evening like a casual high-society social call.
"I tell you, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, waving a heavy hand in the air. "The radio is a fine tool, but you’ve got to give the people what they want. Grit! Blood! They don't want these poetic fables you spin every night."
Alastor sits at the head of the table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up with his usual precision. He smiles his perfect, public crescent smile, but his eyes keep flicking toward you. He is watching how you carry yourself. He is tense.
You sit opposite him, looking stunning in a dark velvet gown. You gracefully ladle the rich, dark soup into DuPris's bowl, the very soup you helped prepare in the kitchen the night before.
"I think Alastor’s listeners appreciate a bit of refinement, Alderman," you say smoothly, your voice carrying that exact, slow cadence you stole from him. You offer DuPris a dazzling, adoring smile, then slide your gaze across the table to lock onto Alastor. "Don't you agree, darling? Some stories require a very... meticulous hand to finish properly."
He handles his wine glass, but his fingers grip the crystal just a fraction too tightly. A subtle, cold sweat lines his jaw. He hears the double meaning in your voice. He knows you aren't just playing the girlfriend for the politician anymore, you are mocking him to his face, using his own rules of politeness to trap him.
"Indeed, ma belle," Alastor murmurs, his rich baritone sounding unusually strained behind his spectacles. He takes a slow sip of his wine, his unblinking eyes fixed on yours with a mix of intense skepticism and deep, defensive calculation. "Though one must be careful not to let the meticulousness turn into... overindulgence."
"Oh, there's no such thing as too much care," you whisper back, your smile sharp and entirely mocking as DuPris takes a massive, appreciative spoonful of the soup.
You pick up your own glass, tilting it toward Alastor in a silent, terrifying toast. You have completely dismantled his dominance. He wanted a pretty little secret to lock in a cage, but instead, he is sitting at his own dinner table, forced to smile and play nice with a monster he accidentally created.
Alderman DuPris takes another heavy gulp of his bourbon, his face flushed red under the chandelier light. He looks at you, his eyes traveling down the length of your dark velvet gown with a casual, bloated arrogance that immediately makes the air in the room freeze.
"You know, Hartfelt," DuPris says, his voice thick and slurred as he leans heavily onto the mahogany table, "you’re a lucky man. A girl like this... quiet, pretty, knows how to serve a proper meal. In my line of work, women usually have far too much to say for themselves. It’s refreshing to see one who knows her place is to look beautiful and keep her mouth shut."
He lets out a loud, mocking laugh, reaching over to patronizingly pat your hand where it rests on the table.
Alastor’s fork hovers an inch above his plate. He stops chewing. His entire body goes dead still, his glasses catching the candlelight as he instantly looks from the politician over to you. For a split second, Alastor isn't thinking about his code or his routine, he is watching to see how the new, terrifying version of you handles an insult.
You don't pull your hand away. Your fingers don't tremble.. instead, that sudden, intoxicating rush of pure adrenaline floods your veins, sharper and clearer than it has ever been. The utter disgust you feel for DuPris doesn't give you the ick anymore. It gives you a target.
You slowly tilt your head, looking DuPris dead in the eye, and let out a soft, melodic chuckle that sounds exactly like a blade sliding out of a velvet sheath.
"You are entirely right, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dripping with a smooth, hypnotic warmth that makes the portly man smile, completely oblivious to his danger. You gently slide your hand out from under his, your fingers casually brushing the edge of the heavy, silver steak knife sitting beside your plate. "A woman should always know her place. Just as a gentleman should always know when his presence has become... entirely unrefined."
You glance across the mahogany table at Alastor.
He is staring at you, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. The skepticism in his eyes has completely turned into a cold, defensive panic. He recognizes that look. It’s the exact same look he gives his victim before he lures them into the dark. He wanted to use you as a cover-up, but now he realizes he has brought a wolf into his parlor, and he has absolutely no idea how to stop you from taking a bite.
The air in the parlor turns completely to ice as the grandfather clock in the hall ticks down the final minutes of the meal. Alderman DuPris stands up, his bloated face flushed with Alastor’s expensive bourbon, entirely oblivious to the fact that he has just signed his own death warrant.
"A magnificent evening, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, grabbing his hat from the side table. "And a lovely companion you have here. Keep her sweet, my boy. A woman who knows when to hold her tongue is a rare treasure."
You stand beside Alastor at the front door, the emerald silk of your dress catching the dim light of the foyer. You tilt your head, giving the politician a final, dazzling smile that looks more like a row of bared teeth.
"Drive safely, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic cadence. "New Orleans roads can be remarkably treacherous... especially when one travels entirely alone."
The heavy oak door clicks shut, locking out the humid night. The silence that follows is suffocating.
You turn slowly to face Alastor. You don't ask for his permission. You don't wait for his instruction. Instead, your hand casually drifts down to the pocket of your gown, your fingers lightly tapping against the heavy silver steak knife you slipped from the table while DuPris was boasting. You lock your gaze onto Alastor, your eyes cool, unblinking, and entirely mocking.
His breath catches. For the first time since you woke up in this house, the elegant radio host loses his composure entirely. A cold sweat breaks out along his jawline, his fingers tightening against his waistcoat as a wave of defensive panic washes over his face. He looks at you, then at the locked door, realizing with absolute certainty that you are going to follow that man into the dark.
"No," Alastor whispers, his rich radio voice cracking into a desperate, hurried hiss. He steps directly into your path, trying to use his height to block the door, his hands raised in a rare, unrefined gesture of de-escalation. "Mon ange, control yourself. The police are already circling this house. Detective Miller is waiting for a single misstep. If you take a man like DuPris..a city alderman.. the state authorities will tear this entire parish apart looking for him."
He leans in closer, his spectacles reflecting the pale foyer light, his eyes wide with a frantic, terrified calculation.
"You said you wanted to survive," he pleads, his smooth baritone reduced to a panicked breath. "This isn't survival. This is recklessness. You are breaking the melody."
You step right into his space, completely unfazed by his proximity. You look up at the master of the house, your sharp smile widening into a terrifying crescent that completely mimics his own dark energy.
"Everything has changed, Alastor," you whisper back, your voice a freezing, confident purr as you gently brush past his shoulder, your fingers tracing the iron lines of the front door latch. "You taught me that those who lack manners do not deserve the breath in their lungs. Don't forget that."
The humid, oppressive rain poured down in heavy sheets, blurring the halos of the streetlamps into hazy yellow smudges. Alderman DuPris staggered down the slick cobblestone sidewalk, his umbrella tilted precariously, his boots splashing carelessly through the dark puddles. The alcohol had left his mind sluggish, his breathing loud and labored against the backdrop of the rumbling storm.
Suddenly, a shadow stepped out from the narrow alleyway directly into his path.
DuPris stopped short, blinking through the downpour. The streetlamp caught the deep emerald hue of a wet silk gown. It was you. You stood completely unprotected from the storm, the rain plastering your hair to your face, water droplets running down the sharp, cold lines of your jaw like ice.
"Well, well," DuPris chuckled, his voice thick and arrogant as he took a step forward, completely misreading the situation. "Lost your way, little lady? Did Hartfelt kick you out, or did you just miss my company that quickly?"
You didn't answer him. You simply stepped into the golden puddle of light beneath the lamp, letting him see your face. Your eyes were wide, completely unblinking, and locked onto his with a chilling, dead intensity. You slowly reached into the pocket of your wet gown and pulled out the heavy silver steak knife, letting the polished blade catch the streetlamp’s glare.
DuPris’s drunken smile froze. The smug arrogance drained from his bloated face, replaced by a sudden, primal spike of adrenaline. He took a clumsy step backward, his umbrella wobbling as his eyes darted from the knife up to your expressionless mask.
"What... what is this?" he stammered, his voice losing all of its boisterous political power. "You’ve lost your mind! Put that down!!"
You didn't lunge. You didn't raise the blade to strike. Instead, you slowly brought the knife up to your own face, tilting it so the flat of the cold steel rested gently against your bottom lip, a silent, mocking gesture for him to hold his tongue.
You let the silence stretch between you, the heavy thrumming of the rain the only sound on the empty street. You watched him shake, savoring the intoxicating, absolute power of his fear. The thrill of having this loud, powerful man entirely at your mercy, completely paralyzed by a girl he had dismissed an hour ago, washed over you like a drug. You had proven your point. You had mastered the hunt without ever needing to spill a single drop of blood.
Slowly, you lowered the knife, sliding it back into the folds of your dress. You offered him a sharp, beautiful crescent of a smile, the exact smile of a predator that has decided its prey isn't worth the mess.
"Goodnight, Alderman," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence cutting effortlessly through the sound of the storm.
Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked back into the darkness toward Alastor’s house, leaving DuPris standing on the sidewalk, trembling and gasping for air in the pouring rain.
When you pushed the heavy oak front door open and stepped into the quiet foyer, Alastor was exactly where you left him. He stood paralyzed in the hallway, his knuckles white as he gripped his waistcoat and hair. He looked at your wet gown, his eyes tracking down to your empty, steady hands.
"You... you didn't do it," Alastor breathed, a massive wave of relief crashing over his face, though his spectacles still shook slightly as he looked at you.
"Of course I didn't," you whispered back, a slow, dark chuckle vibrating in your throat as you walked right past him, the wet silk of your dress trailing across the pristine hardwood. You stopped at the base of the stairs, looking back at him with absolute, chilling control. "A true conductor doesn't rush the melody, Alastor. And tomorrow night... we can decide together whose story we tell next."
The smoky air of the Absinthe House club on Bourbon Street is thick with the wail of a live saxophone and the heavy scent of illegal rye whiskey.
Alastor sits at a corner booth, looking every bit the affluent public celebrity. Across the crowded room, you lean against the mahogany bar in a shimmering silver dress, nursing a glass of champagne. Your eyes scan the room, completely calm. The disgust of this world has no power over you anymore. You are a part of the rhythm now.
At the center table, a loud, wealthy textile merchant is making a scene. He just knocked a tray out of a young waiter's hand, laughing boisterously as the glasses shattered, refusing to apologize. He is loud. He is arrogant. He is entirely unrefined.
Alastor catches your eye from across the room. He doesn't nod. He doesn't gesture. With slow, agonizing precision, he reaches into his waistcoat, pulls out his gold pocket watch, clicks the face open, and snaps it shut with a definitive, metallic clink.
The target has been selected!
You set your champagne glass down, a slow, predatory smile touching your lips. You glide through the crowd, stepping right into the merchant's path.
"My goodness," you say, your voice dropping into that smooth, cadence you perfected in the parlor. You look down at the mess on the floor, then up into his eyes, a mocking glint in your gaze. "A big man like you, throwing tantrums in a place like this? I thought the gentlemen of this city had a bit more steel in their spine."
The merchant's laughter cuts off. His ego, instantly bruised by a beautiful woman, flares up. He steps right into your space, puffing out his chest. "Listen here, sweetheart, I can handle anything in this city. You think I'm intimidated by a little spilled glass?"
You instantly shift the trap. Your sharp gaze softens into a wide, vulnerable look of sudden distress. You look toward the club doors, your shoulders dropping as you play the fragile damsel.
"Oh... I'm sorry," you whisper, leaning close enough for him to catch the scent of your expensive perfume. "I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm just... I'm entirely alone tonight, and the streets out there are so dark and frightening in the rain. I just wanted someone strong enough to walk me to my carriage."
The mix of the bruised ego and the sudden vulnerability is a drug he cannot resist. The merchant’s arrogance swells tenfold. He grins, grabbing his heavy wool coat. "Well, why didn't you just say so? Come on.. Let me show you how a real man takes care of a girl like you."
You let him take your arm, leaning into his side with a flawless look of adoring gratitude. As you guide him out the back exit of the club and into the pouring rain, you don't look back. You know Alastor has already slipped out the front door.
You lead the merchant into the mouth of a narrow, pitch-black alleyway between two brick buildings. The rain drums heavily against the iron fire escapes above.
"Hey, where's this carriage of yours?" the merchant asks, his voice suddenly faltering as the darkness of the alley swallows the sound of the jazz music from the club.
You stop walking. You slowly untangle your arm from his, stepping back into the shadow. Your adoring smile instantly vanishes, leaving your face completely cold, blank, and dead.
"There is no carriage," you whisper, your voice a freezing, confident purr.
Before the man can even process your words, a tall, immaculate shadow steps out from the darkness behind him. A heavy linen cloth, soaked in the sweet, sharp scent of chloroform, clamps violently over the merchant's mouth and nose. The man thrashes frantically, but the grip is ironclad.
Alastor holds the struggling man with clinical, unyielding strength, his spectacles catching the dim glare of the distant streetlamp. He looks over the merchant’s collapsing shoulder directly at you. The skepticism that used to haunt him is completely gone, replaced by a deep, intoxicating look of absolute respect.
Within seconds, the merchant goes limp, slumping uselessly into the dark mud.
Alastor smoothly lets the body drop, adjusting his cuffs with perfect grace. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a clean handkerchief, and offers it to you so you can wipe the rain from your face.
"A masterclass in phrasing, mon amour," he murmurs, his rich radio baritone vibrating effortlessly through the dark alleyway. He offers you a small, mockingly polite smile. "Shall we take our guest home and prepare the parlor?"
You take the handkerchief, looking down at the victim at your feet, then up into his eyes. You feel the adrenaline buzzing under your skin, a beautiful, addictive warmth.
"Let's," you whisper back, your sharp crescent smile matching his perfectly. "We mustn't keep the listeners waiting."
The years in New Orleans have a way of melting together under the thick, humid heat of the bayou, and over time, the performance became your absolute reality.
By the late 1920s, the entire city completely believes the beautiful lie. To the high society of the French Quarter, Alastor Hartfelt and his elegant, devoted wife are the golden couple of Louisiana radio.
No one questions why a gentleman of his standing stays tucked away in that grand house, because they always see you on his arm at the opera, at the charity galas, and dining at the finest restaurants. You are his perfect shield, and he is your perfect sanctuary.
But inside the locked doors of that house, something much deeper has evolved. The cold, skeptical distance between captor and prisoner was buried years ago. You have become genuinely fond of one another, bound by a twisted, profound intimacy that no other human soul could ever understand. You share a secret dialect, a matching rhythm, and a dark affection that has turned your beautiful cage into a true home.
The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed a quiet midnight, the deep brass tones vibrating through the warm, cedar-scented room. Outside, a gentle summer rain pattered against the heavy lace curtains, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with a comfortable, domestic peace.
Alastor sat at his grand mahogany desk, the amber glow of the lamp catching the gray streaks that had neatly touched his dark hair over the years. His spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed his final script for the week.
You walked into the room silently, wearing a flowing silk dressing gown. You weren't carrying a heavy silver tray out of fear anymore. You carried a single crystal glass of aged bourbon, setting it down gently near his right hand.
Instead of stepping away, you leaned against the edge of the desk, your hand resting casually on his shoulder. Your fingers lightly traced the pressed wool of his waistcoat, a gesture born from a genuine, deeply rooted fondness.
Alastor paused his fountain pen. He didn't tense. Instead, he leaned back into your touch, his hand rising to cover yours, his cool fingers squeezing yours with an unyielding, affectionate warmth.
"The final segment for tomorrow's broadcast is missing a bit of its usual poetry," he murmured, his rich radio baritone dropping into that private, velvet cadence meant only for you.
He tilted his head up, looking into your eyes with an unblinking devotion that had grown over years of shared secrets. "I find myself lacking your particular flair for the dramatic tonight, my dear."
You offered him a slow, soft crescent of a smile, a smile that no longer hid any disgust, but rather a shared, quiet amusement.
"Let me see," you whispered, leaning down closer so the scent of your lavender perfume mingled with his expensive tobacco. You picked up the silver pen from his hand, our fingers brushing intimately. "Perhaps the antagonist shouldn't meet his end in the swamp this time. Perhaps he should vanish right from his own parlor... leaving nothing behind but an empty glass and a polite apology."
He let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle that vibrated against your hand. He looked at you with a profound, terrifying respect, the look of a man who knew he had successfully found the only creature in the world who could truly share his shadow.
"Immaculate as always," he whispered, lifting your hand to his lips to gently kiss the thin, silver scar on your left wrist, the mark that had brought you to him so many years ago. "What a dreadfully lonely man I would be without my conductor."
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder as he returned to his writing. The city outside was sleeping, completely blind to the monsters in their midst, and you had never felt more safe, more alive, or more deeply loved.
The heavy cedar door of the house clicks shut, instantly locking out the humid New Orleans night and the distant, fading echo of jazz music from the French Quarter. The charity gala is over. The public performance is done.
But as you step into the dim, amber glow of the foyer, neither of you moves to break the pose.
Alastor stands directly behind you, his tall frame a steady, protective shadow in the candlelight. His hands rest firmly against the sides of your waist. For years, this exact touch was nothing more than a calculated prop, a rehearsed gesture to show Detective Miller and the rest of high society that you belonged to him.
Slowly, Alastor leans down, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck.
"You were breathtaking tonight, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, private register that sends a sudden, sharp thrill straight down your spine. "The way you looked at the Mayor... the absolute certainty in your smile. They are completely blind to us."
You don't pull away. You don't freeze. The old wave of disgust, the suffocating feeling you used to fight so hard to swallow, is completely gone, replaced by a deep, aching warmth that frightens you far more than his knives ever did. You tilt your head back against his chest, your eyes closing as his gloved fingers tighten against your hips, pulling you flush against him.
"I learned from the best, Alastor," you whisper, your voice a soft, breathless purr that mirrors his own slow cadence.
He pauses. Through the reflection of the grand foyer mirror, you watch him slowly remove his wire-rimmed glasses, setting them on the marble console table. Without the glass lenses hiding his face, his dark eyes are completely bare, and for the first time in years, they are entirely devoid of calculation. There is no skepticism. There is no clinical observation. There is only a raw, heavy, and deeply possessive hunger.
He turns you around in his arms with a agonizingly slow, deliberate grace.
When his mouth meets yours, it isn't the polite, gentlemanly peck he gives you in front of everyone else. It is deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined. His hands slide up your back, his fingers tangling into your styled hair, pulling you into a kiss that burns through the lingering pretense of the last few years.
You grip the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer, your heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his chest. In the quiet, suffocating isolation of the house, the terrifying truth finally clicks into place. You aren't acting anymore. You aren't lying to protect your skin, and he isn't playing a part to keep his secrets. The fake romance, the rehearsed touches, and the beautiful lies have twisted themselves so deeply into your souls that they have become your absolute, undeniable reality.
He pulls back just an inch, his chest heaving as he rests his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours as he speaks.
"I used to think you were a beautiful complication," he whispers, his hands trembling slightly as they frame your face, his fingers gently tracing the thin, silver scar on your left wrist. "An inconvenient little secret I had to keep under lock and key. But now... I cannot imagine a world where you aren't leading the melody."
You offer him a slow, dark, and genuinely adoring smile, the velvet trap of the house closing around you both in a perfect, unbreakable embrace.
"Then don't stop playing, darling," you whisper back, leaning up to press your lips to his once more. "The city is listening."
The candle on the mahogany vanity table flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy velvet drapes of Alastor’s master bedroom. The door to the hallway is closed, locking out the rest of the grand, silent house.
He steps up behind you as you sit in front of the vanity mirror. He moves with that slow, deliberate grace that used to terrify you, but tonight, your heart races for an entirely different reason.
Through the glass, your eyes meet his. He has already discarded his tuxedo jacket and his necktie, leaving the top buttons of his white linen shirt undone. Without his wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes are entirely bare, heavy with a quiet, unyielding intensity that makes the air in the room feel thick and heavy.
"Allow me, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, raspy whisper that vibrates straight against your skin.
He reaches out, his long, cool fingers gently brushing against the back of your neck. A sudden, sharp shiver ripples down your spine at the touch. With agonizing slowness, his hands find the delicate silver clasp of the heavy emerald necklace you wore to the gala. His knuckles graze your bare shoulder, his touch lingering, tracing the curve of your collarbone as the metal slides away and lands with a soft clink on the marble table.
You tilt your head back, your eyes closing as his hands slide up to your hair. One by one, he removes the silver pins holding your hair in place, letting the dark curls fall loose around your shoulders. He handles you with the same meticulous, flawless care he uses for everything in his life, but his fingers are trembling just a fraction, a rare, beautiful crack in his perfect gentleman’s mask.
"You've completely ruined my composure," he whispers against your ear, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. He pulls you up from the chair, turning you around to face him in the dim, golden candlelight. "For years, I believed I was the one pulling the strings in this house. But tonight... I am entirely at your mercy."
You reach up, your steady fingers sliding into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you. The sheer, suffocating proximity of him, the familiar scent of his lavender cologne and the dark, possessive warmth of his embrace, floods your senses.
You breathe against his lips once more, throwing his own words back at him with a sharp, adoring smile
Alastor lets out a low, ragged breath, all of his clinical control evaporating into the shadows of the room. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly as his mouth crashes down onto yours in a deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined kiss. It is a collision of years of hidden hunger, dangerous games, and a twisted affection that has completely consumed you both.
He carries you backward through the dim light, away from the vanity mirror and the candle, toward the deep shadows of the room where the line between the monster and the muse finally disappears entirely into the dark.
The thick, humid air of the bedroom breaks completely as you pull him down into the shadows. The lingering pretense of the last few years dissolves entirely, replaced by a sudden, violent rushing of the current.
It begins like a summer squall over the New Orleans bayou, slow, heavy, and charged with an intense, suffocating heat that makes every breath feel electric. When Alastor’s mouth meets yours, the polite gentlemanly restraint he prides himself on snaps like a dry branch in the wind. There is nothing clinical left in his touch. His hands find the zipper of your emerald gown, the sharp slide of metal giving way as the silk pool at your feet, leaving nothing between his skin and yours but the damp, rising warmth of the room.
He lifts you easily, the sheets of the grand mahogany bed swallowing you both as the dark canopy overhead locks out the rest of the world.
The metaphor of the hunt flips completely on its head. You aren't the victim freezing in the brush anymore, and he isn't the detached butcher weighing the cattle. You meet each other in the dark like two rivers crashing together at the mouth of the delta, a feverish, desperate tangle of limbs and breath that demands absolute surrender from both sides. Alastor pins your wrists above your head, his fingers wrapping around the thin silver scars of your past, but his grip isn't a cage. It is an anchor.
Every touch carries the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of a downpour against the windowpane, a relentless, driving force that pushes the tension in your veins to the absolute breaking point.
You arch into him, your fingers digging into the smooth muscles of his bare back, pulling him deeper into the storm. The suffocating disgust of his dark world has completely transformed into a consuming, addictive fire. You swallow his ragged gasps, matching his desperate, heavy tempo beat for beat, forcing the man who commands the entire city to completely lose his footing in the dark. You are drowning in the current of him, and he is entirely swept away by yours, the boundaries between your bodies blurring so completely that you are no longer sure whose heart is hammering against whose ribs.
When the tempest finally spends itself, the room plunges back into a heavy, breathless stillness. The frantic, pounding rhythm slows into a quiet, synchronized rise and fall of your chests in the dark.
He doesn't pull away, he stays tangled with you in the tangled linen sheets, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a slow, deeply affectionate kiss against your damp skin. The storm has completely washed away the lies, the acts, and the walls of the golden cage. As his long fingers gently trace the curve of your hip in the quiet shadows, you know the truth. You had walked into the woods looking for an ending, but in the heart of his darkness, you had finally found the only place you truly belonged.
The woods were just as thick and weird-looking as they had been months ago, but the air tonight didn't feel sharp or hostile. The damp New Orleans midnight heat hung low over the brush, thick with the heavy scent of the swamp, blooming jasmine, and wet mud.
Leaves crunched softly beneath two pairs of feet moving in perfect, synchronized rhythm through the darkness.
You walked with your arm looped securely through Alastor’s. You didn't need a flashlight, and you didn't need a map. The faint, dancing moonlight filtering through the cypress canopy was more than enough to guide you along the path.
The moment you heard the river..harsh, loud, and roaring against the muddy banks...you both stopped. It was the exact spot where you had once dropped to your knees, trembling and bleeding, praying for the complete darkness to take you away from the prying eyes of the world.
He turned to you in the shadows, removing his wire-rimmed spectacles to let you see his bare, dark brown eyes. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and gently wiped a stray drop of river mist from your cheek. His touch was slow, deliberate, and layered with that profound, terrifying fondness that had become your entire universe.
"The water is running remarkably high tonight, ma belle," Alastor murmured, his rich radio baritone vibrating softly against the sound of the roaring river. "A perfect night to let an unrefined memory wash away completely."
You offered him a slow, sharp crescent of a smile, a low chuckle vibrating in your throat. You reached up, your fingers cool and absolutely steady as you gently traced the line of his jaw before sliding your hand down to lock your fingers with his.
As you did, your thumb casually brushed against the thin, pale silver lines slicing across your left wrist.
You looked down at the healed scars, then out at the black, rushing water. A deep, intoxicating rush of adrenaline flooded your veins, accompanied by a profound, chilling sense of peace. You had finally gotten exactly what you wanted. You had escaped the world. You had vanished entirely from their sight, leaving the prying eyes behind forever.
You hadn't found your salvation in the grave. You had found it right here, in the clever hands of a monster who knew exactly how to make you feel alive.
"Let's go home, love," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence perfectly matching his tempo as you turned your back on the river.
He squeezed your hand, his unblinking eyes filled with absolute, adoring devotion as he guided you back into the shadows. The cage was locked, the melody was perfect, and you were finally safe in the dark.
"Hey guys, I'm really sad." Real. Anyways I am upset because my health is not wonderful rn and my brainfog is back. I just want to work on my wips but I just don't have the capacity for that rn, so here is some comfort 🥹. I only have personal experience with ME and MCAS. I tried to cover a few different conditions but all the descriptions of readers chronic illness are vague and not specified.
cw:
John: Hurt/Comfort, Implied ME/CFS and insomnia, GN!Reader
Kyle: A bit of angst, innit. Hurt/Comfort, Implied ME/CFS and POTS, GN!Reader
Johnny: Comfort, Implied POTS, GN!Reader (with use of "bonnie")
Simon: Hurt/Comfort, Implied Fibromyalgia, POTS, and ME/CFS, GN!Reader
Nikolai: Comfort, Implied MCAS and ME/CFS, Feminine!Reader (use of "malen'kaya")
Masterlist
John comes in to find you sprawled on the floor a foot from the entry and just knows.
"Done too much again, hm, sweetheart? Let's get you into bed." He carefully scoops you into his arms and cradles you against his chest, always so tender with you.
"I just wanted to get the mail." You sob, clutching the front of his shirt. It shouldn't have been 'too much.' You'd only wanted to complete a mundane task, but even that proved too much when you'd collapsed before you even reached the door. "It's not fair."
"I know. It's not fair." He agrees, smoothing a hand along the back of your head. "S'not fair at all."
The routine is painfully familiar by now: He tucks you under the weighted blanket, holds your water bottle while you drink, and then insists that you nap while he gets dinner in the oven. He eats with you in silence so as not to overwhelm your foggy brain.
John sometimes worries that you'll get bored with nothing to do all day but rest. He'll never ever interrupt your quiet time but when you're feeling up to it, he enjoys reading to you. There's never any pressure to keep up with the plot. Simply the sound of his voice is enough to bring you comfort, and some nights it's the only way you can get to sleep.
Kyle will get you settled in the bath, ensuring that the water isn't too hot or it will mess with your heart rate and blood pressure. Gaz is so gentle with you as he washes your hair. He's had you shower with him before so that he knows exactly how to take care of you when you aren't able to to do it yourself. No matter how particular you are about your hygiene, he's got it down to an art.
"This is so embarrassing." You sigh, words slurring while you try not to cry.
"Shh, it's not embarrassing, lovie. It's okay to need some help, and I'm always going to be here to take care of you."
After that he'll get you into a pair of his sweatpants, an oversized shirt, and tour compression socks before settling you in bed, where he does your hair up into a protective style—if needed. He'll lay with you for a bit, just thumbing away your tears tenderly when they fall. When he feels he's able to leave you, he'll shut off all the lights and ensure you've got everything you could need within reach. Once he's made you as comfortable as you can be, he's laying back down beside you to hold your hand.
"I'll help you through this, okay? Just rest up, now. We'll have you back on your feet again."
He knows you may not be able to answer him, and you know he doesn't expect a reply. When you're asleep (or at least relaxing with a mask over your eyes), he'll finally let himself cry. It's silent. Still. He never wants you to know how much it pains him to see you like this. He never wants you to feel guilty about that, but he just wishes there was more he could do for you.
Johnny tries his hardest to help you stay positive when things get bad.
"Poor, bonnie." He laments from by your side, keeping your legs elevated with a pillow on his lap. "My poor, wee, bon. So strong. Quite the fighter."
You scoff weakly. Nothing about your condition made you feel strong.
"I mean it." He continues. "Yer tougher than nails. Most people can't even fathom what ye live with each day. Ye ought to give yourself more credit for gettin' through it. And ye will get through it. Ye have before, you'll bounce back again."
He's a big fan of making you list three things that made you happy at the end of each day, hoping to remind you that not everything is terrible. That there are still glimmers of light in your world. If you can handle the screen and low volume of the TV, he'll snuggle up with you and whatever comforts you need to watch some funny videos. Johnny is a firm believer that laughter is one of the best medicines, and you have to admit that it does makes you feel a little lighter.
Salty snacks, electrolyte drinks, ear plugs and eye masks are always on hand. The first time you told him that your body required lots of sodium to help with water retention, he came back from the shops with an honest to god salt lick. For guinea pigs.
Ghost gets scared and shuts down whenever he finds you in a crash. He's so unsure of what to do; unsure if you want to be left alone or if he should help somehow. But how does he help without making it worse? Poor guy is terrified of doing something wrong and he refuses to talk to you about what you need. Instead he's scoured the internet forums and government health data bases for what works best in a flare up.
He'll swear up and down that he's not cut out for proper dating, but the way he takes care of you says otherwise. This man keeps a diary of all your symptoms: Water intake, diet, sleep, energy levels, everything. It's all going into his notebook so he can keep track of what you might need most urgently. Your mental health is a bit of a different story since he himself is emotinally unavailable, but he's read that changes of scenery will do you good. So when you're bedbound, there's always a vase of supermarket flowers on your dresser in an attempt to brighten your mood a bit.
Simon will have you on a strict pain med schedule. He's wordlessly refilling your water, bringing you salts, and keeping you under the heated blanket like it was his sworn duty. He takes your health so seriously it's almost comical. When your muscles get too weak and sore to move, he'll look up "how to give a massage" on youtube and follow along.
"I'm sorry." You whisper, seeing how distraught he gets. "I'm sorry you have to take care of me."
"M'not." Is all he says, but you can tell by the tone of his grunt that he means it. "Just keep lookin' at the flowers."
When I say that Nikolai takes care of everything, I mean everything. Cooking, cleaning, chores, everything. Your job is to rest. His is to look after his malenʹkij angel. No matter how limited your diet may be, he's always able to serve you food that tastes good and leaves you feeling full. He insists on feeding you himself, even when you do have the strength to bring the fork to your mouth. Why would you need to waste your precious energy when he's right there?
He'll keep you all cozy in his bed 24/7, having insisted you stay at his place during a health flare where he can keep an eye on you. He carries you to the bathroom whenever you need to go (he's not letting you try to walk on your own) and like Kyle, is content to help you bathe. Nikolai even brushes your teeth for you when your arms are too heavy to lift. He pinches your chin so delicately and makes certain to do a good, thorough job. As much as you're grateful for him, you hate that your illness makes you so dependant and he knows it.
He'll just hold you while you try not to cry, creating as much safety and love in your little world as he can.
"Hush now, hush... I have you, malen'kaya. Vse normalʹno. Ja vsegda budu zdesʹ. You're no burden, I will always take care of you."
Masterlist
Made myself cry with Kyle's LMAO. Oh boy... spent four hours straight on this 🫠. Forgive any spelling or grammar errors, my brain is a mess and my eyes were unseeing by the end of this. Hopefully it turns out coherent 🙏
Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent to hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.
Alastor had never fussed this much before leaving for a meeting.
You stood just outside his room, straightening your own feathers while he hovered around you like a manic hummingbird in a three-piece suit.
“My dear,” he said, smoothing your collar for the fifth time, “do remain here. In the hotel. With the doors locked. And don’t answer any knocks. Or speak to strangers. Or step into any contract circles. And if Angel Dust tries anything suspicious...”
“I’ll be careful,” you promised, touching his arm.
He melted. Which was why he leaned in and kissed your forehead. And your cheek. And the corner of your mouth.
And then, embarrassingly, your temple, jaw, shoulder, and both hands like he was blessing relics.
“Alastor,” you laughed softly. “You’re going to be late.”
He ignored that. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice low and firm. “Stay here. I will return shortly. No harm will come to you. I swear it.”
“I know.”
He cupped your face, thumb brushing your skin with desperation. “I can’t lose you again.”
You kissed his palm. “You won’t.”
Only then, begrudgingly, did he force himself to leave, back straighter and smile sharper as he stepped into the hall.
Rosie was already lounging elegantly, sipping tea from a porcelain cup worth more than several souls combined. She gave no reaction whatsoever to Alastor’s arrival. Or to the fact that he had a wife again. Rosie knew everything and cared about less than a half of it.
“Morning, sugar,” she greeted lazily. “Wife doin’ well?”
Velvette glared daggers the moment he walked in. Valentino’s eye twitched. Vox looked like he was buffering.
“You,” Vox hissed, “have some explaining to do.”
Alastor adjusted his tie. “Do I?”
Velvette stomped a heel. “YES, YOU DO.”
Valentino crossed his arms. “You stole something. YOUR PROPERTY? Your…your…whatever she is.”
Alastor tilted his head. “My wife?”
Rosie chuckled into her teacup. “He means they were about to bulldoze the poor girl into a contract.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Yes, I noticed.”
Vox slammed his hand on the table. “Who...WHAT...is she?!”
Alastor blinked. “My wife.”
“No,” Vox snapped, “you don’t get it. She’s not a normal sinner. She doesn’t look like a sinner. She doesn’t act like one. She looks like a fallen angel or a disguised power...or some kind of ancient entity in a mortal shell!”
Velvette nodded rigorously. “Yeah! No offense but you don’t exactly attract normal people.”
Rosie sipped. “He did once.”
Alastor ignored all of them with malicious serenity.
Vox leaned forward, voice dropping into conspiratorial paranoia. “Did you make a deal? With her? For her? Did someone from Heaven send her? Is she binding your soul? Is this some old ritual from your life? Are you...OH MY GOD...did you make a pact with a cherub?!”
Alastor’s eye twitched.
Just a little.
Rosie noticed and grinned.
“Vincent,” Alastor said pleasantly, “you are spiraling.”
“ANSWER ME!”
Alastor folded his hands, elbows on the table. “My wife is exactly what she appears to be. An ordinary sinner.”
Vox screamed internally.
“That’s impossible,” he spat. “She’s too...too...too nice. Too clean. Too bright. Too...OPPOSITE OF YOU.”
Valentino muttered, “Yeah, what kinda woman willingly marries you?”
Rosie raised her hand. “A very lucky one.”
Alastor nodded. “Indeed.”
Velvette threw her hands up. “This is BULLSHIT.”
Vox leaned back, fingers drumming rapidly, clearly rewriting entire conspiracy boards in his head.
“You’re hiding something,” he muttered. “And I’m going to find out.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened into something cruel and delighted.
“Oh, do try,” he purred. “I’ll enjoy watching you fail.”
Rosie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
Vox had spent the entire overlord meeting with one obsessive, vibrating thought:
“I need to know what she is.”
So the moment the meeting ended, he retreated to his massive neon tower, marching into the surveillance chamber like a televangelist about to perform an exorcism on live TV.
“Camera teams!” he barked. “Deploy micro-drones into the Hazbin Hotel. I want eyes on her. I want audio. I want EVERYTHING.”
A terrified tech demon saluted. “Y-yes, sir!”
“And send one of our field agents,” Vox added. “Someone discreet. Someone who won’t get emotionally compromised. Someone heartless.”
Three demons immediately backed away.
“…Uh,” one muttered, “sir, we don’t have anyone like that. It’s the Hazbin Hotel. It…changes people. Like with that snake...”
Vox growled. “Just pick the meanest intern and THROW HIM.”
Within minutes, a spy drone zipped into the hotel and instantly caught you in the kitchen, humming to yourself while making tea.
The feed showed you adjusting your little apron, wings fluffing absently as you searched for honey.
You found it and smiled.
Vox felt his circuits glitch.
“Is she...she’s...she’s being adorable on purpose,” he muttered. “It’s a trap. IT HAS TO BE A TRAP.”
But then you whispered to yourself:
“Alastor will want cinnamon in his. He likes cinnamon.”
The drone made a small, mechanical whirr of emotional damage.
The intern monitoring the feed sniffed. “She’s…so considerate…”
Vox slapped him. “SHE IS A SINNER, DAMNIT! STAY STRONG.”
But it was too late.
The drone physically fell out of the air and landed on the countertop in front of you.
“Oh, hello?” you said kindly.
The drone made a weak beep…be-beep like a dying Roomba.
You gently picked it up, dusted it off, and set it in a spoon rest so it wouldn’t fall again.
“There you go. Try to be careful, little guy.”
The drone’s camera wobbled. It emitted one soft ping of pure devotion.
The intern started sobbing.
“WHY IS SHE NICE TO OUR EQUIPMENT?! WHO DOES THAT?!”
Vox screamed.
The field agent demon Vox had sent, meanest intern, name: Trudge, crept into the hotel through a cracked window with a tiny notepad.
He expected danger.
Death.
Hellishly powerful sinners.
Instead he found you in the lobby, reading a book with your wings tucked neatly around you.
You looked up, startled. “Oh! Do you work here? Are you lost? Can I help you find something?”
Trudge felt his entire worldview collapse like a wet cardboard box.
“I...uh...I...are...uh...do...you...want...uh...water?” he stammered.
You blinked, confused. “I can get my own water, but thank you.”
“I’LL BRING YOU SOME ANYWAY,” he squeaked, sprinting to the kitchen.
Vox, watching the feed, slammed his head into the monitor.
“NO! NO KINDNESS! STOP IT! DON’T LET HER GET TO YOU!”
Trudge ran back with a glass of water, panting. “Is this okay?”
You smiled. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
Trudge burst into tears.
“I’M SO SORRY I BROKE IN! YOU’RE TOO NICE! WHY ARE YOU SO NICE?! WHY DID VOX MAKE ME SPY ON YOU?! I CAN’T DO THIS. YOU’RE LIKE A SUNBEAM WITH FEATHERS...”
Vox shrieked so loud the screen cracked.
“GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, INTERN! SHE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND!”
Trudge curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing. “She said thank you…Vox never thanks us. I can't remember the last time someone said thank you to me.”
Unfortunately for Trudge, Alastor arrived.
He stepped out of a shadow with a voice like a violin tuned to menace.
“My, my…”
His smile widened, teeth gleaming.
“…It seems I’ve acquired uninvited guests.”
Trudge froze.
The drone fried itself.
A dozen other hidden cameras around the hotel crackled, sparked, and combusted in terror as Alastor’s aura filled the room.
Vox screamed over the monitor:
“ALASTOR, WAIT, LET’S NEGOTIATE...”
Alastor reached out and crushed the last functioning drone in one elegant hand.
Static filled the feed.
He looked directly through the screen. Smiling.
“Do keep your eyes to yourself, old chap.”
Vox watched as every single screen in the surveillance room flickered, distorted, and finally melted.
Vox stood in the dark, trembling, hands shaking so hard his neon frame glitched.
“WHAT...WHAT...WHAT IS SHE?!”
From the shadows behind him, Velvette muttered:
“Someone Alastor’s obsessed with.”
Valentino nodded solemnly. “Someone we should leave alone.”
Vox hissed. “You don’t get it. He never loved anyone. Not like that. And she...she...she just smiles and people fall in love with her!”
Velvette snorted. “For once, Voxie, maybe you should stop poking the demon radio man.”
Vox shook, staring at the melted screens.
“…I need stronger cameras.”
You woke beneath the weight of a warm, long arm draped over your waist.
Alastor had wound himself around you sometime in the night, one leg hooked over yours, chin pressed to the back of your head, breath warm against your nape. He was…humming. Happily. Sleepily. Like some content animal hiding its face in its favorite blanket.
You shifted slightly.
He immediately tightened his hold.
“Mm, good morning, my dear…” His voice was still gravel-soft from sleep. “Going somewhere?”
“I was just trying to stretch…”
“You can stretch here,” he murmured, squeezing you, burying his face against your shoulder like he intended to fuse with you permanently.
The affection hit you too quickly. Your pulse fluttered.
Oh no.
Your wings flicked.
Just a tremor, just a little twitch, just a ripple of heat running down your spine. But Alastor’s hand tightened at exactly the wrong moment, pulling you in, and the sudden, overwhelming flush of embarrassment shot through you like lightning.
Your wings exploded open.
WHAP!
The left wing smacked into the wall with a loud thud.
The right wing smacked directly into Alastor’s face.
There was a muffled “…oof!”
You whipped around in horror. “Alastor! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, my wings just...!”
He was flat on his back now, hair mussed, antlers crooked from the impact, his expression dazed.
And then he burst out laughing.
Actual laughter: bright, delighted, startled. A sound you had rarely heard when he was alive, and even less since his death.
“Well!” he wheezed, adjusting his crooked antlers, “I certainly didn’t expect to be assaulted this early in the morning.”
“I didn’t assault! My wings have a mind of their own, I swear.”
“Oh I gathered.” He propped himself on an elbow, still chuckling, still blinking bits of feather fluff off his eyelashes. “Though I must say, if you wished to make a dramatic gesture of waking me, a simple shake would have sufficed.”
Your face burned. “You squeezed me!”
“And you reacted quite beautifully.” His grin turned sly. “I had no idea you could do that, little dove.”
“Alastor.”
“Yes?”
“Stop looking so pleased.”
He only laughed more, reaching to gently gather your wings closer so they wouldn’t keep flaring. He touched them reverently, smoothing a feather with his thumb.
You were too flustered to move.
He tilted his head.
“Does it happen every time you get flustered?”
“No!”
Your wings immediately twitched.
He looked delighted. “Oh-ho.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He dared.
He immediately pulled you into his chest again, whispering shamelessly, “My sweet, sweet wife…”
Your wings shot out again. WHAP!
He fell off the side of the bed this time.
A thud.
A muffled, pained laugh.
“My dear,” he groaned from the floor, “you may be the death of me all over again.”
You crawled to the edge, mortified. “Alastor, I’m so...”
He peeked up at you with ruined hair and the most besotted grin you’d ever seen.
“No apologies. None at all.” He reached up and tapped your nose. “It’s delightful.”
“What part of this is delightful?”
“You,” he said simply. “Being flustered. Being yourself. Being here.”
Your wings, of course, reacted.
He braced an arm over his head and shouted through a laugh:
“Feathers incoming!”
You tried to ignore it. The next day, the first thing you felt when you woke up was the weight across your waist, his arm tightening as if your movement set off some internal alarm.
He murmured something into your hair, your name, stretched tender like warm caramel, and then, without opening his eyes, hauled you closer with a sleepy strength that made your spine pop.
“Good morning, my little lark,” he mumbled, voice muffled and uncharacteristically soft. “Don’t go flying off without me…”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.
“Mmh. Good.” His nose nudged the back of your ear. “You’ll stay and be charming with me, won’t you?”
You shied helplessly, which was the exact wrong thing to do, because your wings reacted immediately.
They snapped open behind you: too large, too luminous, too feathery for the narrow bed.
FWUMPH.
One wing slammed squarely into Alastor’s chest, sending the Radio Demon toppling unceremoniously off the mattress and onto the floor with an “oof” and a startled burst of static.
You choked. “Alastor!”
From the floor came the unmistakable sound of him laughing.
Not his polite chuckle. Not his dangerous I-might-kill-somebody amusement.
A real, helpless, delighted laugh.
“Marvelous!” he wheezed, crawling back onto the bed. His grin was huge, wild, and boyish. “My dear, if you wished to sweep me off my feet, you could simply ask.”
“Stop provoking me.”
“Ah-ah,” he said, tapping your nose. “They respond to emotion. Perfectly natural. Perfectly adorable.” His smirk sharpened. “And very informative.”
You hid your face, which made the wings twitch again.
He laughed harder.
He gathered you up in his arms again, deliberately threading his fingers through the nearest wing. “Now then,” he purred, “before the day begins…give me another reaction.”
“Alastor.”
“I insist.”
And he absolutely insisted, kisses along your cheek, your shoulder, the back of your neck, every one sending your wings flicking and startling and fanning until one finally whacked him again, at which point he collapsed dramatically across your lap like you’d mortally wounded him.
You were still laughing when he sat up and announced:
“Training. Immediately.”
This was how you ended up asking everyone else for help before admitting you needed Alastor.
You tried Vaggie first.
Vaggie squinted, grabbed your wing, flared it out with clinical precision, and tried to explain muscle movements that you simply didn’t have.
Finally she sighed. “Okay, try…uh…lifting from the scapular junction and no, not like that, that’s just your shoulder.”
You tried again.
“No, that’s still shoulder.”
Another attempt.
“That’s…still shoulder.”
After ten minutes she stepped back, defeated. “I don’t know how to help you. I was born with wings. I didn’t even learn them, they just worked.”
Husk’s contribution was worse.
He stared at your wings, took a long drag of his cigar, and said, “Just leap off something tall. Your instincts’ll kick in. Probably.”
“Probably?” you repeated, horrified.
“Eh. Pain teaches.”
Alastor appeared out of nowhere behind you with a murderous smile.
“I knew,” he said sweetly, “that consulting Husker would be a mistake.”
Husk flicked ash. “She asked.”
“And you answered. Tragically.”
Lucifer, of course, was out of the question, Alastor made sure of that. The one time the Morningstar had even looked at your wings, Alastor pulled you behind him like you were a rare artifact on loan and Lucifer was a museum thief.
Lucifer just grinned. “Relax. I’m only admiring. Baby wings are adorable.”
“They are not baby wings,” Alastor hissed, then whisked you away like a Victorian husband offended on his wife’s behalf.
Back to his room, he circled you like a ballet instructor preparing to reshape your entire skeleton.
“Stand tall, sweetheart,” he said. “Wings relaxed. Shoulders down. Don’t hunch, you’re not a frightened dove.”
“I’m trying.”
“Good. Now extend.”
You tried to flare your wings gracefully.
What happened: they unfurled unevenly, twisted at the midpoint, and knocked a lamp over.
Alastor caught the lamp midair and set it down without looking, his smile beaming with the kind of pride parents usually reserved for a child’s first steps.
“You’re magnificent.”
“I almost destroyed hotel property.”
“A minor triumph.”
He moved behind you, hands gentle at the bases of your wings, guiding their angle with terrifying care. His voice lowered, rich and coaxing.
“There. Feel that tension? Breathe with it. Don’t force the movement, invite it.”
You did.
The wings lifted in a trembling, luminous arch.
Alastor’s breath hitched.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You have no idea how exquisite you are.”
You flustered.
Your wings spread further.
He made a noise so helplessly fond it practically broke something in the room.
Then he snapped into instructor mode again.
“Now, fold.”
You folded.
“Now, flare.”
You flared.
Several times you hit him.
He didn’t stop smiling.
You hadn’t accessed much of your Hell-given abilities yet, but they were emerging in strange ways. As Alastor tested your wings’ balance, he noticed one.
“Hm,” he said. “Your aura shifts when you’re frightened.”
“That’s not a power.”
“Observe.”
He stepped back, flicked off the lights, and the room immediately filled with a soft glow, your glow. Whitish-gold, the color of early dawn, floating from your skin like smoke.
You startled. The glow brightened.
Alastor gasped. “Oh, that’s delicious.”
“Alastor...”
“This is angelic resonance,” he breathed. “You can mesmerize. Not through violence, but through overwhelming calm. Affection. Serenity.”
“That’s not useful in Hell.”
He looked personally offended. “My dear, half of Hell’s population would collapse if someone simply told them they were proud of them.”
“Alastor!”
“In fact, I suspect you could subdue even powerful demons if you wanted to. All without lifting a finger. A form of emotional paralysis. Charming.”
That...actually made sense in a twisted Hell logic way.
“So I can…calm people to the point of incapacitation?”
“Precisely. You shine, they freeze.” His smirk softened. “You were always dangerous, darling. You simply lacked the proper setting.”
Your wings quivered.
Alastor’s eyes darkened affectionately. “Careful. If you flutter them like that at me, I may forget we’re supposed to be training.”
Later, during another exercise, he asked you to hold still while he tapped a rhythm on your wings. Soft, experimental.
The air shimmered.
You blinked. “What was that?”
“A response,” he said, delighted. “You can manipulate sound vibrations. Not through radio or mimicry, like I do. Yours is…harmonic.”
“Harmonic?”
“You can disrupt demonic frequencies. You can break enchantments. Even unravel illusions.”
You stared.
He beamed.
“My little angelic amplifier.”
And then, of course, you accidentally demonstrated it.
During an attempt to hover, just a little, you flapped awkwardly and produced a soft hum.
The chandelier above you shattered. It simply disassembled itself. Every crystal bead slid apart like melting ice, drifting down in a glittering cascade.
Alastor watched with starry eyes.
You looked at the carnage. “Oh no. Oh no I’m so sorry!”
He grabbed your hands in both of his.
“Do it again.”
“Alastor!”
“Marvelous! Stunning! Do it again!”
At the end of hours of practice, tumbling, hovering, gliding attempts, accidental knockouts of furniture, Alastor finally lowered himself beside you on the bed.
You lay on your stomach, wings draped over the sheets, exhausted in every muscle you didn’t know you had.
Alastor stroked a hand down the nearest wing.
“You’re progressing beautifully.”
“You say that because you’re biased.”
“Absolutely,” he said happily. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
He leaned down, kissed between your wings, and hummed.
You felt your powers flicker, soft golden light spreading through the room.
He tucked himself against your side, his antlers tangling slightly in your feathers.
You laughed as you gently freed them. “You look ridiculous.”
“I look devoted,” he corrected, closing his eyes. “And I intend to bask like this for at least an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Or two.”
You rested your cheek against his shoulder. “Alastor?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Thank you for teaching me.”
He squeezed you, voice low and genuine, the kind of softness he hid from the world.
“I would teach you anything you wished to learn.”
Your wings fluttered involuntarily.
He grinned into your hair.
About the taglist, I will add you to it if you comment you want to be added to the taglist, but some blogs are not being tagged even when I add them! So if you aren't getting tagged, it's not because I didn't put you in! In that case, please follow my blog on your own to keep yourself updated on my fics. Every fic is in my Masterlist in the pinned post.
Alastor x Reader (green stitches.....) FEM!READER, MALE!READER WILL BE LINKED
SMUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
cw: riding, lazy/slow sex, al is a fucking masochist, cumming inside, warming, mild medical play
a/n guys holy shit episode FOUR WHAT A GOOD DAY TO BE AN ALASTOR STAN!!!!!!!!!! also i dont care that he's ace/aro. my barbie and his barbie are being mashed together. for the record though, ace/aro folk rock. i just yk. need to fuck the cannibal deer man. and i love that hes canonically ace/aro bc it causes more interesting narrative things, but for my purposes everyone wants me carnally.
SEASON TWO EPISODE FOUR SPOILERS
hes so fine- WHO SAID THAT
Alastor is hunched over his vanity smoking and drinking. It's rare he does both- he's known to indulge occasionally but to need it? It's clear Adam fucked him up- alot.
The stitches you put in last week are tearing- the magic fading and sparking. He looks to you, his bangs cling to his face, he exhales a cloud of smoke. The pain and blood loss make his eyes crazed. "Your stitches..... are faulty." Garbled static scratches along his voice almost like desperation. You smirk, even when seconds from collapsing his pride is his priority.
He shuffles to a chair and collapses into it, legs apread wide. "fuck." He groans, chest rising and falling unsteadily, he takes a long drag from his cigarette, whiskey sloshing in his glass. "come here."
You step to him and chuckle, you use your nail to cut your non-dominant hand open, plucking your bone needle from your hand. You yank a strand of your hair out and thread the needle, then you move to straddle him.
He sighs in what you'd call relief. Alastors always had a strange reaction to pain, he's half hard beneath you. He grinds up into you without much care- mostly enjoying the friction but not chasing anything. "You're a fool" You murmur as you cut the fading stitches.
"Shut up." His head tips back- giving you a better angle. "Just do your job." You huff a soft laugh and watch as he drinks from his glass, throat bobbing. You refill his glass without him asking- then pluck the cigarette from his hand and take a drag. Your eyes shut and you hold the smoke in for a few seconds before blowing it at him, he laughs. You flick ash onto his stomach, his abs twitch. "enough" He grumbles, the radio to your left flashes as he speaks through it.
"alright, alright." You roll your hips and a staticky groan emerges from the radio's speakers. You press the bone needle to the skin and start to sew. The cut is rough, festering from his refusal to rest, at the very least it's scabbing though. You hum as you tug your stiches to close the skin.
Music plays in the background as Alastor lets himself relax and bask in the buzz from the pain, booze, and nicotine combined. You can't help but laugh as he plays 'The Masochism Tango', though it is fitting. You hum along, hips rolling into his dick- which is fully hard beneath you. You lean forward and press kisses to his neck, nipping as you sew him up. He groans low in his throat and the track on the radio stumbles. "You're such a-" you press against the cut and he moans.
"hush" You murmur, grinding your clit into his dick. Finally his chest is stitched again- neat sutures hiding the wound. You press a kiss to each stich and he whimpers- Alastor fucking whimpers. You tag another drag of the cigarette and lean forward, kissing him and passing the smoke to him. He moans and laughs, smoke flowing from his mouth with each breath. "Oh love," He laughs, eyes shutting.
You lift your hips up slightly to unzip his fly and pull his dick out. You shift your panties to the side grind against his cock. He makes a strangled noise. "Ah- ah-" He trembles. "You're divine as always." you snort and slowly sink down onto him.
The radio to your left explodes, his claws sink into your hips. "fuck!" His chest rises and falls rapidly, eyes wide open, dials spinning. You whine as you sit flush with him- your slick dripping down his cock onto his pants. "ah-" You chuckle and silence him by putting the cigarette into his mouth.
You roll your hips and his eyes flutter shut- music playing again. You hear his whiskey glass shatter on the ground, he take the cigarette from his mouth and cups your nape, pulling you flush to him. His bloody hand comes to his mouth, lapping at his fingers. You clench around him and your clit throbs. You roll your hips again and he growls. "Enough of your teasing." He snarls, "Move properly."
You consider continuing to tease- but you press kisses to his throat and start to ride him, pushing yourself up enough to then sink onto him. "ah- that's it. Atta girl" He groans, static creeping into his voice. You start to ride him properly.
His tip hits your g-spot cruelly, you make punched out sounds with each hit. "ah- fuck- Al-"
"atta girl- don't stop now." He snarls, starting to pistion his hips up into you, the new angle making you see stars. One of his tendrils moves to your clit and you sob. Tears well up in your eyes and roll down your cheeks. "Oh fuck- oh fuck" You whimper. He chuckles and kisses the tears.
"fuck- ah- haa" He can't help but laugh, you feel fucking incredible around him. Sappy cunt sucking him in desperately, he can feel every twitch of you around him and fuck-
He hugs you tighter to him as he starts to pant harshly, animalistically. "Fuck- ah- shit-" He yanks you down until his cock is flush with your cervix and he cums with a staticky shout. He yanks you into a kiss- he tastes like whiskey, smoke, and static. You moan into his mouth as he floods you with his cum, the tendril on your clit speeds up just slightly and you cum with a sob. "Ah! ah god- fuck al please i- ah-"
His head tips back, body going slack while you go slack on his chest. his arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you closer. you arms wrap around his waist. Its terribly romantic, intimate. The closeness makes you drowsy- Alastor has never been into PDA so these moments are your favorite with him. WHen he shows you just how much he cares.
You drift, cozy in Alastors lap, cum and softened dick still inside you. And for the first time since Adam, Alastor looks relaxed.
God hes so fucking hot i need him so badly oh my fucking god its not even FUNNY
alastor x wife!reader who acts like the hotel resident’s ma? 😭😭 i feel like that’d be so cute while al is like “yeah i’m not your fuckin dad”
HELLOOO this was a very cute idea thank you!!!!!!
Wait, We're Adopted?
Alastor x Wife!Reader
TW: none. not proofread
masterlist
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As much as Charlie was the owner of the hotel and the literal Princess of Hell, it was plain to see most of the residents of the hotel looked towards you for guidance.
Maybe it was your soothing presence, maybe it was your uncommon-for-Hell level headed approach to problems, or perhaps it was simply due to the fact you had been at the hotel since its conception alongside Alastor.
It wasn’t inherently obvious for the first few weeks of being seen in public with Alastor, but you were his wife in life (and, now, death). He did make a remark about it during his first visit to the hotel; an over the top expression of gratitude for his “darling wife” and “the woman who he wouldn’t be who he is without,” which… you weren’t sure whether or not to take it as an actual compliment. His overall mannerisms at the time, though, lead most to believe he was just messing around for the sake of it.
It wasn’t until a particularly drink-filled Angel Dust, in an afternoon shortly after Charlie finished trying one of her group bonding activities, that the spider rested his head on the bar top on crossed upper arms and pointed one free hand at Alastor and you who were still lounging on the nearby couch — not incredibly close, but still close enough to make someone raise an eyebrow at the Radio Demon.
“So, like, what’s up with that,” he asked with a light slur, cheek smooshed against his arms. One hand drug a lazy finger around the rim of a half empty whiskey glass. “I mean, who would actually sit that close to that creep?”
You frowned lightly at the description, but quickly shifted into a soft smile. Before you could say anything, though, you could almost physically feel the glee in Alastor’s expression as he let out a dramatic “ahh,” in response to the question.
“Well, I would hope my own wife could tolerate being even a foot away from me,” He said with a chuckle, tossing a leg up over another and leaning back into the couch. He laid an arm across the back of the couch, letting his hand graze the back of your shoulder.
His comment, along with the uncharacteristically affectionate gesture, caused the interest of a few other residents in the vicinity to turn towards the two of you. Angel Dust’s mouth opened in speechless surprise.
“Wife?” Charlie asked with a tilt of her head. She had been busy picking up the pieces of a board game. Angel Dust nodded in support of her question.
“Yes, don’t you remember? I did tell you all this on my first day, unless… you thought I was lying? Do demons get Alzheimer's? Was nobody listening to me..? How rude…” Alastor mused over his ideas with a parodied hand played on his chin, eyes cast to the ceiling in mock thought.
“Like anybody would believe that shit,” Husk muttered from his spot behind the bar. He, of course, did know, as he knew a lot of the more classified details of Alastor’s life that he was bound by contract — and by threat — to never speak about.
Alastor shrugged with a flick of an ear and a “hm,” but otherwise ignored Husk’s comment.
“Damn, toots,” Angel’s eyes turned towards you. He picked himself up off of the bar top and stretched his upper body. “How d’ya put up with that shit? No wonder you can tolerate being so nice to us.”
You waved a playful hand at him. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Plus, he was rather sweeter in life, otherwise I would totally agree with you.”
“Oh, how you wound me,” Alastor sighed.
“You might as well be our mom with how much shit you put up with around here,” Angel remarked. A handful of other sinners in the room nodded in agreement, Charlie especially was giddy to support the idea. A warm smile broke across your face at the comment, and you clasped your hands together and held them to your chest and let an “aw” escape your lips. You had always wanted children, but never could have any. You would always work or volunteer at local kindergartens, daycares, and take up babysitting gigs in an effort to fill that gap in your life, so the idea that the residents in the hotel that you grew to love so much would see you as a motherly figure… Oh, you could cry so easily right now if you weren’t careful.
Charlie playfully clapped her hands together. She always witnessed first hand how much you helped in the hotel, sometimes even with just your presence, which seemed to almost force calm upon the otherwise rowdy members of her hotel. You had helped her so often, too, especially with the more “girly” side of advice that she was sometimes too embarrassed to go to her dad for. With her own mother gone, she frankly did see you as a mother figure.
“Oh my god! Yes,” She said, then gasped dramatically as if just realizing something. “And, since you’re married, that would make Alastor, like, the hotel dad!” (Lucifer cover your ears)
“Hah!” Alastor laughed, a loud staccato sound, head briefly tossed back. “No, thank you.”
Charlie frowned, posture slumping and bottom lip pushed slightly out.
“I’m actually on his side this time,” Angel muttered, eyes turning towards his drink. He picked it up for another sip.
“Yes, rather unfortunately I think you will have to play as a single mother here,” Alastor’s red gaze shifted to you. He was being playful, but you could tell by the softness at the edges of his mouth that there was a certain compassion. He always knew how much you craved a child in your life, and he sometimes felt guilt for never providing that for you, so he held himself back from fully ruining the moment with his zealous teasing.
“Fine,” You said with an unserious huff and a cross of your arms. “You’re no help anyway, I can tell these kids are far too scared to ever dream of asking you for guidance.”
“I’m not really a role model, anyway,” Alastor said with a widening grin. “I mean, unless you want to raise a couple more murderers.”
“No! Nope!” Charlie quickly cut in. “No murderers here, please! We have enough of those already.”
You fondly watched the group of sinners in the room as the conversation slowly shifted into a more general, laid back assortment of chatter, leaning back on the couch and against the arm that Alastor still hadn’t moved. Instead of pulling away, which you almost expected, you felt his clawed hand turn and lightly wrap around your shoulder in a gentle squeeze before relaxing again.
Be a mom? To these guys? You pondered to yourself as you heard a loud, random “FUCK” from a conversation.
AN: Thee months. It feels like it's been hardly any time
CW: Pork measuring contests..
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Chapter 6
Alastor’s fingers drummed against the dark wooden top of his desk, each thump seemingly coming slightly faster than the last in an ever increasing rhythm. Sitting leaned back in the comfortable chair with his eyes closed, Alastor watched and listened as if he was there.
In many ways, he was.
Alastor was not bound totally to the confines of his body.
He watched as you moved through the party he had no desire to attend from the shadows, eyes that glowed just the slightest green, form made of darkness just a hair too deep. He listened through the speakers to the words spoke, jokes shared between you and another man.
Alastor wasn’t a possessive man… at least not in the ways that made you feel trapped. You were his to love and to own, though he wasn’t so sure there wasn’t much difference between those two things. He would ensure that you never had doubt of your love for him, or of his for you.
If he somehow failed at that, he would let you leave should you wish to do so.
You wouldn’t though. Alastor had learned from what your ill fated late husband had done and knew the quickest way to lose you was to make you feel trapped. You could leave and travel within his territory without him questioning you. He hardly took notice when you crossed out of his and into Rosie’s.
Alastor couldn’t help the way having you outside of his sphere of influence made his skin crawl. He wouldn’t tell you that you couldn’t go but he would make sure you were safe while you did and ensure you felt the need to leave his area as rarely as possible.
Hopefully after this little outing and a few more with Rosie, you would feel settled again.
There was a sense of pride that grew in Alastor’s chest as he watched the way you fluttered between groups of people, networking, making connections that Alastor wouldn’t have been able to make himself but that he’d be able to exploit through you.
Though you were your own being, you could and would, in time, function as an extension of him intentionally. For now, it was perfectly fine that you needed to be supervised when out. It was perfectly fine that you couldn’t defend yourself, that you relied on him.
It was better for Alastor if you did. As long as you needed him, you couldn’t think of leaving him.
Not that you would.
Would you?
Alastor watched as a rather round pig sinner approached you, eyes in the shadows narrowing as your conversation with the man stretched on. You laughed with him, clearly finding him easy to talk to.
You kept talking to him, not fluttering to the next person. Minutes stretched on while Alastor watched. The ears atop his head twitched with annoyance, flicking back as he watched you laugh at something the pig man said.
And then air around you shifted. Alastor’s ear twitched before shooting forward as he opened his eyes. The chair scratched lightly against the wooded floor as he pushed back from his desk and stood.
His teeth clenched together as he slipped his long coat over his arms. The shadows at his feet writhed and rose up before he stepped through the shadows, stepping out into the dark shadows around Vox’s latest upgraded broadcasting center.
The glass and metal glittered with the latest cutting edge style, promising the top of the line quality in picture and audio. Typical Vox, always striving to be better without any real understanding of what better actually was.
Alastor took a moment to straighten his jacket. His ear twitched again before standing up straight. He took one last moment to get himself collected before stepping through the glass doors and into the lobby. After a sweeping glance over the gathering, more for show than anything, Alastor wasted no time making his way to where he expected to find you standing with Rosie.
Except, you were missing.
That had his smile fighting to turn down. Static flickered around him, expressing the irritation that was missing from his face. You should have been there, lighting up the room and yet you were not.
Where were you?
“Alastor, dear!” Rosie’s face lit up when she saw he’d graced the gathering with his presence even after stating he wouldn’t be doing so. The fact that he wasn’t invited by Vox didn’t cross either of their minds. Neither respected the up and coming overlord enough to care. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“I figured what harm was it in gracing the picture box’s event with my presence. I can’t let my darling have all the fun, now can I?” Alastor laughed easily, though he could feel the shadows crawling over him, eager to go out and find you. “And where is my darling girl?”
“Stepped away for the powder room,” Rosie answered, resting a hand on Alastor’s arm. “She’ll be back before long, I’m sure.”
Static crackled in Alastor’s ears as his smile strained. “And you didn’t escort her?”
“Oh, Alastor. She’s perfectly safe, you know that. I wouldn’t bring here anywhere where she’d be in danger.”
Alastor hummed, eyes scanning the crowd for a sign of you. If he couldn’t put eyes on you, he wanted to get eyes on the pig of a man that had you growing uneasy after capturing your attention for far too long.
Ah, there he is.
Alastor met the man’s eyes in challenge. He didn’t care if the man knew why Alastor’s eyes burned holes into his pork roast, all that mattered was that he feel the threat.
Rather than retiring with an oink and a squeal, the man swirled the amber liquid in his glass, keeping eye contact with Alastor, who wrinkled his nose at the tacky move of drinking liqueur at a party such as this.
Instead of backing down, the swine pushed off the wall he was propping up and sauntered over to Alastor. A slimy smile spread across his face as he approached.
“Name’s Lonnie,” the pig said, buttons of his vest straining as he puffed out his chest.
Alastor’s hands were free, allowing him to pick from which he would offer the other man. After a second of consideration, Alastor offered his left hand to shake, smile growing wider.
“The name’s Alastor, dear fellow. The one and only!” The pig man, Lonnie, had no choice but to quickly switch the hand he held his drink in, dropping his smoke in the process before thrusting his left hand out. “A pleasure to meet you,” Alastor said, taking charge of Lonnie’s clumsy shake, “Quite a pleasure.”
“Yes,” Lonnie said, drink sloshing slightly as Alastor pumped his fist up and down with more force than was really called for. “It is.”
Alastor took his hand back, wrinkling his nose at the underlying smell of rot that clung to the other man. He wiped the sweat from the palm of his hand on his jacket, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. Once free of moisture, Alastor thumped the base of his microphone tipped cane in front of him, resting both hands atop it.
He looked at Lonnie expectantly, waiting for the other man to speak again.
Lonnie stood, squirming as Alastor’s easy, unbothered gaze before he lost the silent game of chicken.
“I just was speaking with your partner,” Lonnie offered.
“Is that so?” Alastor hummed. “She is a delight, isn’t she?”
“Indeed,” Lonnie took a long drink from his glass. “She’s very adaptable. A good partner for a steady, stable man.”
Alastor hummed, not offering the man any more acknowledgment beyond the slight rise in static.
“She left an impression on me,” Lonnie laughed lightly, seemingly unsure how to direct the conversation further.
“Ah, yes. My partner has always had a talent for leaving impressions.” Alastor turned as you swept through the crowed, rushing to Alastor’s side with a bright smile on your face.
He welcomed you to his side, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you toward him.
“What brought you here?” You were more than happy to see Alastor, taking refuge in him as a way to banish the uncomfortable feeling that lingered after the conversation with Lonnie.
“I finished the scripts a bit early,” Alastor said, his answer having been so close to what you’d expect to hear in life. Perhaps life and death were not that different, after all. “I thought you could use something handsome on your arm.”
A soft, musical laugh flowed from your lips as you looked up at him. Warmth washed over you, from the flush in your cheeks to the love in your heart.
Alastor was thankful that even after years in hell, your laugh was unchanged from the sound he knew in life. “What?” Alastor’s chuckle was honest, intended just for her though he remained aware of Lonnie’s eyes, watching them.
“I love you,” you said, standing on the tops of your toes to kiss Alastor on the cheek. It was a simple act, a small display that was still a bold display of affection.
Static crackled around Alastor. It buzzed in the air and over the speakers, distorting the music Vox pumped into the lobby.
“And I, you, cher.”
Across the room, Rosie watched, pretending to listen to the way Vox’s writers told her of the classic love stories they hoped to write, the way they wanted to branch out into classical writing and no longer be constrained by the limits of television.
She was too busy watching the way Alastor and Lonnie were interacting, the way they shifted when you returned. Alastor’s attendance of the party was a wrinkle in her plan. He wasn’t supposed to be in attendance.
But he was.
And as you smiled up at him, adoration clear on your face, she felt the power flare through the chain.
It was rather interesting.
It should be that none but Rosie could impact the chain between her and Alastor. There was no reason at all the chain should be fluctuating in power and yet it was.
“Excuse me,” Rosie said, excusing herself from the conversation she wasn’t really participating in in the first place. “Alastor?” she called out. “Oh, Alastor, deer!”
His ear flicked, a sure sign that Alastor heard her calls but he didn’t turn to face her. Rosie’s smile turned slightly sour at that.
“Alastor!” Rosie called again, draping am arm around Alastor’s shoulders. The sharp points of her nails dug slightly into the points of his jacket in warning. “You’ve simply got to meet these up and coming new writers. Perhaps you can expand your broadcasts, add some new voices when you yourself are not on the air?”
“I’m not sure I’m interested in expanding the line up as of yet, Rosie Dear.”
“Oh!” She laughed, hiding her smile behind a delicate hand. “Be a good deer and remember to whom you belong.” The words were whispered and sugary sweet but a clear warning lay just under.
Alastor hummed in acknowledgment. “If you insist,” Alastor smiled wider, eyes not leaving Lonnie.
“Go on,” Lonnie said. “If you need someone to entertain your sweet while you’re busy, I’ll be more than willing. It’s the least I could do.”
Alastor’s eyes slit slightly before he turned away, following Rosie reluctantly.
There was something about Lonnie that made Alastor want to crush him. He felt familiar, though Alastor was sure he hadn’t met the pig man before. Could it be that they knew each other in life?
He did kill a few Lonnies over the years. Hell, the body he was dragging that cursed last morning belonged to a Lonnie.
It didn’t matter really who the pig was, in the end, Alastor would have his screams just for the way he talked to you. That was what really mattered. The rest was just excuses.
Alastor didn’t need excuses anymore.
All he really needed was want.
And he wanted to make Lonnie suffer.
And for Rosie’s part? For the leash she clipped around his neck? He would find a way to make her suffer too.
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Fandom: Hazbin Hotel.
Pairing: Alastor x female Reader.
Rating: -
Summary: you thought it was a normal morning at the Hazbin Hotel, until Lucifer and Alastor started fighting… over your attention. :3 Lucifer notices the affectionate nickname Alastor has given you, and the Radio Demon feels increasingly uncomfortable. Unable to hide his emotions any longer, he drags you to his room and… tries to find out what’s going on between you and the king of hell. But Alastor’s questions aren’t really about Lucifer...
🔞 Warnings: jealous!Alastor, possessive!Alastor, protective!Lucifer,
angst, idiots in love (especially Alastor).
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It was a morning like any other. And like every ordinary morning, you were sprawled across the wide curved couch in the Hazbin Hotel lounge. In your hands was a mug of chocolate milk (because yes, despite being an adult woman, you still had that adorable childish side to you).
You sat between Angel and Charlie, listening to them talk about their newest redemption plans.
Charlie was so enthusiastic and radiant that watching Husk and Angel roll their eyes became slightly irritating—but you didn’t complain. After all, you were friends with all of them, and you had grown attached to each one in your own way.
A cough distracted you.
It was Lucifer, who had just entered the room with his usual bright demeanor and that charismatic “I’m the king” smile. At the same time, Angel stood up, muttering a simple “work call…” while scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
Lucifer casually sat beside you, in place of Angel.
“Interesting, isn’t it? My little girl really believes in all this!” He rambled, his eyes shining like twin suns. He always carried this… divine, celestial aura around him. Even when he wasn’t in the best mood, he somehow radiated serenity.
Slowly, the others left the room to carry out their assigned tasks. You hadn’t been given one yet—you were still new, after all.
Another cough.
“My, my… is he bothering you?” Asked a hissing, radio-like voice.
“Hey! I’m not bothering anyone! We were having a conversation, right, Y/N?”
Ah.
Lucifer remembered your name.
Strange… considering he never remembered anyone else’s.
Not even the name of his daughter’s girlfriend, who was part of the family now.
A flash of annoyance crossed the crimson eyes of the figure beside you: Alastor.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“My apologies, Bellhop… though I don’t recall the young lady asking for your assistance. Tell me, sunshine, am I truly as awful as Bambi believes?” Lucifer teased with a wink, flashing his forked tongue at Alastor, who now looked completely irritated. His fingers tightened around the cane in his hands, crackling faintly with static and distorted sounds.
“To be honest… no. You’re very reassuring, pleasant to be around, and there’s a lot one can learn from you,” you answered sincerely, looking at Lucifer without sparing Alastor your beautiful, intriguing gaze.
“Excuse me?! She said you’re pleasant, not that she likes you. There’s quite a difference!” Alastor spat through clenched teeth, gripping his cane hard enough to crack it.
Charlie returned to the room at the sound of the commotion.
“Um, guys… what’s going on here?”
“Nothing, dear. Just a minor disagreement between me and… this peculiar obscenity pretending to be majestic!” Alastor laughed at his own joke.
Charlie nervously scratched at her elbow while you glanced between the two men, sensing the tension thickening by the second.
It was obvious: they hated each other for some reason and couldn’t stand being near one another.
“Well, guys… I’ll leave you to your little quarrel,” you said, standing from the couch.
Simultaneously, both Alastor and Lucifer grabbed one of your wrists each and shouted:
“No!”
The two exchanged a glare, metaphorical lightning striking between them, and you sighed at their immature behavior.
“My doe… I need to speak with you about… something rather urgent,” Alastor said.
Lucifer’s eyes widened. Alastor shot him a sharp look.
“What now?!”
“What did you just call her?! Doe??? She’s not! Ahahaha! Are you getting sentimental?”
Alastor tilted his head toward the floor. For a brief moment, he looked almost panicked—as if he had accidentally revealed too much, and of all people, the dumbest person in the room had noticed. Then he exhaled and composed himself, loosening his grip on his cane.
“Would that mean that, by calling me Bambi, you’re interested in me?” Alastor sneered, hating every word that left his mouth, especially knowing Lucifer’s jealousy toward the two of you despite your lack of intimacy.
“No! What the hell are you talking about?! I hate you with every fiber of my being!” Lucifer shouted, growing agitated as horns rose from his head and wings burst open, the force knocking objects to the floor.
“Dad, calm down,” Charlie intervened quickly.
Lucifer released your wrist immediately, realizing he might hurt you. Then, he apologized softly before storming away, ashamed of his impulsive reactions.
Alastor, however, still held your hand in his palm. He stood and quietly asked you to follow him to his room.
He opened the door for you and entered shortly after.
His room felt strange today. The entire space reflected his mood: black and grim. Candle flames flickered violently. The red walls looked as though ash—or peeling wallpaper—was drifting from them. Even the bayou felt wrong. The grass was ruined. The water thick and swampy green. The flowers wilted.
Something was wrong.
Maybe Alastor wasn’t feeling well? But before you could ask, his question came fast and merciless.
“Do you feel something for him?” He asked, pinning you against the wall with one arm.
Ash continued to fall around you like snow, heavier and heavier.
What? Feel something? For him? For who exactly?
“For… feel something for who?”
“For him…” he growled again. “Lucifer…” he spat, looking away in disgust.
“Why are you asking me that?” You replied, genuinely confused. You truly didn’t understand what he had to worry about.
“I asked first, and you haven’t answered. Please answer me. Yes or no. It’s not difficult.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing your face.
“No. No, I don’t feel anything for Lucifer,” you answered clearly, struggling slightly under the intensity of his burning gaze.
“Are you... sure?” He breathed, abruptly stepping back and turning his back to you.
“Is there any possibility that... you could like him in the future?” He asked over his shoulder.
“I don’t know, Alastor. Why all these questions? You’re scaring me. Are you feeling alright?” You asked, moving toward him and raising a hand, wanting to check if he had a fever. His behavior confused you deeply.
Alastor suddenly turned, catching your hand in his and pressing it against his cheek.
He was so warm. So close. So… intense.
“Any possibility that…” he stopped himself, his gaze softening as it met yours.
“That…?” you pressed impatiently.
“Nothing. Forget it,” he muttered, dropping your hand and looking away.
Without another word, he ushered you out using his tendrils.
Even his shadow didn’t seem to know how to help its master. It waved sadly at you as you left.
Maybe he wanted to ask for help—but couldn’t. He was Alastor, after all, and asking for help was something he’d never do, not even on his deathbed.
You stepped out into the hallway in silence and confused.
Only to run directly into Lucifer.
“Oh! Hi there, little doe! You were with Alastor?! So it’s true, huh?” He teased, wiggling his brows.
The door behind you suddenly burst open, and long, slick black tendrils wrapped around your body, yanking you violently back inside Alastor’s room. His voice echoed through the entire hotel.
“She’s not your doe!”
A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead.
The tendrils tightened around your waist, covering your mouth, pressing against your throat.
Lucifer pounded on the door insistently.
“What are you doing, Alastor?! Let her go! If you hurt her, I’ll kill you! And I’ll ask Charlie to void whatever deal you two have running this hotel!”
But Alastor didn’t answer.
As you struggled, Alastor—his body shrouded completely in black smoke, with only the glowing slits of his eyes visible in the darkness—stood at the foot of the bed watching you.
“My doe…” he sighed, voice strained. “I’m sorry. It’s not my intention, but I’m forced to. I can’t allow others to believe I have a weakness,” he confessed, slowly approaching you while the tendrils left you no escape.
Author’s Note: yes, I'm still alive! Thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡ Should I continue this story with a PART 2? Love triangle? Or sadistic Alastor? Decision, decision…
