✦ blurb — When Vox turns Alastor’s capture into Hell’s newest spectacle, you make a choice neither of you can take back. The deal is simple: his freedom for yours.
Some may think that things are easier in Hell. No more rules, no more ethics, no one standing above you to dictate what is right and what is wrong, no divine judgment hanging over every choice like a blade waiting to fall.
The truth is, Hell doesn't free you. It simply replaces one set of rules with another, and they are far less forgiving.
Every day is survival. Every street corner is a calculation before you've even taken the first step. Power shifts constantly, alliances fracture without warning, and weakness is never pitied—it is hunted. The law here is older than morality and far more honest: the strongest endure, the clever thrive, and everyone else learns quickly or disappears.
You learned.
You learned to read a room before stepping into it, letting your eyes drift over every face before your feet crossed the threshold. A shift in posture, a hand lingering too close to a weapon, a conversation that stopped a fraction too abruptly—those little details often mattered more than the words themselves. You learned to keep your chin high even when fear settled like lead in your stomach, because in Hell, hesitation costs far more than pride.
And yet, even in the darkest corners of this place, something stubborn refuses to disappear. Not goodness—not exactly—but warmth. It hides in moments no one thinks to value, in laughter echoing through a crumbling hallway long after the joke should have ended, in someone choosing the seat beside you instead of the empty one across the room, in quiet acts of kindness that nobody is willing to call kindness.
You found yours the day you walked into the Hazbin Hotel.
Charlie greeted you with hope that felt almost reckless in a realm that feeds on cynicism. The hotel itself looked like it had survived one disaster too many, its cracked wallpaper peeling from the walls, furniture that never quite matched, and repairs that seemed to have been made with determination rather than skill. It was chaotic, loud, and held together by little more than optimism, but beneath all its imperfections, it felt alive. Somehow, against all logic, it also felt safe.
It didn't happen overnight, but the room Charlie offered slowly became your own. The unfamiliar faces became familiar ones, greetings replaced cautious nods, and before you realized it, the hotel had stopped feeling like a temporary refuge. It had become something dangerously close to home.
Somewhere between Charlie's endless speeches about redemption, Husk's complaints behind the bar, and Angel's relentless teasing, you found him.
Alastor had always been there, as though he belonged to the hotel as much as the cracked walls and flickering lights. He never demanded attention, yet people's eyes drifted toward him all the same. Conversations seemed to bend around his presence, voices lowering without anyone realizing it, bodies shifting ever so slightly to make room whenever he entered. He didn't ask the room to accommodate him.
It simply did.
You noticed long before you ever spoke to him.
Your gaze found him almost automatically whenever you entered a room. He always stood just a little apart from everyone else, hands folded neatly behind his back, shoulders relaxed, his smile untouched by whatever chaos unfolded around him. It wasn't unsettling in the way Hell usually was. It was quieter than that, measured and deliberate, as though every gesture had been considered before he ever made it.
You learned quickly that being around Alastor meant paying attention.
Your first conversations were simple enough. Polite, almost formal. He spoke smoothly, every sentence delivered with effortless confidence, but what surprised you most was the way he listened. He never seemed distracted, never interrupted, never looked over your shoulder for someone more interesting. Instead, he listened as though every passing comment, every offhand remark, every insignificant detail was worth remembering.
You should have kept your distance.
Instead, you found yourself lingering.
It wasn't a decision you consciously made. It happened little by little, quietly enough that neither of you acknowledged it. Conversations stretched a few minutes longer than they needed to. He started appearing beside you more often, leaning against a doorway just as you arrived or stepping into a room moments after you did, always with some remark prepared as though your paths had crossed entirely by chance.
He never lingered long enough for anyone to question it. Never reached for you without reason. Never crossed a line that either of you could point to.
And still, he was always there.
The evenings became your favorite. Once the hotel settled into silence and the usual noise faded into distant voices and creaking floorboards, the conversations changed. His voice softened—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you did—and the hours slipped by almost unnoticed while you talked. Sometimes he answered with one of his usual clever remarks. Sometimes he let the silence settle comfortably between you, watching with that same unreadable smile. And sometimes, he simply looked at you with his head tilted ever so slightly, as though you had become a question he hadn't quite figured out how to answer.
Those were the moments that stayed with you the longest.
There were little slips, too. Barely noticeable, but impossible to miss once you started looking for them. A pause that lasted a heartbeat too long after you caught him off guard. The almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows when you stepped a little closer than usual. The way his eyes lingered on you for just a second before he hid whatever thought had crossed his mind behind another smile.
"You’re far too perceptive for your own good, my dear."
"And you're not as unreadable as you think."
His smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind it. His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze resting on you in thoughtful silence before the familiar amusement returned to his expression.
"Oh, I do enjoy a challenge."
That was always where it ended.
It couldn't become anything else.
Alastor wasn't the kind of man who reached for people. Affection never came easily to him, if it came at all, and whatever thoughts crossed his mind remained carefully hidden behind polished manners, practiced smiles and a distance he never allowed himself to abandon completely.
Even so, he stayed.
He kept finding his way back to you, conversation after conversation, evening after evening, until his presence became so familiar that you stopped questioning it. You simply expected him to appear eventually, leaning against a doorway or emerging from another corridor with that same composed smile, as though your paths had crossed by pure coincidence yet again.
That was what made everything so complicated.
You felt it growing in all the spaces between your conversations. In the comfortable silences neither of you rushed to fill. In the way your shoulders brushed when you stood side by side, neither of you bothering to step away. In the quiet certainty that whenever something happened—good or bad—your eyes would instinctively search for him first.
Somewhere along the way, without realizing when it had happened, you fell in love with him.
Not all at once. There wasn't a single moment you could point to and say, there. It settled slowly, woven through habits and routines, through countless conversations and lingering glances, until loving him felt as natural as expecting the sun to rise.
And just as inevitable.
Because every time you looked for him...
...he was already there.
He knew.
Of course he did. Alastor noticed everything. You caught it in the careful way he watched you whenever your feelings threatened to show a little too clearly, or in the almost imperceptible adjustments he made whenever the distance between you threatened to become something more than either of you could explain.
He never acknowledged it. Never spoke of it. Instead, he held that invisible line exactly where it had always been, careful not to cross it himself, but never walking far enough away for you to stop hoping that one day he might.
So that became your place.
Not lovers. Not merely friends.
Something suspended somewhere in between, balanced so carefully that neither of you dared disturb it, yet strong enough that the thought of losing it felt unbearable.
That was why, when Charlie burst through the front doors of the hotel, shouting Alastor's name before she had even caught her breath, something inside you cracked.
She stumbled into the lobby with wild eyes and flushed cheeks, one hand braced against the doorway while the other waved frantically through the air, desperately trying to make the words come out in the right order.
Vaggie reacted first, reaching Charlie before she could collapse from exhaustion, both hands settling firmly on her shoulders as she tried to steady her breathing. You stayed rooted where you were, your pulse already pounding in your ears as you stepped closer, your voice tighter than you intended.
"What do you mean? What happened? Where is he?"
Charlie barely seemed to hear you. She slipped past Vaggie almost immediately and hurried into the lounge, fumbling with the television remote so badly it nearly fell from her hands before she managed to switch the screen on.
The image flickered once.
Twice.
Then Katy Killjoy's unmistakable voice rang through the room, bright with barely concealed delight.
"Breaking news, folks—looks like our dear Vox has finally taken down the infamous Radio Demon!"
The image changed, and the breath caught in your throat before you even had time to process what you were seeing.
Alastor.
He was strapped to a chair, thick restraints cinched tightly around his arms and chest, his usual composure forced into unnatural stillness. A strip of fabric had been tied across his mouth to silence him, and someone—Vox, of course—had painted a crude, upside-down smile over it, mocking the one he never seemed to lose.
Your mind refused it.
This had to be staged. A trick. Some elaborate performance designed to humiliate him.
Because Alastor didn't get captured.
Not the Radio Demon. Not one of Hell's most powerful Overlords.
And certainly not by Vox.
Your knees gave before you could stop them. You stumbled backward until the couch caught you, sinking onto the cushions as your legs refused to hold your weight. Somewhere beside you, Charlie was still talking in rushed, uneven breaths, trying to explain what had happened at the interview with Katy Killjoy, how everything had spiraled out of control, how the room had suddenly erupted into chaos before everyone's attention shifted to Vox and Alastor. Her words tumbled over one another so quickly they barely sounded like sentences anymore.
You hardly heard any of it.
Your eyes never left the screen.
The cameras lingered on him from every angle, forcing him beneath glaring lights that reflected off polished restraints and bright neon signs. His ears rested lower than usual, his shoulders held unnaturally rigid beneath the ropes, his eyes sharper than you had ever seen them. There was no fear in them. No panic.
Just something profoundly wrong.
"What did you do..." you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as the question escaped your lips.
No one answered.
The footage looped again.
And again.
Vox had turned it into a spectacle, replaying the same shots over and over as though he wanted every sinner in Hell to memorize them. Eventually the broadcast shifted to another recording. A parade crawled through Pentagram City beneath blinding neon lights, crowds cheering as Alastor remained tied to the chair, wheeled through the streets like some grotesque trophy pulled from a hunt.
Your stomach twisted.
Vaggie stepped in front of the television, trying to block the screen from your view.
"That's enough."
You barely acknowledged her. Rising on unsteady legs, you simply moved around her without a word, your eyes finding the screen again almost immediately. It felt impossible to look away, as though turning your back—even for a second—would somehow make everything more real.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Alastor wasn't supposed to lose.
He was the one who stood between the hotel and everything that wanted to tear it apart. The one who always seemed to know more than everyone else. The one who appeared before situations could spiral completely out of control, solving problems with that same infuriating smile as though he'd seen the ending hours before anyone else.
He was always there.
So what were you supposed to do if he wasn't?
The longer you watched, the more something inside you shifted. The fear never disappeared, but it slowly hardened, each replay scraping away another layer until there was nothing left but something colder. You were angry with yourself for not being there. Angry with Charlie for walking away from that interview without using the power she carried so lightly. Angry with everyone standing around you, watching with sympathy instead of urgency.
Most of all, you were angry with Vox.
The broadcast continued without mercy, laughter spilling from the television between smug commentary and carefully chosen camera angles that lingered on every second of Alastor's humiliation. By the time the footage began looping yet again, the fear had settled into something far quieter and far more dangerous.
Resolve.
You couldn't stay here.
You couldn't stand there and watch this happen to him while the rest of Hell treated it like entertainment.
The decision came before the plan. You rose without saying a word, barely aware of Charlie still talking behind you as you crossed the lounge. No one tried to stop you. Maybe they saw it on your face, the quiet determination settling where panic had been only moments before. Maybe they knew there was nothing they could say that would make you stay.
By the time your hand closed around the front door, there was only one thought left.
You were getting Alastor back.
The streets of Pentagram City blurred together as you pushed through the crowds, weaving between demons who barely spared you a glance. Neon signs bathed the sidewalks in violent shades of pink and blue, their reflections shimmering across rain-slick pavement, while somewhere overhead enormous screens continued replaying Vox's triumph for anyone willing to watch.
You kept your eyes forward.
The Vee Towers dominated the skyline long before you reached them, towering over the city like a monument to vanity, every pane of glass reflecting neon light back into the streets below. You never slowed your pace. The entrance doors slid open the moment you approached, welcoming you with mechanical precision, and you stepped inside without hesitation.
The lobby was immaculate, polished to the point of feeling artificial. Screens covered the walls from floor to ceiling, their broadcasts shifting seamlessly from advertisements to news reports before flickering back again. Cameras rotated almost imperceptibly as you crossed the room, their lenses following your every movement with unsettling accuracy.
No one intercepted you.
No receptionist questioned you.
No security guard stepped into your path.
They were expecting you.
It couldn't have been anyone else. Vox had built an empire on information, and there wasn't a corner of this tower that escaped his notice for long. You could almost feel his attention settling over you like invisible static, watching through every camera, every monitor, every glowing screen embedded into the walls.
Fine.
If he wanted an audience, you had no intention of disappointing him.
Without breaking stride, you pressed the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately, and you stepped inside as they slid shut behind you with barely a sound. Mirrored walls reflected your expression back at you from every angle, but you only glanced at them once. Gone was the disbelief that had left you frozen in front of the television. All that remained was a face set with quiet resolve and a single thought repeating itself over and over as the elevator climbed higher.
You were getting Alastor back.
Floor after floor disappeared beneath your feet, the steady hum of machinery replacing the distant noise of the lobby. The higher the elevator climbed, the quieter the tower became until only the faint buzz of electricity lingered in the silence. You never looked away from the doors, and by the time the elevator slowed to a stop, every trace of hesitation had already been left somewhere far below.
The doors slid open onto a hallway so pristine it hardly felt real. Screens glowed behind seamless panels built into the walls, streams of muted broadcasts and scrolling data casting shifting colors across the polished floor. At the very end of the corridor, a pair of doors stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the narrow opening.
You crossed the distance without slowing. Your hand settled on the handle, pushing the doors open in one smooth motion, and your eyes lifted immediately to the figure waiting on the other side.
Vox had been expecting you. He smiled the moment you stepped through the doorway.
His office was every bit as polished as the hallway outside. Towering screens stretched across the walls, their cold blue light washing over sleek furniture and spotless glass while advertisements dissolved into news reports before giving way to endless streams of scrolling code. The room hummed quietly with electricity, every surface designed to remind visitors exactly whose kingdom they had entered.
You barely noticed any of it.
Your gaze found Alastor almost immediately.
He sat near the center of the room, restrained to a heavy chair with thick bindings wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders, his wrists secured behind the backrest. The gag had been removed. His jacket was creased, a few crimson strands had fallen loose across his forehead, yet he still sat perfectly upright, refusing to give Vox even the smallest sign of defeat.
The moment his eyes met yours, something shifted.
It was so slight most people would have missed it entirely. His ears twitched almost imperceptibly, the corners of his eyes widening by the faintest fraction before that familiar smile settled back into place as though it had never left. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same.
You knew better.
After everything the two of you had shared, you recognized the concern hidden beneath the performance.
"What are you doing here, my dear?" he asked, his voice as smooth as ever despite the circumstances. "This hardly seems like the sort of place one visits voluntarily."
The teasing tone remained intact, but it couldn't quite hide the warning beneath it.
"You shouldn't have come."
A burst of distorted laughter echoed through the office before you had the chance to answer. Vox pushed himself away from his desk with infuriating ease, straightening the front of his suit as he wandered toward you, his glowing screen displaying a grin so wide it bordered on mocking.
"Oh, this..." he chuckled, spreading his arms as though welcoming an honored guest, "...this is even better than I expected. I figured Charlie might show up with one of her inspirational speeches, or maybe Vaggie would come barging in swinging that spear around again. But you?" His screen tilted slightly, studying you with open amusement. "Now that's interesting."
You never took your eyes off Alastor.
"Let him go."
Vox actually stopped walking. For a brief moment, he simply stared at you before another laugh crackled through his speakers, louder this time, filling the room until it bounced off every glowing screen surrounding you.
"You marched into my tower, walked straight into my office..." He took another slow step closer, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "...and that's your grand opening?"
"I'm not here to negotiate."
"No?" His grin only widened. "Then I think you're going to be disappointed."
He turned away from you without another word, strolling toward Alastor with the casual confidence of someone who had already won. One hand settled against the back of the chair before he gave it a sharp tug, dragging it several inches across the polished floor until Alastor was positioned directly in front of you.
"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction. "Now you can get the full picture."
His hand came to rest on Alastor's shoulder, fingers brushing away an invisible speck of dust before patting him twice with exaggerated care, as though he were polishing a prized possession instead of touching one of Hell's most feared Overlords.
"You know," Vox continued, circling the chair at an unhurried pace, "people spent decades telling me the Radio Demon couldn't be beaten. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Practically a force of nature." He leaned down until his screen hovered only inches from Alastor's face, the glow reflecting in crimson eyes that never looked away from yours. "Funny how reality turns out."
The smile never left Alastor's face, but you saw his jaw tighten beneath the painted grin, saw his fingers curl against the restraints until the leather creaked softly around his wrists.
Vox noticed where your attention had gone and smiled even wider.
"Oh..." he said, turning back toward you with unmistakable satisfaction. "You don't like seeing him like this, do you?"
He let the question hang in the air for only a moment before chuckling to himself, his gaze flicking briefly toward Alastor.
"I suppose that's the problem with caring about someone. It gives people like me something to play with."
You felt your hands curl into fists at your sides, your nails pressing painfully into your palms as Vox continued circling the chair with infuriating satisfaction. Every word out of his mouth, every smug glance thrown in Alastor's direction, every casual touch against his shoulder made something tighten inside your chest until breathing itself became difficult.
Alastor endured it without protest.
That was almost worse.
He never lowered his head. Never looked away. Even with his hands bound behind his back and that grotesque smile painted across his face, he carried himself with the same quiet dignity he always had, as though refusing to let Vox take anything more than his freedom.
Your gaze never left him.
"Free him."
The words came out steadier than you felt.
Vox sighed dramatically, rubbing the side of his screen as though you had become terribly repetitive.
"My, my... you're persistent."
"I said free him."
He chuckled again, shaking his head before slipping both hands into his pockets.
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
"You can."
"I could," he corrected with an easy shrug, "but then I'd be breaking the agreement, and contrary to popular belief, I do try to honor my deals."
Your frown deepened.
"What deal?"
Vox's grin widened so much it almost filled the screen of his face. He glanced toward Alastor before looking back at you, clearly savoring every second he managed to stretch the silence.
"Oh... he didn't tell you."
The words settled heavily in the room.
"You really came all the way here without knowing?" Vox let out another laugh, quieter this time, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "That's adorable."
Your eyes moved instinctively to Alastor.
He didn't look away.
He simply met your gaze with that same composed expression, though something behind his eyes had changed. The confidence was still there, the calm still carefully maintained, but beneath it lay the unmistakable look of someone who already knew exactly how this conversation would unfold.
"We made a deal," Vox continued before Alastor could speak. "No tricks. No chains dragged through the streets. No dramatic kidnapping." He spread his hands with theatrical innocence. "He accepted my terms and came here of his own free will."
For a moment, you were convinced you had misheard him.
Your gaze snapped back to Alastor, searching desperately for the smallest sign that Vox was lying, that this was another one of his games. Instead, Alastor slowly lowered his eyes before lifting them back to yours, his smile never wavering despite the weight behind the gesture.
"You..." Your voice faltered. "You agreed to this?"
Silence.
"It was the most... practical outcome available at the time," he answered at last, his tone as composed as ever. "Not every negotiation ends pleasantly, my dear."
You stared at him, unable to reconcile the words with the man sitting in front of you.
Alastor wasn't the kind of man who surrendered his freedom. He was meticulous, always calculating three moves ahead, always the one controlling the conversation instead of following it. You had watched him outmaneuver Overlords with nothing more than a smile and a carefully chosen sentence. The idea that he would willingly place himself in Vox's hands was so completely at odds with everything you knew about him that your mind refused to make sense of it.
Question after question crowded your thoughts. What could Vox possibly have offered him? What had forced his hand badly enough that this had become the better option? What kind of bargain could make Alastor walk willingly into the office of the one man he despised more than anyone else?
None of it mattered.
Not while he was still sitting there.
Your eyes drifted back to the restraints cutting into the sleeves of his coat before you lifted your head to face Vox once more. The confusion was still there, tangled together with the hurt and the anger, but beneath it something steadier had taken hold. You still didn't understand why Alastor had made that choice, and perhaps you wouldn't until much later. Right now, there was only one thing you knew with absolute certainty.
"I don't care what deal you made," you said, your voice quieter than before but no less firm. "You're going to let him go."
Vox stared at you for a moment before another burst of laughter crackled through the room. He leaned back against his desk, one hand pressed theatrically against his chest as though you had just told the greatest joke he had ever heard.
"Oh, you're serious."
His screen glitched with amusement, the wide grin stretching from one edge to the other as he looked between you and Alastor.
"You really think you can just walk in here, demand I hand over the biggest prize I've had in years, and expect me to smile, shake your hand and send him home?"
He laughed again, slower this time, clearly enjoying himself.
"I've spent decades waiting for this." His gaze drifted lazily toward Alastor before returning to you. "Do you have any idea how satisfying it is? Seeing the great Radio Demon tied to a chair in my office? Watching every sinner in Hell realize he isn't untouchable after all?"
His smile widened.
"The humiliation is the whole point."
The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the screens surrounding you.
Vox studied you more carefully. The amusement never disappeared, but something more curious slipped in beneath it as his gaze lingered on your face a little longer than before. His eyes drifted toward Alastor, then back to you again, as though pieces of a puzzle were quietly beginning to fall into place.
"You know..." he murmured, tilting his head slightly, "most people would've seen that broadcast and decided to stay as far away from this tower as possible." He smiled to himself. "You did the exact opposite."
He circled the chair slowly, never taking his eyes off either of you.
"You came here alone."
Another step.
"You demanded I release him before you even asked what happened."
Another.
"And you've barely looked at me since you walked through that door."
His grin sharpened.
"Oh..."
A quiet laugh escaped him as realization settled across his features.
"I see."
His attention shifted to Alastor, whose expression hadn't changed in the slightest.
"So that's why."
You felt your stomach tighten.
Vox looked positively delighted.
"I was wondering why the mighty Radio Demon suddenly looked so interested when you walked in." He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "I thought it was concern at first." His smile widened into something openly mocking. "Turns out it's something so much funnier."
Neither of you answered.
The silence only encouraged him.
"You two..." He laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I never would've guessed."
"Enough."
Your voice cut through the room before he could continue.
Vox looked back at you, one eyebrow lifting expectantly.
"I want to make a deal."
Silence lingered for barely a second before Vox threw his head back, laughter echoing off every screen in the office.
"A deal?" He wiped an imaginary tear from beneath one glowing eye. "With what exactly?"
He spread his arms toward Alastor as though presenting the answer himself.
"I already have him."
His hand rested casually against the back of the chair again, fingers tapping lightly against the wood.
"I've got the most powerful Overlord in Hell sitting right here, completely at my mercy. Why would I trade that away?" His grin widened another fraction. "What could you possibly offer that's worth more than humiliating him? Because, trust me..." He glanced down at Alastor with unmistakable satisfaction. "...there's very little I want more than this."
You didn't answer immediately.
Instead, you took a slow breath, meeting Vox's gaze without letting it waver.
"I have knowledge."
That earned a faint scoff.
"So does Google."
"I know how to get you closer to Heaven."
Vox's laughter faded on its own, as though someone had pulled the plug. The grin remained on his screen, but the amusement behind it vanished so quickly it left the room unnervingly quiet.
He didn't move.
"What..."
His voice was quieter now.
"...did you just say?"
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle shift in Alastor's posture. It was almost imperceptible, nothing more than his shoulders drawing a little tighter against the restraints and his fingers curling harder around the bindings behind the chair.
He knew.
Not what you had already said.
What you were about to say.
For the first time since you had walked into the office, something dangerously close to unease settled behind his eyes. It was subtle, buried beneath years of practiced composure, but it was there all the same, and it sent a chill racing down your spine. Alastor wasn't worried about Vox. He wasn't worried about himself.
He was worried about you.
"My dear," he interrupted smoothly, the warmth in his voice sounding almost forced now, "I'm afraid you've rather overestimated your understanding of these matters."
You didn't look at him.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he continued before you could answer, his smile widening just enough to resemble its usual confidence. "Vox does so enjoy grand promises, particularly impossible ones. I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself attempting to bargain with information that doesn't exist."
He wasn't dismissing your claim; he was begging you to stop before you said something that could never be taken back, trying to steer you away without revealing why your words had unsettled him so deeply.
A grin spread slowly across Vox screen as he watched Alastor continue speaking, his amusement growing with every attempt the Radio Demon made to interrupt.
"Well," he laughed, "now you've really got my attention."
He wandered over without the slightest hint of urgency, stopping behind the chair before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. Alastor's gaze remained fixed on yours, the warning in his eyes growing more insistent as Vox unfolded a strip of dark fabric between his fingers.
"My dear," Alastor tried again, abandoning subtlety for the first time since you'd arrived, "I would strongly advise—"
"Oh, spare me."
Vox shoved the cloth roughly into his mouth before the sentence could be finished, pulling it tight behind his head with practiced ease. The knot disappeared beneath crimson hair, forcing his jaw shut once more, while the painted smile stretched grotesquely across the gag as though mocking him all over again.
"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. "That's much better."
Alastor jerked sharply against the chair, the legs scraping across the polished floor as he instinctively fought against the restraints. Leather creaked around his wrists as he pulled hard enough to tighten every binding across his chest, his breathing growing noticeably heavier through his nose while his eyes locked desperately onto yours.
You had never seen him like this.
Not frightened.
Alastor didn't frighten easily.
But helpless.
The realization hit him all at once, settling across his features with a weight that even decades of perfect self-control couldn't entirely conceal. He knew you weren't bluffing. He knew you weren't trying to distract Vox or buy yourself time. Whatever secret you had uncovered, whatever impossible bargain had formed in your mind on the walk to the tower, you intended to trade it for him without the slightest concern for what it might cost you.
His head moved in the smallest shake, barely noticeable beneath the restraint holding him upright, while his eyes pleaded with an urgency that words never could. Every instinct told him to stop you, to pull you out of this room before you sacrificed something you didn't fully understand, yet all he could do was strain uselessly against the chair and watch events slip further beyond his control.
It was a feeling Alastor had almost forgotten existed. For years, he had always been the one with another plan, another escape, another carefully calculated move hidden behind that ever-present smile. Now he could do nothing except sit in silence, bound hand and foot, as the woman he loved stood only a few feet away preparing to throw herself into a deal that would almost certainly destroy her, simply because she had decided his life was worth more than her own.
Vox's attention shifted back to you, the grin on his screen returning now that the interruption had been dealt with. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, studying you with open curiosity, while the low hum of the monitors surrounding you seemed to grow louder in the silence that settled over the room.
"Now," he said at last, "you've managed to say something interesting enough to interrupt my afternoon. I'd hate for you to disappoint me."
Your mouth had suddenly gone dry.
The confidence you'd forced yourself to wear all the way to the tower wavered for the briefest instant, and you became painfully aware that you had reached the point where there was no room left for hesitation. You didn't have a plan beyond this conversation. You didn't even know whether the knowledge you possessed would truly be enough to tempt him.
You were gambling everything on the chance that Vox wanted power more than revenge.
A muffled sound drew your attention back to Alastor.
He had stopped struggling against the chair only long enough to catch your eye again, and what you found there made your chest tighten painfully. His brows had drawn together almost imperceptibly, the tension visible in every line of his body as he pulled once more against the restraints, desperate enough that the leather dug deeper into the sleeves of his coat. His head moved in another small, insistent shake, crimson eyes never leaving yours as though he could still convince you to walk away.
It struck you then with a clarity so overwhelming it almost stole the breath from your lungs.
He wasn't trying to protect a useful ally.
He wasn't trying to preserve a convenient friendship.
He was trying to protect you.
The realization settled quietly inside your chest, pushing aside the fear that had followed you ever since Charlie burst into the hotel. For so long, you had loved him without expecting anything in return, convincing yourself that the feelings hidden beneath his careful smiles existed only in your imagination. Yet no one looked at another person the way Alastor was looking at you now unless the thought of losing them was unbearable.
Your expression softened despite yourself.
"I'm sorry," you thought, hoping he would somehow understand the words you couldn't say aloud. "But I can't leave you here."
When you looked back at Vox, the hesitation had disappeared.
"My offer is simple."
Vox's smile widened.
"I'm listening."
"You release Alastor."
He waited.
"Immediately," you continued. "He's unharmed, he walks out of this tower, and whatever agreement you made with him ends the moment we shake hands."
"And in return?"
You took a slow breath.
"You keep me."
The words echoed through the office, hanging in the air between you.
"I stay here willingly as your prisoner," you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady despite the way Alastor lurched violently against the chair behind you. The muffled protest that escaped him was loud enough to make even Vox glance in his direction before his attention returned to you. "I'll tell you everything I know about getting into Heaven, everything I've learned, everything you'll need if your goal is to reach it. You get your chance at something bigger than Hell itself."
For the first time since you'd entered the office, Vox didn't answer immediately.
His fingers tapped thoughtfully against his arm as he turned away, beginning a slow circuit around the room. Every few steps his gaze drifted toward Alastor, lingering on the bound Overlord with unmistakable satisfaction before returning to you.
"You drive a hard bargain," he admitted with a thoughtful hum. "Keeping him around has been... extraordinarily entertaining." A grin spread across his screen as he glanced back at Alastor. "I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years."
His pacing slowed.
"But Heaven..."
The single word lingered between you as he looked upward, already imagining the possibilities.
"Heaven changes everything."
He stopped directly in front of you.
"I become the first sinner to breach Heaven's gates, I gain access to power no Overlord has ever touched, and every pathetic soul in both realms learns exactly who Vox is." He laughed softly to himself, the excitement growing more obvious with every passing second. "That's a legacy."
His glowing eyes settled on yours.
"And all it costs me..." His smile widened into something almost predatory. "...is letting him walk away."
Another muffled cry came from behind you.
Alastor had thrown his full weight against the restraints again, the chair scraping loudly across the polished floor as he fought with a desperation that no longer resembled anger. The bindings held fast, forcing him back into place, but his eyes never left you. They pleaded with you to stop, to take it back, to leave before Vox accepted.
You couldn't.
Not anymore.
Vox extended his hand between the two of you, his grin brighter than ever.
"I do love a good deal."
You stared at the hand for only a heartbeat before lifting your own.
The moment your fingers closed around his, Alastor let out another muffled cry and lurched so violently against the chair that it tipped onto two legs before crashing back onto the floor with a deafening crack.
The instant your hand closed around Vox's, a violent pulse of crimson energy burst from the point of contact, racing up both your arms before curling through the room like living smoke. The air crackled with infernal magic, thick enough to make every screen flicker at once, while glowing symbols burned briefly beneath your feet before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
The deal was done.
You felt it settle somewhere deep inside you, cold and absolute, the unmistakable weight of a contract that could no longer be undone.
Across the room, the restraints binding Alastor suddenly snapped apart.
Leather straps fell uselessly onto the floor, the chair rocking backward as he lurched to his feet almost before the last buckle had finished unlatching. He barely spared the broken bindings a glance before turning toward you, every instinct urging him to cross the room and pull you away from Vox while there was still time.
There wasn't.
The contract had already taken hold.
Vox flexed his fingers with obvious satisfaction before letting out a pleased hum. "Well..." He admired the faint traces of magic still dancing across your joined hands before releasing your grip. "That was easier than expected."
His glowing eyes drifted toward Alastor, lingering just long enough for another smug grin to spread across his screen.
"I suppose I owe you my end of the bargain."
He took a step aside, gesturing theatrically toward the open doorway.
"You're free to leave."
Alastor didn't move.
"You heard me," Vox continued with an amused chuckle. "I'm a businessman. A deal's a deal."
His grin sharpened.
"And besides..." His gaze shifted lazily between the two of you before a knowing laugh escaped his speakers. "It would be downright cruel to separate the lovebirds without letting them say goodbye." He rolled his shoulders before heading toward the far side of the office. "Go on. You've got a minute. I'm feeling generous."
The office door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss.
Silence settled almost immediately. Alastor crossed the room in three quick strides.
"What," he said, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, "were you thinking?"
His hands stopped just short of your shoulders, fingers curling into fists before they could touch you.
"That wasn't bravery, my dear. That was recklessness." His smile was clearly forced, leaving only a tight jaw and eyes burning with barely restrained emotion. "You have just handed yourself over to Vox on the strength of information you do not possess. He will discover that, and when he does..." His voice caught for the briefest moment before he forced it steady again. "He will kill you."
You looked up at him quietly.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
His composure was slipping faster than you had ever seen it. Every carefully measured word came a little quicker than the last, every breath just a little sharper, as though years of perfect self-control had finally begun to crack.
"You have no idea what you've done. You cannot outplay him like this. You cannot bargain with promises you cannot fulfill." He shook his head, frustration and fear bleeding together until it became impossible to separate one from the other. "You should never have come here."
You reached for him anyway.
Your fingers rested lightly against his sleeve, and the simple touch silenced him more effectively than any interruption could have.
"I couldn't leave you."
His eyes searched yours.
"I couldn't stand there and watch him parade you around like..." Your voice faltered as the images from the television flashed through your mind again. "Like you were nothing."
He didn't answer.
"I couldn't watch him laugh at you," you whispered. "I couldn't watch him humiliate you while I walked away knowing I had done nothing." A small, bittersweet smile found its way onto your lips despite everything. "Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid."
You drew a slow breath.
"But it hurt more than the thought of standing here in your place ever could."
The words settled softly between you.
"I'd make this choice again, Alastor."
You searched his eyes for a moment before adding, barely above a whisper,
"Every single time."
For perhaps the first time in decades, Alastor found himself completely speechless.
Every explanation he had prepared, every argument, every carefully constructed sentence dissolved before they ever reached his lips.
He had known. Some part of him had always known.
The office door slid open so abruptly that the sound made you both turn.
"Touching," Vox drawled, already sounding impatient. "Really, ten out of ten. I'd cry if I still respected either of you."
He pointed toward the hallway.
"Out."
Alastor's eyes never left yours.
"I'm not leaving."
"Oh, yes you are."
Before either of you could react, the magic woven into the contract flared again.
Invisible force seized Alastor around the torso, dragging him backward despite the way his heels dug into the polished floor. He fought immediately, claws scraping across the tiles as shadows twisted violently around him, but the contract overruled brute strength. Inch by inch, it forced him toward the open doorway.
His gaze remained locked on yours until the last possible second.
"I will come back for you."
The promise was quiet but absolute. Then the force hurled him into the hallway, the office doors slamming shut between you with a deafening crack.
Outside, Alastor stood motionless for only a heartbeat.
The corridor around him groaned.
Shadows exploded across the walls like ink spilled through water, swallowing lights, crawling over screens until glass splintered beneath the sheer pressure of his magic. Every radio in the building shrieked with deafening static before bursting into showers of sparks, while the polished floor trembled beneath his feet.
Rage unlike anything he had felt in years settled coldly beneath his skin.
Vox had humiliated him.
That could be repaid.
But you...
You had sacrificed yourself for him.
As his smile slowly steadied—not warm, not amused, but terrifyingly thin—one thought drowned out every other. He was going to tear Hell apart if he had to.
And he was bringing you home.
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
𑣲 SYNOPSIS. You're peacefully asleep with the Radio Demon in your bed. What could possibly go wrong?
𑣲 PAIRING. Alastor x AFAB/Female!Reader
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 1.9k
𑣲 CONTENT WARNINGS. Noncon, somnophilia, unconscious oral/cunnilingus, restraint, P-in-V penetration, internal ejaculation, possessive/objectifying language, predator/prey dynamics, torn clothing, bodily fluids, & romanticized abuse
𑣲 A/N. Based off of an anonymous request I received. You know who you are. >:) Enjoy the filth, sickos. ("Un Petit Morceau" means "a little bit," by the way!) MINORS DNI.
The Radio Demon sighed.
The warm rays from Hell's perpetual vermilion skies filtered in through the windows of your room, their slight variation in vibrancy the only indicator it was morning. It bathed the bedsheets and your slumbering, peaceful form aglow, washing out every other hue in favor of its signature redness—his favorite color. He had always thought it suited you; he'd imagine how it would look on you in different ways, from cocktail dresses to corsets that would flatter your frame, and how even the blood of those who'd wronged you both would adorn you.
You were ever the most darling sight to behold, even when unconscious—hair fanned out around you like a halo as if evidence of your unholy divinity, limbs tangled within an ocean of silk, lips parted slightly as your chest languidly heaved with every breath you took…
Alastor realized—with a tenderness that was once foreign—that he was staring, and you remained none the wiser.
A clawed hand reached out slowly before brushing delicately against your cheek. With a smile only ever reserved for you and for quiet moments such as these, he wondered what exactly he had done to deserve your presence in the afterlife. His gaze then dropped to your parted lips, at how pleasant they looked, at how inviting they were…
Shifting slightly reminded him of the throbbing and rather solid problem confined within his pajama pants.
Well.
He was certain you wouldn't have minded. After all, you were the picturesque toy for him to do with as he pleased; you with your unmarred innocence and pliant body, your enticing softness and supple flesh.
No, you wouldn't have minded at all if he had a little taste, now would you?
Carefully, so as to not rouse you from your sleep, Alastor shimmied out of his trousers slowly. His undergarments followed suit, ditched atop the heap of fabric on the floor.
With a hushed hiss escaping him, his tip met with the coolness of the room's air. Already his cock was weeping beads of precum—the pearlescent liquid trailing its way down his hardened length.
Oh, if only you knew the effect you had on him even when blissfully unaware, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed as you dreamt away, your concentration clearly stolen elsewhere in a place he couldn't quite reach.
A minuscule, sleepy groan passed your lips unbidden just then. How adorable.
Alastor set about rearranging you almost as if you were a fragile doll made of the finest china, deliberately moving you until you were no longer in a curled up position.
Once he had laid you out carefully upon the bed, your sheer babydoll nightgown had ridden up, exposing your cotton panties that now unabashedly peeked out. It was an all-too-tantalizing sight; one that made his cock twitch with renewed intrigue. He ghosted his knuckles down your clothed slit, a voracious hunger in his eyes as he felt the way your entrance tightened reflexively at his featherlight touch. Almost knowingly. Almost as if it was imploring the monster to come inside and make a home for himself.
"Ma belle, the things you do to me," he whispered into the silence of the night that promised to keep his sins a secret—even the one he was about to commit—voice low and gravelly with desire that pooled deep into his gut.
He was now sat back on his haunches at the foot of the bed, head tilted to the side, looking every part the predator assessing his prey. Alastor openly admired you in all your relaxed glory for just a moment longer. So tranquil you were, still unaware of the unholiness he would soon devote in your name…
With startling ease, he then used his claws to slice cleanly through the pure cotton, the noise of it ripping the only other sound aside from your steady breathing and his more laborious breaths.
His breath almost caught in his throat at how your cunt was now presented bare before him. Alastor nearly cooed out loud at how you squirmed in your restful state, your body recognizing what had just happened while your mind remained obliviously caught in whatever scene your subconscious was playing for you.
Alastor wondered what you were dreaming of. Was it something from your past that you had not yet revealed to him? Your present, instead? Or perhaps your future—one where you undeniably and wholeheartedly belonged to him?
No matter what it was, the demon would see to it that he'd seep into the cracks of your dreams himself, especially if it meant bringing this saccharine cunt—and the rest of you—into his possession.
Positioning his mouth over your exposed clit, he gave it a quick and chaste kiss before nudging his tongue almost tentatively between your folds, your heady scent now more intense as it intoxicated him. At the slightest taste of you, a small groan emanated from deep within his chest while his eyes rolled back into his skull; you tasted every bit as divine as you looked.
Crimson eyes flickered upward towards your countenance that remained serene despite his ministrations. You were still so adorably oblivious to everything surrounding you.
"Bon appétit, ma chère," whispered Alastor as he gently spread your legs open and held them down with a possessive grip. Without further preamble, he delved his tongue once more betwixt your lower lips, the flesh there beginning to moisten with your essence as he earnestly ate you out like you were his last meal. Obscene slurping noises accompanied the way he undulated his tongue without shame—the muscle swirled around your clit a few times, then side-to-side, before it would go on to be joined with his lips as he suckled at the nub.
In doing so, you subconsciously jerked in his hold, brows furrowing as little gasps left you. His ears flicked in interest at the sound, but his focus did not stray from suctioning the pearl nestled at the apex of your thighs. After a few more seconds, his tongue traveled down towards your slick entrance before sliding inside. The appendage elongated within you slowly; its tip brushed against your cervix before retracting to roll up and down the walls of your inner canal, searching for the spot he knew would make your toes curl in your sleep.
Once he had found what he sought—evident by your increased squirming and soft whines rising in volume—he ensured all his attention would not leave it untouched. By now, you were lightly thrashing at the stimulation, yet he kept his attention fixated on it; his claws applied more pressure to your plush skin, effectively keeping your moving thighs from closing and clamping around his head.
Still fast asleep, your orgasm crashed down upon you, his tongue relentless as he wrung every last second of it out of you. With a satisfied grunt, Alastor pulled back from your drooling cunt—the motion causing a string of his saliva to stretch between his mouth and your labia.
He took a moment to admire the lewd display you unknowingly offered him while you sleepily murmured, your mind tarrying elsewhere.
You looked to be in a state of absolute ruination without even being aware of it. Your hair was tousled, sweat beaded along the alluring curve of your throat, and your expression had settled back into one of undisturbed blankness. At the sight, Alastor felt his cock become impossibly harder.
Well, now with you being sufficiently prepared…
The demon pushed your thighs to the sides of your head, their backs pressing into the pillow that your head rested against. One hand then guided his dripping length into your heat. The moment he felt himself encompassed entirely by you, he groaned out your name. It took him a fair amount of restraint to avoid cumming into you right then and there—yet his smile only widened.
He was going to make sure you felt him even in your dreams, even if they didn't involve him.
It was a languid pace he set, his hips lazily thrusting into you as he fondly looked down at your placid visage, gaze searching for any potential signs of stirring. When he found none, he began to piston into you with more purpose, but not with enough force to wake you.
Plap, plap, plap—the sound of his pelvis striking the backs of your thighs filled the room, which was now thick with the aroma of sex. His breathing became more ragged.
"Yes, take all of me," Alastor murmured though you could not hear him.
Your pussy continued to welcome him, squelching as your hole greedily accepted each and every thrust.
The beginnings of perspiration gathered on his pallid skin, yet this did nothing to deter him from chasing his release by using your pliable body. With each plunge into you, the bed creaked beneath the force; its noisiness joined the cacophony that was his breathing and the pleasured, tiny whimpers he elicited from you.
His once measured thrusts were gradually becoming more erratic, and the tension within his gut was growing more and more taut the longer his eyes drank in your disheveled form taking him so well, so obediently, so dutifully.
A low, condescending croon came from him. "You love it when I fuck you like this, don't you, my little sleepy doe? You're doing so well for me… Oh, yes you are!"
Your brow was set once more, and he would've thought you had heard him and responded by the way you softly whined next, if it weren't for how your eyes remained shut and your breathing stayed level.
"Hush now," the demon said in a subdued tone, as if placating a fussy child. "You are safe with me…"
His precum and your fluids coalesced into a shallow puddle, the combination dripping out of you onto the once-pristine bedsheets. He paid it no mind as he threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned in closer, forearms caging you in as his lips grazed your temple tenderly—or with as much tenderness as a monster like him could muster.
"You're mine."
The pleasure winding around his core tighter and tighter finally snapped in tandem with his equanimity. A guttural groan tore from him as his balls drew up before his hot, white cum was pumped into you. Alastor's hips stuttered, the last of his composure breaking.
"There we go," he cooed breathlessly, giving you a few final lazy thrusts, his spend thoroughly painting your inner canal. It was a claim upon your body that you would barely remember.
Finally, he pulled his cock out from your warmth, and a gasp nearly escaped him. His cum dribbled out of you, mingling with the mess beneath your ass; a view that was enough to make any man erect again. He gathered what leaked from you on one fingertip, privately deeming it an ungrateful waste, then pressed it back inside.
Delicately, Alastor returned you to your former position. He then rose and stepped back from the bed to admire his handiwork while retrieving the clothing he had discarded across the floorboards.
To anyone else, you remained the picture of innocence. Alastor knew better—or fancied that he did.
No, The Radio Demon mused to himself with a satiated hum, you surely wouldn't mind that you had let him have a taste—even without the mildest inkling of a clue in having done so.
𝐂𝐖: P in V, Oral (F! Receiving), Clit stimulation, Doggy style, Breeding kink, Cream pie, Pussy slapping, Mentions of murder and death, Alastor is feral for his wife, Alastor speaks French, Old Susan is the (racist) neighbor who comes a’knocking
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: The ritual worked. After years of failing to get in contact with the other side, it finally worked. The fog of all of Alastor’s miserable attempts finally recedes on a warm Sunday night, and in comes the visceral urge to celebrate with you, his wife — who religiously goes to bed with her thighs clenched together, aching and yearning because he can’t always satisfy you. But tonight, Alastor will finally satiate your appetite with the fruits of his labor.
Time and time again Alastor had dragged his feet towards the bucket of water perched on the porch of the old, dilapidated shack he retreated to every other week, and he had dumped his hands in it and scrubbed viciously till the stinging ache of sore skin repelled the inadequacy, the disappointment of yet another fruitless ritual.
Still, the pain eventually subsided, the stretch of marshy land in between his misdeeds and the home where he masqueraded as a civilized man long enough to let thoughts slip unbidden.
— Give up.
— You’re a failure.
— You will exist in Hell a tortured soul.
And they swarmed Alastor’s mind on the entire trek back home like a horde of agitated bees, unable to be swatted away, leaving his hands protesting in agony for nothing as he curled them into fists.
The worst part was that he couldn’t carelessly fling aside the rifle slung over his back and collapse onto the couch to wallow. No, Alastor had to suck it up. He was a married man, and a married man couldn’t rudely announce himself by kicking open the door and rattling the foundation of the house you, his lovely wife of 3 years, had made into a home.
Not only would disrespecting your humble home be a punishable offense, but Alastor also couldn’t allow you to see beyond his low spirits, to discover his misery. He couldn’t. Otherwise, he feared you would find out that his mumbled complaints about failing to treat you to the spoils of his labor in fresh, tender venison was simply a metaphor.
Because Alastor was a skilled hunter — with no gratitude to his late-father.
He could provide until the population of swamp-dwelling deer dwindled to near extinction, and he always took down a stag beforehand in the hopes of feeding you instead of another lucky alligator.
So, when he returned empty-handed, it was always intentional rather than accidental.
You didn’t know that, though. You didn’t know that there was more to Alastor Hartfelt, the toast of New Orleans, than meets the eye. You had no idea, not a sneaking suspicion, that the reason behind your husband’s inability to put food on the table had nothing to do with the quick wit and silver-tongue you had fallen in love with.
Nor was he ill-fated or hapless, a recent suggestion you had recently delivered in a joking manner, which Alastor had started to seriously consider.
— up until one of the countless rituals he had performed in half a decade finally bore fruit.
“Yes — yes! — ah-ha-ha — I did it!”
— then he was vibrating on his place on the ground, joyful, triumphant, and terribly relieved.
The corners of Alastor’s lips curved upwards, canines glinting in the low, amber light of the burning candles decorating the room.
The ritual, it worked. It finally worked. A demon had answered him, caressed his chin with a cold, wispy finger, and accepted his offer — his soul in exchange for power. Security. Alastor wasn’t a failure, nor would he exist in Hell a tortured soul, the most genuine sound that had issued from his lips since he married you bursting from his lungs.
A melodious bout of laughter pierced the air, slicing through the distinctive, metallic scent deeply ingrained in the grooves of the wooden shack that had long sought to brand him a failure.
The victoriousness of binding his soul to a demonness, of securing a powerful position in the hierarchy of an afterlife he knew little about, drowned out the sickening stench of years worth of feeling inadequate and disappointed. The fog of misery finally receded on a warm Sunday night, and oh, was he eager to celebrate this great feat.
“Merde, I need to snuff out the candles, I need to wash my hands,” Alastor hastily collected himself on trembling knees, rich brown pools darting wildly across the room. “I… I need to go home!”
His body twitched and jolted from the adrenaline, but also, something familiar coiled deep in his gut. His muscles in his abdomen tensed, and his slacks grew tight and constricting, his breath stuttering. It was visceral, it was intense in every aspect — a deep-seated desire to push himself deep inside of you till you were bursting at the seams.
One by one, as small flames met a pinching demise, Alastor found himself muttering under his breath like a crazed lunatic.
The feeling in his gut that was reawakened, that was stoked to life with the unanticipated success of tonight’s ritual was so profound, so overwhelming that his mind couldn’t stop drifting off to you, his wife. His poor, needy wife, who religiously went to bed with her thighs clenched together, aching and yearning because he couldn’t always satisfy you.
How would you react when he touched you for the first time in months?
Would you twitch and jolt at every little purposeful prodding like the blushing bride you were when you consummated your marriage?
Would you come undone prematurely if he endeavored to use his mouth on the most sensitive part of you?
How would you make him feel when he pushed himself into your still fluttering walls?
Fuck. He was faltering, he was forgetting himself over the thought of you writhing and squirming underneath him like the night you became man and wife. If the calloused pads of his fingers hadn’t suddenly started to sting, reminding him that he was holding them in between a licking flame, his thoughts would have consumed him entirely.
“The stag — the stag goes home tonight,” Alastor pinched the flame with a small hiss, ignoring the painful straining in his slacks. “Oh no, I can’t leave without it. It’s part of my alibi.”
He had to remind himself to not forget the lifeless animal slumped on the front porch as he snuffed out the last candle, whirling around on an unstable heel, pupils dilating in the darkness. Alastor had to remind himself to not forget anything at all, fearing he would jump your bones with the stench of death clinging to him and desecrate your skin.
“Merde. Keep it together, Alastor. Quit acting like a bitch in heat,” He snarled in disgust at his gross inability to keep himself in check. “You can’t afford to slip up, not right now.”
If he didn’t have a nasty habit of kicking aside all the severed limbs he had used as offerings, Alastor would have tripped over them in his haste towards the door, fingertips latching onto the doorknob. But even if he had somehow managed to trip over his own two feet, it probably wouldn’t have spoiled his mood. He was ecstatic and all sorts of giddy.
The wooden foundation of the only true witness to the harrowing crimes of the Bayou Butcher, of the onslaught of ‘senseless violence’ the faceless and nameless killer had so heartlessly committed, shook as the door slammed shut behind Alastor’s stumbling form, obscuring the grisly scene he had meticulously crafted over the years.
“Oh, mon amour,” Alastor made a beeline for the stag. “Soon you’ll see that your husband isn’t a lousy hunter. His efforts have always borne fruit, but now? You shall indulge in them.”
There’s a cover draped over it, but as he went to lift the fabric, he caught the sight of something resting against the wall beside the door from his periphery — his rifle — yet another thing Alastor almost forgot about in his haste to rush back home to you with a testament of his success slung over his shoulder, hand snatching the leather strap.
“What is the matter with me?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, frustrated, tugging the rifle over his arm. “I may have secured my rightful place in Hell, but I am in no rush to meet death. No, I’ve a lovely wife in this God-forsaken world.”
He couldn’t afford to be anymore sloppy or careless than he had already been by opting to celebrate his success before cleaning out the shack and leaving no evidence of his crimes; but he was striding through marshy inlets in no time, paying little mind to the way his muscles protested with the weight of the stag bearing down on his wiry shoulders.
Moonlight spilled through the canopy of lacey, needle-like leaves hanging from the flared branches of bald cypresses.
The sound of bullfrogs croaking and crickets chirping tangled with the soft, continuous squelch of moist ground being treaded on.
Alastor walked through the thick fog of the Louisiana humidity, caramel skin flushed and glistening, hair and clothes sticking to his sweat-stricken body.
He was terribly hot, nostrils flaring and chest heaving with heavy breaths, but the joy, the triumph encouraged him to persevere.
Hell, he didn’t even notice when the stars began to grow scattered and sparse and the grass started to crunch beneath his soles instead of squish.
Everything was a blur after Alastor finally broke through the untamed foliage behind your home, shoulders aching and knees buckling. He couldn’t recall putting away his rifle, butchering the stag and organizing the meat into a neat pile in the fridge, or going through the hassle of fixing himself a warm bath to scrub his skin clean for you.
It was all so hazy, each and every little thing he did before he walked into your bedroom, wet curls plastered to his forehead.
— either that or his brain thought whatever he did wasn’t worth remembering once the sight of you, his beautiful wife, overwhelmed his vision.
“Merde, you have no idea how much I need you,” Alastor softly murmured, clad in just his pajama pants, the scent of bar soap clinging to his skin.
You were curled on your side of the bed with the sheets kicked to your feet, wearing an old nightgown that was neither sexy nor revealing.
Still, Alastor stalked towards you, body thrumming with a wanton, animalistic need, rich brown pools trained on your slumbering form.
You looked so calm, so tranquil, softly snoring away with your cheek smooshed against the pillow. It would be a crime to stir you awake, no less in the middle of the night. You worked 5 days a week just like he did, the desire to be a measly housewife unappealing to you. You deserved to be able to rest without any interruptions.
But you also looked so vulnerable.
Alastor’s fingers twitched restlessly at his sides as he stood in front of your sleeping form, painfully hard, chest heaving with barely-contained lust.
Your guard was down, completely.
It was plain to see even through the peaceful darkness of your bedroom how pregnable you were.
Defenseless, completely at his mercy.
Alastor could no longer hold himself back. He was overcome by the urge to pounce on you when you looked like a lone doe grazing in obliviousness.
He had to have a taste of you. Now.
You startled awake with a sharp gasp, the feeling of something heavy weighing down on you kick-starting your heart into a panicked frenzy. You instinctively turned on your back and acted, legs thrashing, hands falling flat on a smooth, solid plane that felt warm and damp. However, as soon as you went to push, a mouth captured yours.
“Mon amour, it’s me, Alastor.”
Lips crashed against yours in a messy, feverish kiss, forcing you to sink back into the mattress.
“Al, darling?” You would have stammered out.
But even if your mouth hadn’t been taken hostage, you probably would have failed to muster a coherent syllable with the hands sliding under the hem of your nightgown. Your legs stopped moving, your own hands found the sides of a slender neck, and your belly pulled inwards, especially as familiar fingers grasped the supple flesh of your breasts.
Still, you were given an opportunity to speak as your lips were suddenly freed, a string of saliva forming a bridge between your mouths.
“I did it — I finally did it!” Alastor exclaimed before proceeding to latch onto your collarbone, sucking a nasty bruise on your flesh.
You blinked in the darkness, tired, confused.
“You… you did it? What did you do?” You asked through a sleepy gasp, reeling from the force of the kiss, still not entirely awake.
He thumbed at your soft peaks, and he pressed his hips down into your thigh, rubbing the tent in his pajama pants against your exposed flesh in an attempt to find momentarily relief.
“I did it. I’m not a failure. I’m not a lousy hunter.”
You stared up into the ceiling and let out a choked moan, feeling just how painfully hard your husband was through the thin barrier, brows knitting together in pleasure and disbelief.
“Nor am I ill-fated or hapless,” Alastor managed out as he lapped at your flesh. “My efforts have finally borne fruit — do you know what that means?”
He moved his hands away from your breasts.
“Oh! Your hunt, you mean? It was successful?” Realization struck you, tired eyes lighting up. “Well, h-how wonderful to hear!”
But instead of answering right away, his palms smoothed over the concave of your belly, which was already flexing in sweet anticipation.
And, before you knew it, your panties were yanked off of you in one swift motion. Your legs instinctively went to clamp shut with the air caressing your bare cunt, but Alastor proceeded to pull away from your neck and shuffle down the bed, slender arms wrapping around your thighs as he nestled himself in between your trembling limbs.
“I finally get to satiate your appetite, mon amour,” Alastor chuckled darkly, making your heart lurch in your chest, scandalized and aroused. “Enfin.”
Nimble fingers found wet curls, threading into them, a furious heat sprawling up your neck.
“A-Alastor, darling, what are you doing?”
You tried to push him away, but he dived down into your folds and pressed a wet, filthy kiss to your clit.
“Je vous offre les fruits de mon travail,” Alastor let out a full-throated groan. “Même si vous ne le comprenez pas entièrement.”
Even through the peaceful darkness of your bedroom, it was plain to see as rich brown pools flitted up to drink in your reaction to his debauched behavior that you couldn’t quite comprehend the scale of his joy — or you didn’t seem to believe that his success warranted such a feverish response, no less at this ungodly hour.
“Oh, fuck! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I loathe when you do that,” You tossed your head back into the pillow, eyes shutting. “You know I don’t speak a lick of French, you… you awful man.”
Alastor buried his face further into your needy cunt, sucking in your swollen bud between his greedy lips, paying little mind to your mindless babbling as he allowed himself to drown in the desire that had ensnared him so viciously, face growing slick with his own saliva and the viscous arousal that issued from your pulsating entrance.
His excitement knew no bounds, not in this state of triumph, of euphoria.
“Awh, I can’t — I can’t take it — Al, pl-please.”
Alastor maintained a vice-like grip on your legs and stopped you from wriggling away as he shamelessly suckled on your clit.
You were so divine on his tongue.
“Oh my lord, Alastorrr.”
Had you always tasted this good?
“Al-Alastor, please!”
More, he needed more.
You closed your legs around your husband’s head, limiting his breathing, suffocating him, seemingly hoping he’d let up on you this way.
But the act only spurred him on, his mouth vibrating against your cunt in sick gratification.
With your free hand, you clamped your palm over your own mouth, suddenly hyperaware of something Alastor had failed to consider in his lust-addled haze — that you always left the window cracked open a slit when the humidity of June became unbearable, curtains swaying with each gentle draft of wind that seeped into the bedroom.
Your neighbors had a tendency of doing the same — because who liked to sleep in the uncomfortable stickiness of a pool of their own sweat?
Nobody, of course.
And nobody wanted to hear your cries of ecstasy echo into the night, either… unless you happened to reside among perverts.
But you didn’t know how far gone Alastor was as he pressed the calloused pads of his fingers into your thighs, prying your legs apart to allow him space to breathe — or at least that’s what you seemed to think until he relinquished you from his lips, only to introduce his tongue to your clit and flutter the tip against the swollen bundle of nerves.
Then you couldn’t stifle the wanton cry that burst forth from your lungs as he pushed you over the precipice of ecstasy, the coil in your belly snapping.
“Oh my — oh my God,” You whined, fingers tugging at the curls that had slowly dried in your unrelenting grasp. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Rich brown pools trailed up your body, taking in the way your thighs shook, your hips twitched, and your belly twisted and turned as the waves of your orgasm crashed over you violently.
“Oh… oh fuck, Al,” You let curses slip unbidden as his tongue continued to lap at your throbbing bud. “Y-You need to sto—op — I can’t!”
You tore your legs from his grip and pushed your heels into his shoulders, forcing Alastor away, overstimulated.
If his cock wasn’t straining painfully against the mattress, begging to be pushed into the space he had carved for himself long ago in your fluttering walls, you had no idea, but he would have held you down and ravished your swollen cunt till you were convulsing with hot tears endlessly cascading down your flushed face.
The helpless cries and mewls you let out when he continued to flutter his tongue on your aching clit was like music to his ears.
He’d even venture to say that they sounded more delicious than the pathetic cries of his victims.
But again, Alastor needed you.
He desperately needed to push each and every inch of his cock into your throbbing cunt.
He desperately needed to fill you up till you were bursting at the seams with his seed, head turning to press a quick kiss to one of your ankles.
Alastor pulled his elbows in and shuffled off the foot of the bed, standing on trembling knees, only to lean in and seize your ankles. You, of course, let out a squeak. Your husband was manhandling you — and roughly, too — but you were soft and pliant in his grip as he relinquished your ankles to pull your nightgown over your head.
“Goodness, Al!” You sputtered, watching him carelessly fling the fabric aside instead of folding it, unable to recognize your husband.
He flashed you his canines in a wicked grin before quickly proceeding to grab your hips and effortlessly flip you around, positioning you exactly how he wanted to take you — with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed, your spine arched in a sinuous curve, and your ass held high in the air. He wanted to take you like an animal
“Can’t you give me some time to recover?” You helplessly mewled, planting your palms on the bed, pushing to support yourself.
You turned to glance at him from your shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of Alastor tugging his pants down, the fabric pooling at his ankles.
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
His cock sprung out and smacked against the flexing plane of his abdomen, weeping tip staring back at you, making you shift with arousal.
“That stag you took down must be an unruly bastard,” You forced yourself to look away, face flaring up. “I mean, I just ca—NN’T — Alastor!”
He smacked his palm over your aching cunt with a wet slap that resonated embarrassingly loud in the quietude of your room — glancing from your shoulder at him once more, lips twisting in a frown and eyes narrowing in a glare. But before you could tell your husband off for smacking you down there, he withdrew his hand.
And he replaced it with his cockhead, pushing into your fluttering entrance without bothering to lubricate himself first.
It wasn’t necessary, though.
You were so slick from his previous efforts that Alastor was able to slide his length into your cunt without any effort, your head dropping and your lips parting with a shaky gasp.
You felt oh-so utterly divine.
So warm, so accomodating, his hands scrambling to grip the flesh of your waist, the calloused pads of his fingers leaving bruising indents.
You were still pulsating and throbbing from your orgasm, velvety walls teasing his aching length with fleeting embraces as his cockhead pushed to rest against your womb — the same womb he had failed to fill with a testament of your love from how little he had ravished you since you tied the knot, disappointment filling his chest.
But then you shuffled restlessly on your feet and let out a breathless gasp as Alastor bottomed out, bony hips meeting the supple flesh of your ass.
“Oh… oh God.”
And again, Alastor felt like he did back in the old, dilapidated shack, when the first of the countless rituals he had performed finally worked.
The newfound urge that bloomed in his heaving chest as rich brown pools darted down south, where he was connected to you as husband and wife, was intense in every sense of the word. However, it was also more than just an unfettered need for you. It was absolutely feral and instinctual, as if it was hardwired in his brain.
“I’m going to fucking breed you.”
The transatlantic accent you were acquainted with slipped, and in came the southern lilt Alastor thought he’d lost after he decided he wanted to work in radio, subtle but obvious enough anyway. Still, he was certain the way your walls squeezed him had more to do with his crude declaration rather than the slight difference in enunciation.
It made sense.
It wasn’t something he would have ever voiced out loud — that he was going to breed you, as if you were nothing but a pair of deer merely coming together for mating season.
You couldn’t quite believe his words, your skin growing uncomfortably hot at the notion.
There was no doubt in Alastor’s lust-addled mind that you were wondering where your husband was.
You didn’t know, and he was certain you wouldn’t ask, anyway, overwhelmed with shock.
Still, he sensed that you knew that the profound urge to fill your empty womb broke every invisible restraint in his wiry body, devolving him into something purely animalistic.
It made a lot of sense.
And, in no time, the home Alastor had carried you into bridal-style was filled with a cacophony of sounds — the mattress creaking, the bed frame smacking against the wall, his hips relentlessly colliding with the swell of your ass, your cunt rudely squelching with each and every hurried drag of his length against your slick walls.
It was loud and nothing short of telling what the two of you were up to.
He couldn’t even hear when the furious rapping echoing in the tiny hallway separating your bedroom and the living room began.
“Oh, you’re squeezing me so perfectly,” Alastor leaned into your back, sharp nose caressing the side of your face. “So warm, so wet… why, you were made just for me, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
He could only hear you crying out the most sinful noises as he gasped and groaned into your ear.
“Yes — yes! Just for you,” You cried out in sheer delight, his hands wandering away from your waist, caressing your fluttering belly before finding your neglected breasts. “Only you, A-Al! Only you.”
He could only hear the incessant, wet clap of his balls meeting the swollen clit he had lavished with his tongue just earlier.
“Good… but nobody else k-knows,” Alastor laved his tongue across the shell of your ear, palms simultaneously squeezing your breasts. “They’re going to know, though — fuck! — and soon.”
He could only hear the way you unraveled into a wanton whore beneath his looming frame.
“Fuck, ye—es, please,” You begged with a pathetic mewl as his cockhead constantly nudged your womb, a familiar pressure building up in you. “Breed me, fill me up! I’m all yours, Al. Pl-Please!”
He didn’t care that cranky Miss Susan, who lived across the street, was probably the one threatening to break down your door.
The only thing that mattered was that he was close to coaxing you both over the edge.
As he relinquished one of your breasts to find your clit once more, two fingers pressing against the sensitive button, Alastor didn’t care that he’d have to swallow his pride and deal with the embarrassment of apologizing to that ornery old bitch — as he loved to call her in private — for daring to be loud in his own home.
No, in fact, he would relish in swinging open the door in nothing but the sheets wrapped around his waist so the stench of sin assaulted her senses.
The woman needed to shut her window, shove plugs in her ears, slap on a pair of earmuffs, and learn to mind her business if not endure.
He was treating you to the fruits of his labor, and she had the audacity to interrupt this rare moment of passion between the two of you.
Thankfully, before Alastor’s mind could drift off and he inadvertently turned himself off, you were quick to bring him back to you as you suddenly decided to move your hips to meet his thrusts, which he hadn’t realized were starting to lose momentum and grow sloppy and discordant with the tight pressure coiling in his gut.
“Ignore her,” You barely managed between a moan. “We’re going to — mhh, fuck! — we’re going to have to deal with her anyway, right?”
Alastor let out a dry chuckle against your ear, stiffening length sliding inside of your tightening walls, rolling your clit around in quick circles.
“How’d you guess it was her, sweetheart?”
You craned your neck to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, the smile that stretched across your flushed face riddled with pure, unadulterated lust.
“T-The stupid cane, Al,” You huffed out, making him grin. “The knocks… they don’t sound much like knocks when she uses that dreadful thing.”
You were right, the furious rapping that continued to echo in the house in tandem with all the debauchery of your late-night rendezvous didn’t sound much like ordinary knocks. They sounded like banging. But Alastor chose to heed your words and peel himself from your back, standing up on all 6-feet, hips pistoning in slow, deep thrusts.
Thrusts that were purposely deafening and made the supple flesh of your ass ripple something delicious, his cock throbbing deep inside of you.
The hand that was once on your breast returned to grip your waist, sinking into the soft flesh there as the calloused pads of his fingers zigzagged across your clit instead of circling it, making your fingers curl into the sheets beneath you.
You were right, the damage had been done, and the only thing that mattered was that you both were teetering on the edge of ecstasy.
With each long drag of Alastor’s cock against your velvety walls, the harsh knocks grew unintelligible and faded into the background. And it became just a tiny disturbance, one that was as ignorable as the cricket that once hopped into your house and found refuge in a tiny, unknown crevice in the walls, chirping away at night till it eventually died.
And, before he knew it, Alastor was doubling down over your back and spilling himself at the feeling of your walls spasming around him.
“Merde,” Alastor gasped into the crook of your neck in raw bliss, hands sprawled reverently over your lower belly.
His cock pulsated and throbbed deep inside of your cunt as thick, heavy ropes of his pleasure painted your womb, pulling a whimper from you.
“Oh God,” You heaved.
And you, his poor wife?
“Mon amour?” Alastor whispered.
Your elbows gave up on you, the top half of your body collapsing onto the mattress, completely and utterly spent.
“Nothing… I’m just… tired, that’s all,” You slowly started, but then he decided to pull out of you, making you wince. “Oh, that feels strange.”
Alastor wasn’t faring any better than you. His knees threatened to buckle underneath him as he stepped back to observe the mess he had made out of you, a hand smoothing away the stray curls plastered to his forehead as he watched his seed spill from your throbbing entrance — that looked rather uncomfortable.
Still, he found himself reaching out and dragging his hand through your slit, shoving whatever threatened to trickle down your inner thighs back into your entrance, two fingers plunging into your sensitive walls with an embarrassing squelch. You immediately stiffened and clamped down around him, head swiveling around to glare at him.
“Hey!” You sputtered out.
The thought of going at it again, of taking you, entered his mind unbidden.
But then he heard a loud shout from outside — Susan. Fucking Susan. She was no longer banging her cane against the door, but shouting now.
“Christ, she’s still here?” Alastor growled, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing in sheer irritation. “I thought the sound of us going at it like a bunch of rabbits would have scared her off.”
“This is going to be so embarrassing,” You whined, clearly thinking he’d force you to answer the door. “How am I supposed to face her?”
“I designed this situation, so I shall take care of it,” Alastor grumbled, pulling his fingers out of you.
But not before giving your cunt a good patting.
“And you,” He shot you a wicked grin. “You make sure this,” He patted you again, “takes.”
“Alastor, you dog. I…” You paused as he wiped his fingers on the sheets, “Well, I hardly even recognize you. Where has my real husband gone off to?”
“Just treating you to the fruits of my labor,” Alastor hummed, searching for his pants. “That stag was indeed an unruly bastard — years I had spent hunting him, and now? Oh, he’s allll mine.”
The mattress softly creaked as you turned around and shut your legs, staring at him wordlessly.
Beyond the flustered expression on your face, however, he saw the understanding, your lips curling upwards in a proud smile.
“Anyway, I’ll be right back.”
As he pulled his pants up and took several long strides towards the front door, fingertips latching onto the doorknob, the fog of ecstasy dispersed from his brain and allowed him to see clearly since he left the shack. But even as the sight of his old, cranky neighbor standing hunched on his porch filled his vision, Alastor still found himself grinning.
The ritual had worked.
“Ah, Miss Susan!” Alastor greeted the woman glaring up at him with faux shock. “My, my, isn’t it rather late to be paying your neighbors a visit? What time is it, 3… 4 A.M.?”
“Oh, you know why I’m here, you filthy degenerate!” Susan hissed at him.
The corners of his eyes creased, and laughter bubbled up in his throat — he was the degenerate? He was simply having sex in his own home, while she had been the one to linger long enough to listen to the entire affair like some voyeur.
“I’m afraid I do not,” Alastor clasped his hands together, “But do feel free to enlighten me!”
“Enlighten you?” Susan gasped, shaking her cane at him, aggravated. “Oh, well, I’ll have you know this neighborhood was rather lovely until Richard passed away and you two moved in —”
The ritual had finally worked.
No longer did he need to go prowling the streets of New Orleans, to go hunting for victims to sacrifice every other weekend, not anymore. Still, Alastor placed a hand on his hip and tilted his head sideways as he listened to his neighbor go off on a rant that was borderline racist, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, Miss Susan would be missed.
𝐂𝐖: Kissing, Groping, Drinking, Period-typical Racism and Sexism, Reader gets assaulted, Alastor almost beats a man to near death, Overprotective! Alastor, Prostitute! Reader, Fluffy ending, I was totally not inspired by that one scene in RDR2
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Oh, the woman that you are. Alastor feels his heart flutter, the same fondness he felt before everything spiraled stirring in his chest once more, drowning out the ache of his bruised hand. You’re displaying the $10 bill you found in the bastard’s pockets as if you won the lottery, and as endearing as your joy is, he can’t allow you to keep soliciting, to keep putting yourself at risk. So, Alastor decides to profess his feelings to you.
Rich brown pools dedicatedly followed you across the dancefloor of the packed speakeasy, watching you twirl around and male a tantalizing show of yourself, stirring something fond within his chest. Perhaps it was the liquor, or perhaps it was the overwhelming grace you possessed — either way, you were a sight to behold underneath the hazy golden glow bathing the room.
You, in your short, flowy, knee-length dress and thick pumps, were blissfully unaware that Alastor, your longtime friend, had started frequenting the club you worked at when you first broke the news to him: that you were soliciting to survive.
Nor did you know that he did his utmost to linger in the corners where the lighting typically failed to reach, lithe frame obscured by the shadows, obscured from your line of sight in his fear-driven endeavors to maintain a watchful eye on you.
As he raised his glass to his lips, introducing whisky that had long gone warm to his tongue, Alastor hoped to keep you in ignorance. You couldn’t know that he had no faith in you finding financial salvation in such a profession, let alone safety.
With the stock market crash of 1929 — which happened 2 years ago — most Americans were scrambling to make quick cash. And you, as an unmarried woman with no family to fall back on, just so happened to be one of the many resorting to dangerous means in a last-ditch attempt to save themselves from the throes of poverty and homelessness. You barely made last month’s rent.
“I’ve never seen a man who looks so well alone,” You spoke with a practiced sultry purr, fingers sensually skimming a jaw. “I’d hate to ruin that, but could you use a little company? For the right price, I promise I’ll make your evening worth it.”
The man you had set your sights on appeared to be in his late-30s, inebriated, unkempt, the stench of tobacco clinging onto his sweat-stricken skin, but he wasn’t drinking rank-smelling moonshine. You didn’t know what was in his glass. You just knew that it smelled rich and heady and expensive. And if he could afford the good stuff, perhaps he could afford a session or two with you, too.
“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest little thing?” The drunkard slurred in a flirtatious drawl, thick fingers touching your exposed arm, making the fine hairs on the back of your neck rise. “How’s about we discuss what you cost outside, hm?”
However, in your case, it was unnecessary. You didn’t have to turn to prostitution, you didn’t have to flaunt your beauty to undeserving men, lips twitching and blown pupils constricting as a grimy hand touched your lower back. You didn’t have to desecrate your skin for a few measly dollars. It was plain to see you hated soliciting, even through the facade you religiously wore.
“Shoulda approached her when you had the chance,” A random piped up from beside him, making Alastor bristle, but he failed to notice it in his drunken-haze. “She’s pretty and far from picky.”
Your line of work didn’t exactly lend you any semblance of kindness or forgiveness, either. It was all faux charm and unchecked lust that could prove violent and, what he dreaded the most, dead or disappeared. But with liquor in the mix? Oh, that was infinitely worse. Volatile. He had seen other women willingly take on dumb brutes just because they had little ones to feed.
“My rates are well within reason. If anything, it’s the hotel we gotta worry about, but I happen to know the owner there and I can get us a dis —”
“A hotel? Naw, we don’t need that, sugar.”
“Why, of course we do! Don’t you wanna spend our time together in comfort?”
“Look, I ain’t noisy, if that’s your concern.”
“Oh, that’s not it. I just don’t want the law sneaking up on us — they’re typically prowling the streets at this time of night, and the hotel is only a dollar.”
But you were staunchly determined to save yourself in your hyper-independence. You didn’t want help or anything that remotely resembled charity. And though Alastor once found your stubbornness to be rather endearing, right now, he could only tip his head back and down the rest of his whisky, dread washing over him as your flirtatious facade suddenly waned.
Alastor pushed past the random with a halfhearted ‘Pardon me,’ slamming his empty glass down on the bar. However, before he could walk away, the barkeep hollered out to him over the noise.
“Hey! You didn’t pay for your drink —”
Alastor backtracked, reaching behind him, stare trained forward.
“Keep the change,” He tossed whatever was in his pocket onto the countertop, oblivious to whether he had under or overpaid.
Alastor just wanted to get to you in case something potentially awful transpired.
“Oh, well, t-thank you, mister!”
The barkeep sputtered out, notably grateful, telling him everything he needed to know. A curse resonated in his mind. Every cent in this disastrous economy mattered.
Still, Alastor could only make his way past the crowd blocking his way towards you and the bastard manhandling you. The worst part was that almost everyone you two bumped into scoffed, and, for the rare few who glanced in concern as a string of protests issued from your lips on the forceful trek out back, they couldn’t be bothered to intervene. And all because you were a prostitute.
“Merde,” Alastor muttered a rare curse under his breath, hands curling into fists at his sides, clenching with undeniable rage.
His heart hammered away in his chest, too, beating violently against his ribcage, threatening to break through bone as he struggled to make his way through the slew of people without causing any offense. There was always a racist or two among the crowd, even if it wasn’t noticeable; but with the inclusion of alcohol, he desperately wanted to avoid bumping into an angry drunk.
Alastor couldn’t afford to get sidelined by an unnecessary dispute, or worse, wind up getting sucked into a fistfight. As his feet were forced to a sudden halt from an unmoving group, he could see the back door swing open, a trembling hand carding through his hair. The two of you were gone — no, you were gone from his line of sight, his nostrils flaring in utter frustration.
“Let go of me! I told you, I only offer my services in the privacy of a room,” You gasped, the warm outside air hitting your face. “I ain’t getting arrested just because you want to save a goddamn dollar!”
The drunkard’s grip on your arm was tight, painful, though it wasn’t until he relinquished you to roughly grasp your shoulders and push you down that your fight-or-flight response kicked in.
“I told you I ain’t paying another dollar,” He scoffed. “Nor am I getting scammed by the likes of you! So, go on, get down on your knees, girl. It’ll be quick. Nobody’ll see, I bet ya.”
Your knees trembled and buckled, the gravel beneath you protesting with a grating sound as your heels skid against the ground. The bastard was strong, even in his inebriated state. Tears brimmed your waterline as you realized that you wouldn’t get far trying to defend yourself, but you weren’t just going to let him have his way with you, either. You couldn’t. You did this to yourself.
“Fuck you, you filthy degenerate!” You hissed through gritted teeth. “I ain’t fulfilling your depraved fantasies of publicly fornicating.”
You seized the bastard’s thick forearms and sunk your nails into them, and though the mere thought of using your mouth had you shuddering, you also craned your neck and sunk your canines in his wrist. Deep. The taste of salty, sweat-stricken skin assaulted your tastebuds, a pained yelp piercing through the outside ambience, the distinct metallic taste of blood trailing closely behind.
You were quick to pull away and shove the bastard back, trying to put some distance in between the two of you so you could retreat, dart off for help.
However, the moment you went to turn around, the drunkard reached out and struck you. Your neck snapped sideways, a large, angry hand mark adorning your cheekbone. You lost your footing in the process, too, colliding with the gravel, fear surging in your body. For a fleeting moment, you thought he was going to follow it up with a senseless beating and leave you aching in regret.
“S-Shit,” You cradled your cheek in your trembling palm, chest heaving with uneven breaths, shuffling backwards with your legs.
“You… you bitch!” The bastard spat in raging disbelief, rubbing his wrist, staggering towards you. “How dare you try to — oh, you’re going to get what’s comin’ to you, just you wait!”
But then the back door to the club suddenly swung open, a familiar voice ringing out, both of your eyes simultaneously shooting towards the source.
“How dare you strike a lady?”
Your lashes fluttered, teary eyes palpitating in a mixture of shock and relief as you watched Alastor, of all people, come to your rescue.
“Lady? That ain’t no lady! That’s a whore!” The drunkard wheezed. “And I’m paying for her, so why don’t you go and get to wherever you came from, ‘fore I beat the color off of you, boy.”
“You ain’t paying to hit her, you goddamn animal,” Alastor snarled as he positioned himself between the two of you, raising his fists, livid.
He was right to not trust your judgement. Only a month and a half into watching you from afar, enduring the gut-wrenching sight of your clients getting handsy with you because they believed sex workers forfeited the right to be treated with basic human decency, and you had proved him right. The worst part was that he had barged into a sight that could have been far more horrific.
“All right, you asked for it —”
A thud echoed throughout the night.
Your lips parted with a gasp. The bastard had lunged forwards and raised his fist, striking Alastor straight across his face.
But Alastor had dealt the first reeling punch.
“Oh my… oh my God.”
You collected yourself on shaky elbows and stumbled backwards, watching the scene between the two men unfurl and quickly descend into something violent, especially as Alastor defied your expectations. He was tall, slender, and a bit lanky, but he effortlessly overpowered the stocky man before him, sending him barreling towards the ground with a pained groan.
Only to clamber onto him and seize his shirt, tightly gripping it, his dominant hand raising in a fist once more. You stood a few feet away, eyes wide and heart threatening to lurch out of your chest as Alastor introduced his knuckles to the bastard’s jaw with a loud, harrowing ‘Crack!’ — a sound that resonated in your soul, but in a manner that you would say was gratifying. You were flattered.
And Alastor did it again.
— and again and again and again.
His fist familiarized itself with the man’s face.
Refusing to stop until it was bloody and bruised.
— until he was certain he wouldn’t get up.
Which he didn’t.
However, it wasn’t until you touched a hand to Alastor’s shoulder and snapped him out of his self-imposed rage that he realized the drunkard had long passed out, face unrecognizable. He clambered off of the man’s unconscious body, standing up on long legs and wiping his hand clean against the breast of his vest, narrowly avoiding bumping into you as he stumbled backwards.
“Christ, Al, you really gave it to him,” You huffed, eyes darting between the two men.
“Are you all right?” Alastor asked, out of breath.
Instead of responding to his question, though, you sank down onto your knees, pressing your fingers on the man’s pulse point for a sign of life.
“Oh, he’s alive,” Alastor rolled his eyes with a scoff, rich brown pools darting between you and the back door of the club. “You think I would beat a man to death in front of you?”
You tossed an unamused glance over your shoulder, hand retreating after feeling a faint pulse.
“I have a feeling you would have if I hadn’t stopped you,” You said, as if you hadn’t mentally braced yourself for the worst. “Anyway, I don’t much like being saved, but… when I have to be.”
Saved? Peculiar choice of words, though he didn’t get the chance to point them out, caught off guard by the sound of clothes rustling.
“Don’t judge me,” You muttered. “He deserves it.”
“I’m not,” Alastor mused, watching you rummage through the man’s pockets for change.
The cheapskate, he had a total of $10 in his pocket — 10 goddamn dollars! It was folded neatly in the front pocket of his slacks, eyes shining and a victorious grin tugging at the corners of your lips as you hastily collected yourself, whirling around on your heel, thumb and forefinger stretching either side of the bill to display it to Alastor, who was staring down at you with unfettered amusement.
Oh, the woman that you are.
Alastor’s heart fluttered, the same fondness he felt before everything spiraled stirring in his chest again, drowning out the ache of his bruised hand.
Still, this was the last dollar you would have to go through the hassle of obtaining.
Every time you went out, every time you hit the speakeasies on the prowl for potential clients, you put yourself at risk.
And Alastor couldn’t always look after you.
It wasn’t convenient, to be going out of his way to follow you around and watch over you; nor was it convenient for you to be allowing random men to do revolting things to you, not for a quick buck. However, it wasn’t until you absentmindedly pointed out your luck and simultaneously reached out to gently touch his swollen cheek, that you helped him solidify his choice, though.
“Move in with me,” Alastor boldly suggested.
Your hand immediately stilled against his face, confused, your lips falling slack.
“What?” You eventually sputtered. “W-What do you mean? You want me to… what?”
“You heard me. Move in with me,” Alastor stated, bruised hand gingerly grabbing your hand. “Stay with me, tonight; and come morning, I’ll help you gather your belongings at your apartment.”
“I… but… but why?” You breathed out. “Is this your way of trying to help me? Because if so, I don’t need it. I made last month’s rent —”
“Just barely,” You almost reeled away in offense, but Alastor refused to let you move back. “You can’t keep living like this, you know.”
“I can handle myself just fine,” Your eyes darted behind you. “He ain’t the first one to think he can rough up a girl. Believe me, I’ve taken far worse.”
“You’re not understanding,” Alastor shook his head. “I’m inviting you into my home because I like you,” He elaborated, making your breath audibly hitch. “How jealous I’d be, being forced to share you.”
“And how… how bold of you,” You tried not to stutter, “To think that I return your feelings.”
A furious heat crawled up your neck, sprawling across your features, giving you away.
“Bold, yes, but am I right?” Alastor asked earnestly.
Before you could respond, he relinquished your hand to cradle your face, mindful of the side that was adorned with a red, angry hand mark. His thumb hovered above your aching cheekbone as he leaned down, breath ghosting over yours. It was clear what Alastor wanted — a kiss — but he waited patiently for you. He was giving you a choice, the heat on your skin growing twicefold.
“Well, you did beat up a man for me,” You tentatively started, your eyes darting between thin rings of rich brown pools and supple lips.
You stuffed the bill in your dress and put your hands on his chest, despite the blood blending in with his vest, heart thudding against your palms.
“There’s no limit to what I’d do for you,” Alastor added, mouth curling in a wicked grin, flashing his pearly white canines to you.
The feeling of his heart racing at a similar pace as yours solidified his feelings for you. You neither wanted nor desired help, but if Alastor’s offer was coming from a place of love and not out of pity or sympathy, you could accept it.
“How… flattering,” Your hands slid up his neck. “Before I say yes, though, I ain’t becoming no housewife. I can’t… I wanna be more, you know?”
The grin on his face didn’t falter. In fact, it only widened impossibly further, inspiring hope in your chest that he would be okay with it.
“I’m not your daddy. You’re a grown woman, you’re free to do as you please,” Alastor chuckled. “Well, except for paying rent. I refuse to take your money.”
You suddenly wrapped your arms around his shoulders and leaned in, bridging the gap between your mouths, your eyes fluttering shut. You were out of practice. You couldn’t recall the last time you shared a kiss with someone, a genuine one so smooth and utterly delicious; but as your lips glided across Alastor’s in a riveting dance, you couldn’t find it in you to feel self-conscious.
No, you were ecstatic, relieved.
You would finally be able to return to leading a normal life — something you thought you wouldn’t have for a long while.
And a stable home? Oh, that was comforting.
Alastor, on the other hand, had no intention of revealing his feelings — at least not until he was certain about what exactly he felt, if it was just fondness or something beyond that. His admittance was simply a desperate attempt to stop you from soliciting. Still, as he slid one hand away from your face to grasp your waist, he was glad that he had spurred himself to confront his feelings.
The unmistakable sensation that churned in his gut at the whimper you let out into his mouth — arousal — it told him everything. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a long time, a pleased groan reverberating in his throat. But unfortunately, a loud voice decided to interrupt the heated exchange between the two of you, your lips parting from each other’s with equally shocked gasps.
“Hey! You two, stop right there! What are the pair of you doing at this time of night, huh?”
It was the law.
What were the fucking odds?
“Al?” You squeaked, eyes darting behind you, to the unconscious body. “What are we going to do?”
Alastor grabbed your shoulders.
“Don’t worry, he’s… on the fuller side. It doesn’t look like he runs much, and it’s dark,” He looked past you, quickly assessing his surroundings, trying to maintain his composure. “We’re going to…”
You turned around. The club led to a dead-end. However, there was a stack of crates that happened to be situated neatly on a corner.
“We’re going to run,” You breathed out, body thrumming with adrenaline. “O-Okay. Okay!”
Alastor smiled at you in reassurance.
“Don’t fret, the law is incompetent. We’ll be fine — so long as we never come back here, of course.”
That was true, the law was useless.
If anything, they were purely decorative.
“Oh, don’t you run away from me! … please! …Crap, I can’t keep up with these kids.”
You took one last glance at the man lying unconscious on the ground, face bruised and bloodied, before darting off alongside Alastor. Anxiety clawed at your chest as he stood behind you, helping you use the crates as a stepping stool to hop over the wall to the next alleyway. Hopefully, you wouldn’t trip in your haste to escape the law, excited to start your new life and finally chase your dreams, especially with Alastor at your side.
─────── 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ⧽ a quick list of a few thoughts i've had recently.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who loves to play with your hair.
it would be at the most random of times, as well. and perhaps this would be one of the very few public displays of affection he allowed himself. you could simply be lounging in the main lobby of the hotel, eventually finding his fingers carding through your hair. long or short, he didn't discriminate. it would often be absentminded, too. if you happened to be in the middle of a conversation with him, he'd tuck a few stray strands behind your ear or simply move your bangs out of your face.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who's love language is acts of service.
this goes for giving as well as receiving. while he tends to prefer to be on the giving end, he will make exceptions sometimes. he truly adores the little things you do. whether it be giving him a small dandelion you found out on a walk that day, or trying your hand at making one of his, or his mother's, recipes. in a sense, it warmed his heart — as cold and dead as it was.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who occasionally indulged in playing the piano for you.
he wasn't much of a writer, but there have been a few pieces he composed specifically for you. in fact, one was made just after he began courting you. and actually, he allowed you to sit on the bench and try your hand at playing it with him. one of his preferred bonding methods, if you ask me. i think he finds it tastefully poetic; guiding his lover's hands across the different keys.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who found joy in gossiping with you — especially about susan.
it never failed, every time he returned from a brief trip to cannibal town to visit ms. rosie, he had a new story about susan. a grumpy old woman, whom he once described as an "ornery old bitch". he'd ramble on about it while you prepared him his favored tea, using his ever so dramatic hand gestures. it always put a smile on your face, finding each new tale rather humorous.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who notices the little things.
if there is one thing about alastor, he over-analyzes everything and everyone. and while he may not exactly understand everything he observes, he adapts shockingly quickly. for example, you have 'obsessive compulsive disorder'. not the obsessive need to organize and clean kind of ocd — but the extremely paranoid kind. you truly are a skittish creature, much like the animal you are based off of; a doe. while he doesn't fully understand that aspect of you, he's adapted to it surprisingly well. he knows what little things trigger you and make you tic, and he knows how to navigate the situation and soothe you. if you have ptsd, he'll learn what sets you off and keep it in the back of his mind and strive to keep whatever it may be, away from you.
— side note, you can change the ocd thing to whatever you may have. i used ocd and anxiety because that is what i personally have.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who, deep down, is quite the romantic.
alastor is one of those people who finds old-fashioned courting far superior to modern-day dating. he stands firm in his belief that flowers, gentlemanly behavior, and hand-written letters are the proper way to go about it. aside from that, he is most definitely the type to associate a song with you. whether it be one he's recently heard on the radio, or one he's heard a while back, you may find him humming it to himself while performing mundane tasks, or playing it on the piano. at some point, he'll casually mention that the song reminds him of you or makes him think of you.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who is astonished that you find comfort and safety in him.
now, we all understand that alastor is probably the last person anyone would find comfort or safety in, given his reputation and nature. which is why it surprised even him when you admitted to finding not just one, but both of those things in him. the simple fact that he was the one you sought out when frightened or wounded or upset, astonished him. but the selfish part of him yearned to be depended on — even just the slightest bit. and while, coming from anyone else, it would have given him some sort of twisted, sadistic power-trip, he found that he didn't feel it when it was coming from you. rather, he felt needed in the sense that someone truly cared for him. and he felt that he cared for you.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who has helped you decorate your very own room of the hotel.
he knew your specific tastes and the things you'd like to have in your room. he requested charlie add a balcony to your suite, much like he had for his own. he painted your walls a light, muted shade of pink — one wall being an accent wall, having the same shade of pink, along with some white stripes, creating a pinstriped pattern. the floors were a beautiful oak wood, polished to perfection. the curtains for your large, floor-to-ceiling windows were an ivory lace, much like your bed canopy. the bed was queen-sized, covered in soft blankets and plush pillows. there in the center sat your beloved little deer plushie. on your nightstand was a vase holding the most beautiful bouquet of pink and white flowers. this was a little personal project he took on, wanting to surprise you — he adored seeing your teary-eyed yet awestruck expression.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who absolutely knew about your obsession with his hands. | nsfw
you thought you had been incredibly discreet about your fascination with alastor's hands — though apparently you hadn't hid it as well as you initially thought. somehow, he caught on, and fully intended to use it to his full advantage. the way in which he'd ever so delicately trace along the slope of your neck with his sharp claws, trailing them down your arm, made you shudder. perhaps if he was feeling a tad extra frisky, he'd glide his fingers along the outer part of your thigh, stopping just short of your hip. not only that, but on the very rare occasion that he found himself "in the mood", he'd discreetly place a hand on your knee, his fingers slowly skittering up along your inner thigh. when your breath caught in your throat, he'd allow his hand farther up — to the apex of your thighs. sometimes he'd simply cup your through your undergarments, and do nothing more. other times, he'd trace along your dampening slit through the flimsy fabric. either way, you'd find yourself stuffed to the brim with his long, slim, yet incredibly dexterous fingers by the end of the night.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who is most definitely the best sleep aid.
his static frequencies automatically tone down to accommodate you at night. especially if you're struggling with sleep that night. sometimes he'll even hum along to, or sing lullabies to soothe you. all the while, he'll stroke your cheek and lay your head in his lap. the songs were often old french lullabies his maman used to sing to him when he was a boy — back in the mortal world.
Summary:Alastor and you decide to go to a motel for some privacy, but you're interrupted. Since your grumpy ass can't shut up, Alastor keeps you calm… just a moment
Type: Romantic, One-shot
Warning:NSFW...a little nsfw
══💞══╡°˖✧💌✧˖°╞══💞══
The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the table lamp that cast long shadows on the walls. The New Orleans heat clung to your sweaty skin. You were beneath Alastor, the sheets tangled around your legs, breathing heavily as he kissed your neck with that deliberate slowness that drove you wild.
His deep, resonant voice vibrated against your skin:
"Like that, my sweet… let me hear you a little longer. You know I love it when you forget everything and just…" A loud knock on the hotel room door interrupted them.
You reacted first, irritated and frustrated.
"What the hell do you…!" you started shouting, your voice hoarse and sullen, half-sitting up.
Alastor was faster. He gently placed two fingers on your lips, silencing you instantly, while his other hand held your hip to keep you still. His smile widened, amused and dangerous. “Please excuse my wife,” he said loudly, in that polite, lighthearted tone of a radio announcer, as if he were presenting the weather on his show. “We were… busy.” On the other side of the door, a male voice (probably the manager or an annoyed guest) stammered:
“Um… I’m sorry, sir. There’s a problem with the room payment and…” Alastor didn’t let go of you. He kept looking into your eyes, and then his voice changed. It lowered, became deep, husky, that handsome tone he knew perfectly well disarmed you even when you were furious.
“Shh…” he whispered just for you, so softly that only you could hear him. “Don’t be upset, darling. Let me handle this… and then I’ll pick up where I left off.” His thumb stroked your lower lip as he continued speaking toward the door in a normal voice:
“Just a moment, please. I’ll be right out and sort it out.” You looked at him, squinting, still breathing rapidly, frustrated by the interruption. You tried to protest, but he leaned in and kissed you hard, deeply, swallowing any complaint.
When he pulled away slightly, he murmured that deep, velvety voice against your mouth:
"You're so adorable when you're moody… That 'what the hell' of yours turns me on more than I should admit. But now be good… stay still and quiet for a minute."
He gave you another quick kiss on the corner of your lips and stood up with that natural grace, unhurriedly buttoning his pants. Before opening the door, he glanced at you over his shoulder and lowered his voice again, just for you:
"When I'm done with this idiot… I'm going to make it up to you double. And I'm going to use this voice… until you forget how moody you were."
He opened the door just enough to get out, blocking your view with his body.
“Excuse the delay,” he said in his most charming and professional tone. “My wife and I were in the middle of an… important conversation. How can I help you?”
While Alastor spoke with the man in the hallway, you stayed in bed, your heart pounding and your body still trembling with frustration and desire. Damn it. He knew exactly how to soothe you, tease you, and leave you waiting… all at the same time.
A couple of minutes later, the door clicked shut. Alastor turned the key and faced you, slowly and deliberately removing his shirt.
“All done,” he announced, his voice already lowering again, deep and dangerous. “Now… where were we, my sweet moody one?” He approached the bed like a predator, a wide grin and gleaming eyes.
“Come here. I’m going to turn that ‘what the hell’ into ‘please don’t stop.’”
Just read your latest alastor fic and loved it! I have a request
alastor x f!reader. I’m thinking like both of them are a little nutty (it’s hell, duh?). I’m thinking a night of heavy drinking turns into nasty, sweaty, breeding kink type sex. Think the whole “yeah I don’t care I’m a demon, trust me I’m gonna put a baby in you” type sex!
If you want, of course :D
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 2.5k
𑣲 A/N. oooh my first alastor request!! hi nonnie, i hope this meets your expectations! i've never written drunk sex before, so this was a first. enjoy! as always, MINORS DNI.
The night was young, and in Hell that meant trouble.
Trouble tonight came spelled out in the form of a seven-foot-tall handsome devil—who just so happened to be your lovely husband—the alphabet sounding particularly alluring with the way he wove its letters into words.
It was impressive, but what was even more impressive was how Alastor managed to keep a steady cadence within that radio-esque voice of his with not a single sentence leaving his mouth slurred.
If it weren't for the alcohol on his breath and a bit more of a lopsided smile than usual, you imagined it'd be rather difficult for anyone to deduce what he's been up to for the past two hours—which were activities that had him considerably less sober. You witnessed him down an impressive plethora of shots, one by one, the glasses once full with whiskey and the mischievous promise of a good time.
Meanwhile, you didn't drink nearly as much. But it was just enough for a thick and pleasant haze to cloud your mind as your motor skills became spectacularly impaired.
The telltale scent of debauchery and sin clung to the air as the two of you were strolling back to the hotel; your considerably more challenged state of inebriation being supported by the arm he had politely extended to you.
Even hanging off his arm, you stumbled here and there.
"My dear!" he laughed as he smiled down at you, "a newborn faun could walk better than you are right now."
You shot him a glare, though there was no vitriol behind it. "It's no fair. Why is it that you look the perfect picture of composure while I look like an idiot? We're both drunk, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are," Alastor nodded, humming. "However, the difference lies in experience. I've had plenty more decades than you in Hell to etch how to walk in a straight line into the very marrow of this form's bones."
"Was that your eloquent way of saying I have a "skill issue"?" you asked while staring in disbelief at him.
"Oh dear, you know I'm not in the know with the lingo of your generation. Though, if the shoe fits…"
Playfully rolling your eyes, you both continued walking in a couple stretches of comfortable silence before you piped up, the quiet giving you time to reminisce on the events of the night.
"Al, I still can't believe you intimidated the bartender like that! Then to blame your shadowy tendril thing's 'autonomy?' God, poor guy probably was close to peeing himself in fear!"
"Well, he was flirting with you. Very blatantly, may I add." Alastor said as he flashed a sharp grin at some gawking passersby who clearly weren't aware the Radio Demon had his heart stolen.
"You almost had us kicked out!"
"I do not like sharing what's mine, and mine alone."
"Clearly," you girlishly giggled, replaying the memory fondly within your head. His jealousy always sent a pang of roiling heat straight into your core. You open your mouth to tease him about it, but his riposte was faster.
"But what of you? Threatening that brazen woman away from the seat next to me?"
"Oh, she had it coming," you huffed, tightening your grip on his arm more possessively, "I should've sliced those bony manicured fingers clean off after she thought it was a good idea to touch you on the shoulder. As if I wasn't sitting right there."
He chuckled, the sound honeyed with amusement at your antics; it was a sound you were certain you'd never tire of. You were finding each and every action of his more arousing than the last—after all, he had control over your pleasure the entirety of the outing, the remote to the vibrator inside of you tucked away within his coat pocket. A reminder swept through you in a wave that soaked your panties even more.
You wanted to kiss the cheekiness off of his ever-present smile as you nearly doubled over with a gasp while he only tilted his head at your breathlessness in mock innocence, the sinners walking past looking mildly concerned.
"Something the matter, dear?"
Then, you hissed back at him with a response that would surprise the both of you.
"Keep it up and I'll make you a daddy."
Just as the words left your lips and he raised his brows at you, the hotel's towering building came into view. As you both approached the doors, the world suddenly whirled into darkness for a moment before it materialized before you again.
Alastor had teleported the both of you into his room. The fireplace crackled as if it too was anticipating his next move, and the scent of cedarwood and something so unmistakably him flooded your nostrils.
Before you could open your mouth, he had you pinned against the wall, a knee wedged between the apex of your thighs, and two red-tipped claws tilted your chin up towards his face.
"Care to repeat yourself now that only you, me, and these four walls will be privy to this conversation and all to come after?"
There was a dilation to his pupils as a dawning glimmer of hunger was more clearly visible within them; if you looked close enough, you could've sworn you saw the way a predator lied in wait before pouncing upon its hapless prey.
"I said," you stressed the words just enough for one of his ears to twitch, "keep it up and I'll make you a da—"
Your sentence was left hanging in the air as his lips descended upon yours hotly. Alastor ravished you with a newfound vigor, to which you reciprocated in kind. There was a substantial ache underneath your dress that you've been wishing he'd satisfy all night—and it appeared you were finally getting what you wanted.
The kiss was sloppy, and as it continued, you both became increasingly disheveled; hair becoming mussed and clothes slipping off your bodies while hands sought blissful ruination.
An abrupt collision of a palm to your now bare ass drove a yelp out of you.
"That was for calling me that insufferably inane word," he growled into your mouth, breath laced with the aroma of liquor, before breaking the kiss to lean back and stare into your half-lidded eyes.
Your gaze flickered down to the tent straining against the pristine fabric of his trousers; stifling a laugh, the corner of your lips instead quirked up into a knowing smirk.
"Someone else would beg to differ, I'd sa—AH—!"
That bastard. He hadn't forgotten about the little vibrator still nestled within your walls.
"Apologies dearest, you were saying?" His Cheshire smirk looked mismatched as it was accompanied with an inculpable tilt of his head.
You narrowed his eyes at him, remaining silent so as to not give him the satisfaction of repeating himself in that wicked, wicked way of his. When he quickly realized you weren't foolish enough to walk right back into his trap, he spoke again, tone demanding and smug.
"On the bed. Now."
You complied, but not without purposefully swaying your hips as seductively as you could in your still drunken condition, taking your sweet time to reach his bed.
Seemingly running out of patience for your teasing, shadows slithered quickly around you before depositing you unceremoniously atop the plush duvet. They then positioned you none too gently by pushing you face-first, ass-up in a provocative feast for a certain demon's eyes.
"You little minx," Alastor lowly purred just loud enough for you to hear, the words rumbling forth from his chest in that tone that always guaranteed a night to remember, "you want to be the mother of my children?"
Was it just you, or did the heat you felt initially upon arrival—no doubt due to your intoxication—become even hotter?
You watched as he stalked towards you, the simple motion sending arousal pooling into the seat of your panties. You also watched as his gaze dropped to your rear as you shook it invitingly side-to-side, unable to resist the temptation.
"Mhm," you whined. Your thighs squeezed together as he loomed over you, a claw ghosting over the flesh of your knee, to your thigh, then to your presented ass, pointedly ignoring where you desired him most. "Need you, Al…"
He breathed in sharply through his nose, digits crooking into the band of your panties before a ripping sound could be heard, much to your horror.
"Hey! Those were my favorite pair!" you cried out in dismay, but your husband was far too preoccupied appreciating the way your pussy now looked without any pesky cloth to conceal it from him and his hunger.
A rippling shudder ran down your spine, and not because of the cool air meeting your exposed skin. His voice was now a few octaves lower.
"Demon physiology be damned," Alastor began in an assured whisper loud enough for your ears to perk up at, "darling trust me when I say you will be thoroughly bred by the end of tonight."
Immediately, you forgot about the tattered remains of your panties.
"And by the looks of it… That's what this pretty little cunt wants, isn't it?" he crooned as his tongue darted out to wet his lips as if he was preparing for a particularly tantalizing meal.
With frantic confirmation, you nodded, incapable of suppressing the embarrassingly needy way his name fell off your lips next. A couple claw-tips swiped against you, collecting your arousal in an obscene display that webbed between them. Alastor stared admiringly at it while you felt your cheeks warm, and it wasn't because of the alcohol in your system.
"My my, you're absolutely posolutely drooling down here! Makes one wonder just how long you've been yearning for this, hm? For your stomach to swell full with my progeny."
His fingers splayed out possessively against the skin of your stomach as he leaned over you, his chest flush with your back and his still-covered erection poking at the slick lips of your pussy. You responded by pushing back against him with a whimper tinged with frustration.
"How utterly needy," he shook his head as if in disapproval, "you act like such a common whore once you have a few drinks in you. It's rather unbecoming of a lady… or rather, a mother-to-be."
You had half a mind to shut him up by twisting the both of you around and finally freeing his cock from its confines yourself, especially after that remark, but it appeared as if he had read your thoughts—you started to hear the relieving noises of a zipper and the rustling of clothing. A sob of gratitude nearly escaped you.
Then, with a lewd pop, the vibrator is swiftly removed from you, only to be replaced with his cockhead nudging between your folds.
"Well, what're you waiting for? This 'common whore' is—oh, fuck!" you screamed, interrupted yet again as he plunged deep within your pussy and pulled you impossibly closer. His clawed hand fisted into your hair before wrenching you back with him, the act causing you to gasp out of surprise while instinctively clenching around his length. Then, the pace became unremitting.
Alastor half-groaned at your tightness, half-chuckled at the words dying on your lips in favor of moans he loved drawing out of you. "Cat got your tongue yet again, cher?"
"Sh-Shut up!" you moaned, hands curling into the duvet as he continued to plow relentlessly into you, throat bared to the heavens above.
His other hand retained a bruising grip on your hip while he repetitively sunk back in and out of your heat at a punishing pace, thrusts clumsier than usual. Your breathing alongside his became heavier as sweat began to condense both of your bodies; the bed's headboard rhythmically slammed into the wall over and over as the stench of sex unfurled and permeated the room.
He sounded animalistic the more he chased his release, but he was still ever the gentleman—even when drunk—and relinquished his grip over your hair to furiously rub sloppy circles into your clit. The added pleasure had you dissolving into a mess of whines and moans of your lover's name.
"Let's see if this little womb is capable of bearing my children," Alastor said with a feral snarl that you thought should not have sent as much of a spark of arousal flaring throughout your veins as it did.
You felt every part the helpless prey to this beast that was becoming more monster than man behind you.
And you adored it. Adored the way his hands couldn't decide where to settle, so they roamed all over the vast expanse of your body, fondling your peaked nipples and flesh. Adored the way alcoholic sex appeared to help him discard more of his social inhibitions. Adored the way your name sounded off of lips that couldn't stop placing hot, open-mouthed kisses all over your back.
You adored it so much so that you felt as if you were increasingly becoming more and more intoxicated, except this time from carnal beginnings that you never wanted to come down from.
Unfortunately, you felt your climax approaching closer, and you felt that he did too as his hips began to stutter in that erratic way they typically do when he was about to paint your insides.
With a roar of static and a few final thrusts, he stilled as his cock pulsed while loads of his desire for you flooded your gummy walls. Just as he cummed, you had also met your end; a cry emanating from you as your own orgasm coursed through your veins. Your cunt was now throbbing as it milked the man above you.
You both remained in place, the static dying down while you both caught your breath for a couple of moments.
Suddenly, he pulled out, causing you to whine in protest at the newfound vacancy between your thighs. In doing so, cum started to dribble out of you—to which he tutted in disapproval before scooping it back into you. You were then carefully turned onto your back.
Your eyes widened at the wild look in Alastor's gaze, his pupils now turned radio dials blown wide until only thinned rings of carmine were visible. Amongst the inebriation, there seemed to be vestiges of intimacy present—intimacy that silently spoke of dark devotion and primal, base needs.
Sweat coated his brow and rolled down the sides of his face. His antlers had also grown in size, and the static that he carried everywhere he went sounded louder as he leveled you with wide eyes of his own. You wondered if he could see how devoted you were to him as well, if he could see the way you also wanted to discover if demonic law could be defied, broken, rewritten.
"Still with me, darling?" Alastor breathed out, to which you nodded with lustful enthusiasm. His lids dropped to half-mast, and a frenzied laugh contended with the static as his cock stirred back to full hardness.
It was foreign, but it was also electric, the sensation that shot down Alastor’s core once he pinned you to the ground.
What was once comfortable and breathable now felt tight and constricting, and if he could, he would change into something loose fitting, something that would conceal his dignity.
But it wasn’t possible.
The two of you were outside, in the furthest corner of his mother’s backyard where the grass was wild and the trees billowed, play fighting over something he could no longer recall.
Alastor couldn’t think straight, not with the unmistakeable outline of himself bulging against the crotch area of his trousers — evidence of a desire he never knew he was capable of feeling.
And the worst part was that you didn’t know.
In fact, you were giggling away underneath him, skin hot and glistening with sweat after rolling around and wrestling with each other.
Rich brown pools stared down at you, fingers shakily gripping your wrists, which were pinned above your head.
You thought nothing of it, though.
The two of you were trembling with adrenaline, hair strewn all over the place, clothes wrinkled and soiled with dirt and torn grass.
You had spent the better part of 10 minutes with your bodies pressed up together, unintentionally rutting and shifting against your most sensitive parts, limbs in a tangled mess.
But Alastor was the only one feeling funny, and you were utterly oblivious about it.
Well, until you wrapped your legs around his slender waist, squeezing, hips uniting so you could switch your positions.
Then that’s when you felt his desire, warm and thick and heavy.
Your skirt was knee-length, but the fabric had collected over your thighs, and he knew that you could feel it, his erection throbbing as your clothed heat came into contact with his erection.
Your breath hitched in your throat, and your heart kickstarted in your chest, visibly shocked.
Alastor was your friend, that’s all you and him had ever been; and you were 19 years old, just barely deemed old enough to go out and about in the streets of New Orleans by your parents.
Neither of you went out without each other.
So, to have you pinned underneath him, wrists held hostage, crotches stuck together, it was entirely overwhelming.
The worst part was that you refused to utter a single syllable.
Alastor watched you stare up at him, wide-eyed and skin all hot and flustered, looking like the embodiment of innocence.
Guilt began to bubble up in his throat.
And so did an apology, his lips shakily parting, sweat trickling down his forehead.
But then the grip your thighs had on his waist tightened even more, and your hips moved and tentatively rolled upwards, a feeble moan slipping from his lips instead of an ‘I’m sorry.’
“Pl-Please?” You mustered sweetly, wrists anxiously flexing in his grip.
Alastor could only lean down, forehead meeting yours, eyes screwing shut, his hold on your wrists slackening.
He didn’t know what to do.
Hell, he didn’t even know that he was capable of feeling such things.
Alastor thought he was immune to desires of the flesh after a friend of his, one he no longer spoke to, showed him a stag film.
He had also gifted him French postcards from his personal collection — erotic photographs of women, nude as the day they were born.
Alastor had grimaced at the film and tossed the photos to the trash, which he had shredded into tiny, jagged pieces.
So, for a little rough-and-tumble to elicit such a volatile response from his body, it was astonishing and nothing short of unexpected. Alastor was ill-prepared to grant you your request, even though he desired you similarly.
He had a general idea about what to do, but what he knew, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you. He would most likely leave you disappointed.
Still, he found himself nodding his head anyway, his cock throbbing longingly in his trousers.
“Okay,” Alastor merely said.
His hands relinquished your wrists, nervously sliding down your body, fixing to remove your panties, but you were quick to tell him no.
“No, k-keep them there,” You breathed out, looking a bit embarrassed. “Keep holding me like that.”
His eyes fluttered open, brows knitting together, confusion swirling in his gut.
“You don’t want me to take them off?” Alastor tentatively asked as he lifted his head up to look at you. “What am I to do, then?”
Your tongue swept across your lips, wetting them.
He stared down at you, waiting, anticipating your response.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it,” You swallowed. “Just… pretend as if our clothes were off, all right?”
Alastor was no idiot.
You wanted him to rut into you like some animal, but the way you refused to be specific was what had him complying with a newfound confidence.
His hands returned to your wrists, gripping.
And his hips pressed down against yours with an experimental roll, massaging his erection on your clothed cunt, bumping your bundle of nerves.
“Like that?” Alastor breathed out.
You didn’t say anything, nor did you nod.
However, you did part your legs and toss your head back against the grass, eyes shut, chest heaving, telling him everything he needed to know.
And so he proceeded to rut into you like a wild animal, rubbing your crotches together, cockhead continuously making contact with your clit.
Your clothes softly rustled with each and every roll of Alastor’s slender hips, soft mewls and whimpers poured haphazardly from your lips, and his trousers grew damp as your wetness penetrated the thin cotton fabric of your panties.
Neither of you were paying attention to your surroundings.
You were too busy drowning in the new sensation, and though Alastor had his eyes open, they were trained on you and only you.
Something about keeping you hostage underneath him, entirely at his will and power, was riveting.
Alastor felt a hot pressure steadily building up in his gut, a tight coil that was ready to snap, his cock stiffening in his trousers and his thrusts growing sloppy and uncoordinated.
You were close, too, your back arching up into him in a sinuous curve, shaky, high-pitched breaths tumbling in quick succession.
The two of you were so busy chasing your peaks that you forgot you were outside, in broad daylight.
His mother could stumble into the two of you rutting against each other like the inexperienced virgins you were, but at that moment, it was just you and Alastor.
The only thing that mattered was how your clothed cunt pulsated and throbbed against his cock.
How you writhed and twitched and squirmed.
How you let out the filthiest cry known to mankind with every wave of pleasure that rippled through your body as you came undone.
Because that’s what coaxed him over the edge.
“Oh, fuck,” Alastor’s forehead met yours once more, eyes screwing shut, his trousers growing damp and sticky with his pleasure.
It was delicious.
He wanted to feel it again, but as you wriggled your wrists out of his hands to caress his face, nimble fingers touching his sweaty cheekbone, a familiar voice called out to the two of you.
It was Alastor’s mother.
“Lunch is ready if you want to come n’ eat!”
He instantly rolled off of you, back colliding with the grass, legs clamping shut to conceal the dark patch on the crotch area of his trousers.
Of course, you pulled your skirt down and scrambled to sit up using your elbows, eyes wide open, heart hammering in your chest.
“C-Coming, maman!” Alastor hollered out.
Thankfully, his mother didn’t bother coming out to retrieve the two of you.
But unlike you, Alastor couldn’t easily conceal his dignity. He had to head inside with his trousers drenched and soiled in sin.
You looked at him, an apologetic look befalling your features. Before you could utter a syllable, however, Alastor stood up.
He was facing you, slightly hunched, unsteady.
“I’m going to sneak into my room,” You blinked up at him, confused. “I can’t walk in like this! She’ll… she’ll — well, I don’t know what she’ll do, admittedly, but I have no intention of finding out!”
He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, towards his house, panicked and flustered.
“Are you asking me to distract her?” You asked.
He vigorously nodded his head, strewn curls bouncing all over the place, glasses sliding down the bridge of his sharp, upturned nose.
“Yes. Please. You owe it to me. It was your idea.”
As soon as you huffed out a ‘Fine,’ Alastor darted off with trembling knees and both hands in front of his trousers, tucked in between his legs, making a beeline for his window.
His back was turned to you, of course, but he knew you were fighting the urge to giggle.
Alastor decided he would avenge himself — in due time, of course.
It wasn’t fair.
He still had to explain why he had changed, or how he had somehow managed to get to his room, which was past the kitchen, where his mother was.
Alastor holding his baby girl in his arms, trying to maintain his composure as he stares down at her. She’s so small and fragile, yet her tiny hand curls around a singular finger and grips with a strength he never knew such a tiny being could possess, inspiring pride in his chest. She looks like a perfect blend of you and him, but she also looks a bit like his maman. It’s her eyes. It has to be. She looks at him so tenderly, with no judgement, just love.
“Mornin’, mon chouchou,” Alastor murmurs to her, dipping his head to press a reverent kiss to her nose, voice sweet and low. “Did you sleep well? Hm? Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
She doesn’t respond, of course she doesn’t. She’s only 5 months old. There’s a lot she has to learn. She is only capable of cooing or babbling.
“Oh, I’m sure you did, seeing as you woke me up at 6 A.M.,” Alastor softly continues, legs striding towards the living room, trying not to wake you. “You kept your maman up alllll night, didn’t you?”
A smile cracks at his lips, brows scrunching together, tears pricking at his eyes. He still can’t believe that you, his wife, made him a father, and he’s simultaneously ecstatic and afraid. Alastor knows he’s not a good man, but as his beloved doe stares up at him and parts her lips with a delighted coo, he fleetingly entertains the thought if he can change for her. If he can be a better person, even though he knows God has already decided his fate.
Alastor holding his baby girl in his arms, trying to maintain his composure as he stares down at her. She’s so small and fragile, yet her tiny hand curls around a singular finger and grips with a strength he never knew such a tiny being could possess, inspiring pride in his chest. She looks like a perfect blend of you and him, but she also looks a bit like his maman. It’s her eyes. It has to be. She looks at him so tenderly, with no judgement, just love.
“Mornin’, mon chouchou,” Alastor murmurs to her, dipping his head to press a reverent kiss to her nose, voice sweet and low. “Did you sleep well? Hm? Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
She doesn’t respond, of course she doesn’t. She’s only 5 months old. There’s a lot she has to learn. She is only capable of cooing or babbling.
“Oh, I’m sure you did, seeing as you woke me up at 6 A.M.,” Alastor softly continues, legs striding towards the living room, trying not to wake you. “You kept your maman up alllll night, didn’t you?”
A smile cracks at his lips, brows scrunching together, tears pricking at his eyes. He still can’t believe that you, his wife, made him a father, and he’s simultaneously ecstatic and afraid. Alastor knows he’s not a good man, but as his beloved doe stares up at him and parts her lips with a delighted coo, he fleetingly entertains the thought if he can change for her. If he can be a better person, even though he knows God has already decided his fate.
andulkaphoto
2087
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
amandla
discoholicmusic
snowghoul
