29/F last of the millennials This is where you can find everything that entertains me. Stay for a week stay as long as you like. My current obsession if you couldn't tell us Alastor, and Hazbin Hotel
Reader-Insert Has a Name ~ 1920s ~ 1930s ~ Non Sex-Repulsed Alastor ~ Alastor is in Hell for a Reason ~ Human Alastor ~ Reader is in Hell for a Reason ~ Explicit Sexual Content ~ Sexual Assault ~ Smut ~ Cannibalism ~ Cannibal Alastor ~ Cannibal Reader ~ Dead Dove: Do Not Eat ~ Murder ~ Dancing ~ Blood and Gore ~ Period-Typical Sexism ~ Period-Typical Racism - Rape ~ Alastor Loves Alastor's Mother ~ Reader Also Love's Alastor's Mother ~ Mature Themes ~ Reader is Poor Poor ~ Plot With Porn ~ Hurt/Comfort
MINORS DNI There is some disturbing things in this story
I'm old as hell, and I've been in many fandoms. But something I wish I could bring to the Hazbin Hotel fandom nowadays is the good ole shipping wall. IYKYK There's so much potential for Kismesis' and Moirallegience's in this fandom! I will die on this hill. Alastor <> Rosie Alastor <3< Vox Baxter <3 Niffty Charlie <3 Vaggie
Synopsis - Alastors lovley, curvy wife has suggested losing weight? Oh heavens no. Alastor has always adored her curves and now shes trying to rid herself of them? That just wont do!
Tags - Curvy reader/Human Alastor/ Husband Alastor/ Alastor is a little shit/ Very devoted Alastor/ Diets gone wrong/ A little bit of groping/ Not NSFW
I can't believe this got inspired off a clip I saw of a movie on YouTube shorts....I have no idea what the movie was but I thought it was so Alastor coded. Huge headcannon that Alastor likes curvy women...
The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows in warm gold streaks, catching dust in the air and illuminating the little home he'd worked so hard to provide. The radio hummed softly from the living room. Bacon grease still lingered faintly in the air from breakfast.
And there she was.
Bent over the counter in nothing but her slip.
My eyes had scarcely moved from her all morning.
Well— perhaps technically they had. The newspaper remained open in my lap, one leg crossed neatly over the other, spectacles perched at the bridge of my nose. To any observer, I was deeply invested in current events.
In reality, I had reread the same paragraph three times.
How could I focus on world affairs with that wandering around my kitchen?
Her slip clung to every lovely curve as she scrubbed furiously at some stubborn stain on the countertop, muttering little irritated things under her breath. Soft hips swayed each time she leaned harder into the rag. Plush thighs brushed together. The morning light practically adored her skin.
Good Lord.
I lowered the paper just slightly.
My gaze lingered shamelessly over the curve of her backside.
Beautiful.
Absolutely devastating.
The sort of figure sculptors spent their entire lives attempting to capture and still failed miserably.
And she belonged to me.
A small huff escaped her.
I quickly lifted the newspaper back up before she could catch me staring like some common degenerate. Though, admittedly, marriage granted me certain privileges.
“Damn thing won’t come out...” she muttered.
“Mhm,” I answered absently.
Another irritated scrub.
Then suddenly—
“Alastor.”
Something in her tone made me finally glance up properly.
She stood upright now, hands on her hips, cheeks faintly flushed from exertion. There was determination in her expression.
Never a promising sign.
“Yes, darling?”
She sighed
.“I think I’m going to lose weight.”
...Excuse me?
I blinked at her over the top of the paper.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m serious.” She tossed the rag into the sink dramatically. “I mean it this time.”
This time?
This time?
How many times had she apparently contemplated this horrifying course of action without my knowledge?
I slowly folded the newspaper down into my lap.
“Well now, chère, whatever for?”
She stared at me like the answer was obvious.
“My dresses barely fit properly anymore. Everything has to be tailored.” She gestured vaguely toward herself. “I get tired too easily, I’m too heavy, and honestly...” Her voice dipped quieter. “It’s not flattering.”
I nearly choked.
Not flattering?
Was she blind?
I looked at her standing there in that thin little slip, soft stomach peeking beneath the fabric, breasts full and plush, thighs thick enough to make a preacher lose his faith, and felt briefly convinced insanity had entered my household.
“Darling,” I started carefully, “you cannot possibly—”
“No.” She pointed at me immediately. “Don’t start.”
I paused.
“Don’t start what?”
“The sweet talking.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You always do that. I’m being serious.”
“I am also being serious.”
“Well I don’t want to hear it.” She crossed her arms tighter. “I’m really going to do it this time, Alastor. And you are not going to talk me out of it.”
The audacity.
I stared at her.
Talk her out of it?
As though that were not precisely what a loving husband ought to do when his wife announced plans for self-destruction over breakfast.
I set the newspaper aside completely and leaned forward in my chair.
“My dear, you are being utterly ridiculous. You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever—”
“Nonsense.”
I sputtered.“Nonsense?!”
“Yes, nonsense.” She grabbed the edge of her skirt from the nearby chair and started toward the staircase. “You say that because you love me.”
“Well naturally I love you, but that hardly makes it untrue!”
She was already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m starting today!”
“Today?!”
“Yes!”
I stared after her in disbelief as her footsteps disappeared down the hall upstairs.
Then silence.
The kitchen suddenly felt much too still.
Slowly, I leaned back into my chair.
No.
No, this simply would not do.
Lose weight?
My eyes drifted toward the staircase with growing concern.
All that softness...Those gorgeous hips I held each night.
The plushness of her stomach beneath my palm in bed.
The way her thighs spread so beautifully across my lap whenever she sat with me.
Gone?
Absolutely not.
I frowned deeply.
What deranged fool had put such ideas into her pretty little head?
She was perfect exactly as she was.
Better than perfect.
And frankly, I had grown rather attached to certain features of my wife. I considered it a matter of personal investment.
My gaze slowly shifted toward the kitchen cabinets.
Then toward the icebox.
Then the pantry.
A thought occurred to me.
Slowly... very slowly...I smiled.
Well.
If my darling wife insisted upon embarking on this unfortunate little diet......then I supposed I would simply have to ensure it failed spectacularly.
-----
I had underestimated how serious she was about this nonsense.
Truly.
I arrived home that afternoon to find the kitchen table absolutely littered with dreadful little packages and tins.
“Low fat.”
“Reduced sugar.”
“Diet.”
“Light.”
Light?
Food was not meant to be light. Food was meant to nourish the soul. To comfort. To delight. To be cooked properly with butter and cream and flavor instead of tasting like sadness and cardboard.
My wife stood at the counter unpacking her bags with entirely too much determination.
“Oh! Alastor, could you hand me that box?”
I stared at the offensively tiny package of “diet biscuits” in her hand like it had personally insulted me.
Still, I smiled pleasantly and handed it over.
“Of course, darling.”
She seemed oddly proud of herself.
“I even found recipes,” she informed me. “Healthy ones.”
Recipes.Healthy recipes.
I felt my eye twitch.
“How... lovely.”
She completely missed my tone. “I’m going to start counting calories too.”
Calories.
There was that word again.
I watched her carefully stack her ridiculous little foods away in the pantry while mentally planning a murder.
Not hers, obviously.
Whoever invented diet culture.
The woman looked beautiful standing there in our kitchen. Her dress strained softly across the fullness of her hips, sleeves rolled up as she organized things with focused determination. Every movement made something soft shift or sway.
And she wanted to lessen herself.
Absurd.
Utterly absurd.
She finally glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t touch my snacks.”
I blinked innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Apparently I had not sounded convincing enough.
“Alastor.”
“My dear.”
“You’re not going to sabotage this.”
The accusation nearly offended me.
“Sabotage? I am wounded.”
“You keep looking at my food like it insulted your family.”
“Well, it certainly insulted me.”
She snorted despite herself and shook her head. “I’m serious.”
And there it was again.That determined little look.
The same one she got whenever she decided she was absolutely correct about something despite being painfully wrong.
I rose from my chair and crossed the kitchen toward her slowly.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
I rested my hands carefully on her waist.
God.
Even through the fabric of her dress she felt soft and warm and perfect.
My thumbs stroked unconsciously against her sides.
“Darling,” I said gently, “I truly wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
Her expression softened for exactly half a second before she sighed.
“There you go again.”
“It is not a crime to admire my own wife.”
“You admire me because you’re biased.”
“I admire you because I possess eyes.”
That earned a reluctant smile.
Victory.
Small, but meaningful.
Still, she slipped from my grasp before I could continue my argument.
“I’m sticking to it this time.”
And then she carried her vile little “healthy” snacks upstairs.
I stood in the kitchen alone for several long moments.
Then slowly turned my gaze toward the pantry.
Toward the labels.
Toward the ingredients.
And smiled
The next morning, I took a pleasant little stroll into town.
Now see, contrary to what my darling wife might believe, I did not object to healthy food itself. If she wished to eat leaves and dry crackers, that was her business. I’d eat the dreadful things myself if necessary.
No, the issue was entirely different.
The issue was her.
Her lovely body.
Her softness.
The beautiful fullness I adored with every selfish fiber of my being.
She spoke of herself as though she were flawed. As though the curve of her stomach beneath my hand each night was something unfortunate. As though the plushness of her thighs was a failing instead of one of God’s greatest achievements.
No.
I could not allow that sort of thinking to continue unchecked.
So naturally, I took action.
The little grocer looked entirely too cheerful as I purchased duplicates of nearly everything she’d bought the day prior.
Same packaging.
Same brands.
Only these versions contained proper ingredients.
Sugar.
Butter.
Cream.
As nature intended.
By the time I returned home, she was upstairs bathing.
Perfect.I hummed softly under my breath as I unpacked my purchases onto the counter.Then the real work began.
Carefully, meticulously, I swapped nearly every item.
The healthy biscuits disappeared first, replaced with the originals.
Then the “low calorie” chocolates.
Then the bread.
Then the preserves.
And perhaps my proudest achievement—A bottle of syrup.
I uncorked both bottles carefully before switching the labels with near surgical precision.
Honestly, radio work had blessed me with wonderfully steady hands.
The calorie labels, however...Now those required artistry.
I sat at the kitchen table with white-out and a fountain pen, adjusting numbers with the concentration of a man forging government documents.
400 became 40.
320 became 80.
My grin widened gradually with each alteration.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
By the time she descended the stairs again, every trace of my crimes had vanished.
She wandered sleepily into the kitchen tying the sash of her robe.
And immediately reached for one of the biscuits.
I watched with shameless anticipation.
She took a bite.
Chewed thoughtfully.
Then blinked.
“Huh.”
I folded my newspaper calmly. “Something wrong, chère?”
“These healthy ones don’t taste bad at all.”
I nearly smiled too quickly.
“Really?”
“Usually diet food tastes like sawdust.” Another bite. “These are actually good.”
Well yes.
Because they were the same biscuits she’d been eating for three years.
I made a thoughtful humming noise. “Perhaps your palate is improving.”
“Mhm.”
She reached for a second one.
My heart soared.
------
The kitchen was warm.
Warm from the stove, warm from the summer air drifting through the open windows, warm from the low simmering pot filling the entire house with spice and butter and heaven itself.
Now this was proper cooking.
Not those miserable little diet biscuits.
I stirred the pot with satisfaction, humming softly beneath my breath as the roux thickened beautifully. Shrimp, sausage, onion, celery, bell pepper—proper ingredients. Honest ingredients.
Gumbo.
A meal with dignity.
The knife moved swiftly beneath my hand as I chopped green onions against the cutting board, singing quietly in French under my breath. Something old my mother used to hum in the kitchen.
Honestly, I was in an excellent mood.
Two arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
I smiled immediately.
“Well now,” I murmured.
Her cheek pressed against my shoulder blade while she leaned into me with a content little sigh. Soft. Warm. Sweet smelling from her bath.
My favorite thing in the world.
“It smells amazing,” she mumbled sleepily.
"Of course it does. I made it.”
She laughed softly through her nose.
I tilted my head enough to press a kiss against her hair before tossing the chopped onions into the pot with a flourish. The sizzle that followed was deeply satisfying.
Behind me, she gave another appreciative hum.God, I loved that sound.
That pleased little noise she made whenever she liked my cooking.
There was pride in it for me. Stupid amounts of pride, frankly. I worked hard on my meals. And seeing her eat them—watching her eyes light up, hearing her praise, watching her go back for seconds—Lord above.
It made something warm settle in my chest every single time.
So naturally, when she spoke next, I nearly dropped the spoon.
“It’s too bad I can’t eat it.”
I stopped stirring.
Slowly, I turned my head.
“I beg your pardon?”
She had already stepped away from me, moving to lean against the counter casually.
Entirely too casually for someone who had just uttered complete insanity.
She smiled apologetically. “It looks really good though.”
I stared at her.
Then at the pot.
Then back at her.
“I used your favorite sausage.”
“I know.”
“And shrimp.”
“I know.”
“And the bread is fresh.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
SWEETHEART?
My eye twitched.
“Then why,” I asked carefully, “can you not eat it?”
She gestured vaguely around the kitchen like the answer was obvious.
“You used butter. And sausage grease. And probably cream.” She pointed accusingly at the counter. “And those rolls are definitely not healthy.”
Well yes.
Obviously.
Food was meant to contain joy.
She smiled again, entirely unaware she was approaching mortal danger. “It’s okay though! I’ll just make myself something else.”
Something else.
Something else?!
I looked down at the gumbo bubbling away on the stove.
At the meal I had spent nearly two hours making.
Then back at my wife.
The woman who usually hovered around the kitchen stealing bites directly from the spoon.
The woman who moaned happily over my cooking like it was a religious experience.
The woman who once declared my jambalaya “better than sex.”
And now she was refusing dinner because of calories?
I set the spoon down very slowly.
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“Alastor—”
“You are not making yourself separate food.”
Her brows lifted. “Why not?”
“Because I cooked dinner.”
“Yes, but I can’t eat all that—”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m dieting!”
The word hit me like a personal insult.
I turned fully toward her now, hands braced against the counter behind me.
“You have been ‘dieting’ for exactly one week and already you are refusing my gumbo.”
“Well when you say it like that—”
“How else should I say it?!”
She looked momentarily startled by my genuine offense.
Good.
Perhaps she ought to be.
I pointed dramatically toward the stove.
“That pot contains love, effort, skill, and at least six dollars worth of shrimp.”
She snorted.
I ignored her entirely.
“And furthermore,” I continued, “you adore my cooking.”
“I do adore your cooking.”
“Then eat it.”
“I can’t!”
“Yes you can!”
“It’s unhealthy!”
“It is delicious!”
“That’s not the same thing!”
“To me it is!”
She laughed again despite herself, and I felt briefly victorious before she shook her head stubbornly.
“No. I’m serious this time.”
There was that phrase again.
This time.
As though she expected permanence from this foolishness.
I watched her standing there in one of her soft house dresses, arms crossed beneath her chest, looking determined while the smell of gumbo filled the entire room.
And suddenly—I was irritated.
Not at her.
Never truly at her.
At the fact she was denying herself things she loved because somewhere along the way she’d become convinced she was meant to take up less space.
Less food.
Less softness.
Less joy.
My chest tightened strangely.
I crossed the kitchen in a few steps.
She looked up at me immediately.
Before she could protest, I cupped her face gently.
“My darling,” I said quietly, “there is nothing on this earth sadder than watching someone you love refuse happiness while standing directly in front of it.”
Her expression faltered slightly.
I softened my grip, thumb brushing her cheek.
“You enjoy my cooking.”
“Well...yes.”
“And I enjoy feeding you.”
A faint flush crept into her cheeks.
Good.
“Now,” I continued firmly, “sit down before I take this personally.”
“You *are* taking it personally.”
“Correct.” I pulled out her chair for her with exaggerated politeness. “Sit.”
------
She ate exactly one bowl.
One.
A tiny little bowl that looked more appropriate for feeding a particularly sick bird than a grown woman.
I watched her finish it with narrowed eyes from across the table.
She practically mourned the final bite.
“That was so good,” she sighed miserably, setting the spoon down. “God, I want more.”
“Then have more.”
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“I already had enough.”
Enough?
I looked down at her nearly empty bowl.
My eye twitched.
“Darling,” I said slowly, “I’ve seen children eat more than that.”
“Well children aren’t trying to lose weight.”
There it was again.
That phrase.
That awful, irritating phrase.
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, studying her while she wistfully eyed the pot on the stove like a heartbroken widow.
She wanted more.
Clearly enjoyed more.
Would be happier with more.
And yet she denied herself simply because some arbitrary number apparently mattered more than joy.
Madness.
Complete madness.
Still, I said nothing.
For now.
—-----
Later that night, I stepped into our bedroom while loosening my tie.
The lamps cast everything in soft amber light. Jazz crackled quietly from the radio near the window.
The scent of her powder lingered faintly in the air.
And there she stood before the vanity mirror in nothing but her bra and panties.
I stopped immediately.
Lord have mercy.
My gaze drifted over her slowly.
Soft thighs.
Round hips.
The gentle curve of her stomach beneath her hands as she frowned at herself in the mirror.
Beautiful.
Absolutely, painfully beautiful.
She squished at the softness of her tummy with visible annoyance.
“I haven’t lost anything,” she muttered.
I leaned against the doorway silently, beginning to undo my tie while shamelessly admiring the view.
“What a tragedy,” I drawled.
She glanced at me through the mirror with a pout.
“I’m serious.”
“Mhm.”
“I shouldn’t have eaten that gumbo.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it nearly hurt.
There she went again.
As though the gumbo had personally betrayed her instead of bringing her visible happiness.
I pushed off the doorway and crossed the room toward her slowly.
My tie slipped free from my collar while I approached.
She watched me in the mirror.
I watched her.
Then finally I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.
God.
Perfect.
My hands spread across her stomach instinctively, savoring the softness beneath my palms while I lowered my head to kiss her shoulder.
She sighed immediately.
“There,” I murmured against her skin. “That sound right there tells me I’m correct.”
“Alastor…”
Another kiss.
“You are lovely.”
Kiss.
“Soft.”
Kiss.
"Warm.”
Kiss.
“Entirely irresistible.”
A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
Victory.
My hands slid slowly along her sides, worshipful without even meaning to be. I simply liked touching her. Constantly. Every curve felt made specifically for my hands.
“You know,” I mused, “I truly cannot fathom this strange little obsession you’ve developed.”
She huffed softly. “It’s not strange.”
“You’re standing in front of a mirror criticizing perfection.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I am a dramatic man.”
She giggled quietly.
There it was.
That lovely sound.
I smiled against her shoulder before continuing my assault.
“Those hips alone ought to be framed in a museum.”
“Oh my God.”
“And your thighs?” I hummed approvingly. “Good heavens.”
“Alastor!”
“What? I’m married, not blind.”
Her face grew redder by the second while I continued kissing lazily across her shoulders and neck.
“And this stomach…” My hands smoothed slowly over it. “Do you know how often I think about this stomach?”
She made a strangled noise.
“Probably an unhealthy amount, frankly.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you married me.”
She laughed harder now, leaning back into my chest despite herself.
Good.Excellent.
I continued murmuring praise against her skin until she was practically melting in my arms.
Every compliment made her softer.
Every kiss made her less tense.
And God, I adored seeing her relax beneath affection.
Finally she shook her head with a shy little smile.
“Do you really like how I look?”
I blinked.
Did I…Really…Like how she looked?
I turned her gently in my arms until she faced me fully.
“Darling,” I said, genuinely baffled, “I am one step away from worshipping you in a church.”
She burst into laughter.
I smiled smugly at the sound.
“You are quite literally my favorite thing to look at.”
Her expression softened immediately.
Then came that shy little giggle again as she glanced away from me.
“Well…” She bit her lip slightly. “I suppose maybe I don’t need the diet anymore then.”
Silence.
My entire face lit up instantly.
“Attagirl.”
Before she could react, a playful growl rumbled from my chest as I grabbed her around the waist and hauled her clean over my shoulder.
She shrieked with startled laughter.
“ALASTOR!”
“That’s my clever girl!”
“Put me down!”
“Never!”
I carried her toward the bed effortlessly while she dissolved into giggles against my back.
Then tossed her onto the mattress dramatically.
The springs squeaked beneath her.
I loosened the rest of my collar while staring down at her with a grin far too sharp to be respectable.
“Oh, chère…” I climbed onto the bed slowly, catching one of her ankles and dragging her laughing body toward me. “Do you have any idea how pleased you’ve just made me?”
She squealed again as I leaned over her.
“I think,” I purred, kissing her knee first, “you deserve to be absolutely adored tonight.”
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
I feel like I talk about this often but I canttttt deal with fics that say Alastor has a basement. THERE ARE NO BASEMENTS IN LOUISIANA. THE GROUND IS TOO WET!! ESPECIALLY IN NOLA BC THE GROUND WOULD CAVE IN FROM BEING BELOW SEA LEVEL!!! Get ur fax straight we natives deserve clarity
This chapter definitely did NOT end up how I planned it, but it turned out much better than I thought it would.
Enjoy! <3
You awoke very groggily; you tried to move your limbs, but nothing responded to you. Tingles covered your whole body; there was a heavy pounding in your head, what had caused it you’re unsure of. You slowly sat up and looked around. The bright light that seeped in past your curtains stung your pupils; you winced and rubbed your eyes.
Everything seemed to be normal, from what you could discern. Nothing was out of place, so why did your head hurt like you smacked it into something. I can barely remember anything from last night. The last thing I do remember was smoking my Camel and then meeting Alastor at that... Oh, right. The juice joint. You held your eyes with your hand trying to make the stinging go away. It was no help.
Gazing at the clock on the wall, the ticking taunted you. You had just under an hour to get ready and make it to the station. You sighed deeply and moped out of bed. Your beauty routine was not as in depth today, unable to be as prim and proper as time didn’t allow. You did the bare minimum, brushed teeth, put on deodorant powder, unsmeared your makeup; only the chirping of birds accompanied you on this overly saturated morning.
You shuffled out the door, locking up behind you. No time to prepare lunch for today; you’d rather be on time to avoid any questioning about your less than presentable presence today. You were quite perturbed as you squinted your eyes through the sun’s rays. Was it always this bright out here? You wondered as you laggardly trudged on to the station. Up the steps and opening the door, you were greeted with familiar stale air, cabling, and overly facetious witty banter that always seemed to follow Alastor.
You hurried as quickly as you could to your desk. Setting your belongings down, you looked up to try and catch Alastor before he was swept away by the broadcast team. You catch a glimpse of their backs as they walked away, down the hallway and towards the broadcasting room. Saddened you weren't able to catch him in time; you turned back towards your desk. Perhaps I'll be able to catch up with him before lunch time.
After taking your seat, you placed your head in your hands, you moved too quickly, and your headache reminded you of its existence. Blood throbbed in your ears; the backs of your eyes burned. Thinking about yourself, for once, you noticed you had cotton mouth. Today's going to be a long day, isn't it?
An abrasive voice called out to you, somehow cutting through the current deafening palpitations in your ears. “Oh ho, good mornin’ to ya Miss Chardonnay, ya look awfully lively dis mornin’, he jested and winked at you. “Dat’s alright, sometimes’a nights out can get to us all, just have a good day, will ya?” Mr. Dugas nodded as he walked towards his office.
Sighing in relief and turning the corners of your lips up timidly; that was less painful than I thought it would be. Luckily, he’s a half-wit. You straightened into your chair and settled in for your workday.
The day trudged on, when lunch time came around you got up out of your seat. That’s strange; I haven’t heard a peep out of Alastor all day, I would have thought he’d come around by now. On the other hand, maybe he had a rough broadcast and wouldn't want to talk about it. He seems pretty prideful over those.
You walked down the hall to where the broadcasting booth was, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. You stopped one of the producers on your way out of the room, “Excuse me sir, but have you seen Alastor today?” The man scoffed, “That paper bag? He did his broadcast and left about an hour ago, fine by me the less I must see of his face the better...” You walked away while he prattled on.
Why would he not have said a word to me, is this about last night? Did I make an ass of myself? You shook your head; I hope I can question him about it later. Looking at the time you remembered you didn’t have a very long break. I better go and grab something down the street for lunch. You headed out of the station and walked to the corner, a little delicatessen. Stepping inside, you were greeted with a full array of delicious smells. You ordered that new food item everyone was buzzing about, a ‘po’ boy’ and stepped to the side to wait for the order to be made.
Sulking at the ground, you were lost in thought about what could have happened between the two of you. While looking up to check if your food was ready, you saw the back of a man, tall, lean, hair in soft waves atop his head. Your eyes grew wide as you lurched forward, hand out in front of you, “Alastor!” You said rather loud for the enclosed space you were in. When your hand reached his shoulder, the man half turned around. “Who the hell is that? Are you off your rocker miss?” The man shook your hand off from him and turned back around, paying you no mind.
You shrunk away from the stranger meekly, grabbing your now ready food and somberly making your way back to the station. Your emotions were shot; you felt dejected. There’s no way he doesn't hate me, why is he avoiding me like this? I know I wasn’t trying to enrapture him so quickly; it just kind of happened. Maybe tit meant nothing; maybe he’s not trying to find a dame that will tie him down.
Sitting at the table in the break room, you ate the sandwich, which was pretty good, the bread was kind of crispy, the seafood was lightly breaded and was flavored with a nice kick of spice. It was paired nicely with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and mayonnaise. You understood why they were becoming so popular.
As time marched on, you realized it wasn’t long before it was time to go. Tidying up your workstation, you gathered your clutch, feeling the urge to make sure your keys were still within it. Satisfied, you headed off; it was still a lovely day with plenty of sunlight left. Your headache had lessened since you had your lunch, you decided to wonder about through a local park.
There were lots of kids yelling and playing; their parents had conversations in their own air. The grass was a bright, healthy green from all the rain that had been occurring recently. Taking a deep breath, you sat along an empty bench; the fresh air was a great relief to your lungs compared to the old uncirculated air in the radio station. You closed your eyes just for a couple of minutes.
Not too long after you started relaxing, a dirty blonde man with mirthless, icy blue eyes and a wide grin had sat beside you. He whistled in appreciation. “Look at the gams on this one.” Your eyes fluttered open with an immediate scowl appearing on your features. He didn't seem to notice; he was taking you in, looking over your body multiple times.
You placed your hand over your chest offended even though it was completely covered. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?” You ground through your teeth. He whistled again, “s’pose there is one thing you can do for me, say, what's your asking price, chippy?” You scoffed and moved to get up; he quickly grabbed your wrist. Your eyes widened at the sudden contact. You stomped his foot with your pointed heel and tugged your arm away.
He relented his grip on your wrist as he yelled out in pain. You hastily moved away from him and turned towards the direction of your apartment. The man was unable to follow you but was yelling obscenities as you made your way out of the park. So much for relaxing after work.
Peering over your shoulder every couple of blocks to make sure you weren't being followed; you slipped inside your apartment and secured the lock, checking it three times. You were unable to think about anything except the image that was now burned into your mind, a set of icy blue eyes and a wide grin.
ll the while, a silent shadow had crept alongside you, observing everything that had played out with you.
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The week had been grueling, but it had finally come to an end. Alastor hadn’t muttered so much as a single word to you since after your little outing. Your heart felt heavy from the absence he left from his lack of presence. Your eyes had lost some shine in them.
Mr. Dugas strolled in front of you, “Ahh, der’s my best gal! Can ya believe it’s been a whole week?” He beamed at you, then widened his eyes. “Right, ya will be paid weekly.” He held an envelope out towards you. You received it from him and looked at the grand amount of ten dollars.
Frowning, you looked up at Mr. Dugas, “This is all I get?” He half chuckled, “well don’t be so ungrateful missy, I shouldn’t have given ya that much.” You solemnly nodded and thanked him. “Have a good weeken’”, an’ try not da spend it all in one place, yeah?” And with that he waltzed passed you to leave the building.
You looked down at the bills in your hands; cigarettes alone were a dollar fifty nowadays. There’s no way I’ll be able to survive like this. You put your kale away in your clutch. Standing up, you gathered your things, taking one last look around before leaving the station in a huff.
You walked around aimlessly, crestfallen, what a load of baloney, first Alastor avoids me all week, then I had that run in with that weird guy, now I get a lousy payday. At this rate, I’ll need a second job. What else could I possibly do? A dark thought crossed your mind; I could become a lady of the night. You shivered at the thought. There’s no way I could put up with those hoary-eyed men. Maybe Alastor was right, I should just get a job as a waitress. Perhaps Pearl would hire me; she seemed lovely enough.
You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of those thoughts. I should try to buy something with my paycheck; see how far I can stretch it. You looked around at all the stores in front of you.
You decided to stop by a grocer; you ordered several items you would normally get. An onion, some ground beef, a bundle of celery, a pound of butter, and eggs. Only to approach the clerk and not have enough money. “That’ll be six eighty-two today,” you looked down at the change in your hand. Not even close to the amount asked of you.
You had to make sure you had set enough aside for rent, and after grabbing another Deck of Camels, you had barely four dollars left. Looking up at the cashier and frowning, “I don’t seem to have enough... you can go ahead and put it all back.” You quickly turned tail and marched out of the grocer empty-handed. Tears welled in your eyes; you had just run out of savings yesterday. There must be another way; anything would be better than starving for a whole week.
Everything was looking grim for you. You felt a deep despair. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and dropping to your knees, you covered your face with your arm. You burst into tears. Why did this all have to happen to you. It would have been one thing to have next to nothing pay; but to add feelings for another into the mix as well? It was almost all too much for you to take.
A short, plump woman with a sharp, shrill voice had stopped and was gawking at you. She was dressed like those unruly ladies... like a flapper. Her dress was a deep crimson color, with intricately beaded embellishments. It was cut low at the top and hung just above her knees... how scandalous. “Ya look like ya need a drink hun, why don’t cha come with me!” She held her hand out towards you. You removed your arm from your face and sniffled, “you’re right about the drink, but I don’t have any way to repay you.”
She let out a high-pitched laugh and shook her head, “for anyone who’s looking as rough as you are hun, my hooch is free, now let’s get goin’ doll face!”
You took her hand as she helped haul you upright to your feet. “Where are we heading to anyways?” She shook her head, “I own a little place nearby, now quiet down and follow me.” And with that she led you to a place you recognized almost immediately.
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A/N Here are some 1920's term and phrase definitions if you don't know them
1. Paper bag – derogatory term for someone of mixed race
2. Po’ boy – a sandwich now popular in Louisiana – it got its start in the late 1920’s
3. Off your hinges- crazy
4. Gams – legs
5. Chippy – woman of easy virtue
6. Kale - money
7. Baloney – nonsense
8. Hoary-eyed - drunk
9. Deck of Camels – A pack of cigarettes (specifically Camels here)
10. Hooch - Alcoholic drink made by Alaskan Indians (Hoochinoo), but more commonly refers to illicitly distilled liquor – I use it as just alcohol here
I'm not sure if I should post updates every time... I probably will, but I finished chapter 3 much earlier than planned And I'm really happy how it turned out. I will be updating before I go to work so check back in a little bit! <3
