Hi how are you? I saw you came back after your last update so i wanted to request (if you want and if you can of course) a second part of reader with DID (dissociative identity disorder) i have some new ideas about his lore both in hell and when he was human
A few weeks after reader put his mask in a small box The rehabilitation would begin with Charlie talking to Reader to learn more about his past and his other personality.
Reader would tell more about his past, what he had to go through in that laboratory for more than 20 years How each day was worse than the last,how his lungs screamed for oxygen while he remained underwater in the freezing water for hours how his mind begged for rest after being forbidden proper rest and how his stomach writhed with hunger from the food ban and how he had to eat his own flesh to survive another day, how his teeth pierced and tore at his skin and much more than is in the first part
Right after he escaped that lab His journey to find his home and return to his parents would begin,but there was a problem The miner had already gained notoriety with the law; news reports warned of a miner roaming through various cities, killing in the most grotesque ways like tearing apart the rib cage from his victims or gouging out their eyes with a corkscrew.but Despite all the difficulties, he finally found his parents' whereabouts but things didn't go as he expectedHe expected a hug, a welcome back to his old life, only to be greeted by the terrified faces of his parents, tears streaming down their faces. They knew, they saw the news, their son's face in a miner's suit had been revealed And from there,it went all downhill.They didn't let him explain himself, justify himself, but killing is never justified.their son was a murderer, even if none of it was his fault.He couldn't say anything about what he had to go through, that he has DID and that he's not the killer,he could only leave the house with a lost and empty look in her eyes.Everything he did, the entire journey he undertook, everything he suffered, all his effort of endure went to the trash in seconds.
"And... after all that, only one thing remained for me... if I was going to die, I wasn't going to do it as a monster,I did everything I could to make amends for the pain I caused along the way and....the reason i'm in hell is because....he's still in there,over my shoulder,watching,waiting,for the moment to......act"
Now this part of the request takes place in chapter 6
After seeing Angel Dust, everything seemed lost,Sera was about to end the court.But Charlie would remember that she still had one last card, Reader,She would talk about him and say that he has all the requirements that adam gave which would leave Emily confused because.how did such a pure and kind soul end up in hell? Charlie would not only talk about his condition that he has DID but also about the many good deeds he did to make amends for all the atrocities he committed, even if it wasn't his fault.
The bubble changed to reader, who was not with Angel Dust or Cherry Bomb and the others,Charlie thought his other personality was in control, killing some sinner somewhere in hell, but no, Reader was in the hotel's main room, alone, silent.He likes silence and solitude, not because he is antisocial or anything like that But because it reminded him of the peace he felt after each day of being tortured,After the scientists massacred his body, they left him alone and crying.That's where he could have a bit of peace because they didn't return until the next day,Those short but peaceful moments where were he could breathe quietly while saying to himself "keep yourself together,tomorrow is another day"
But Reader wasn't alone, there was someone else.a chair infront of him with the whole miner's suit.gloves, boots, helmet, pickaxe, gas mask, the whole suit in front of him.After a silence that seemed eternal, Reader would begin to speak to the suit, or rather to his other personality And after a conversation in which left reader as if he was talking to thin air,and finally,After years of absolute silence, HE speaked
"I...i've been giving you....notoriety.i can give you...wealth....i can give you ALL that you ever wanted.What was it you wanted? To get rid of me? Is that what you want? Is that what you wanted but You could never make it? All you need to do.....is listen to my proposal.and the freedom is YOURS"
But reader just stood silent
"Why are you looking at me like that? I see (laughs) oh....yeah,i figured this much....of course,you don't want anyone else to die.cam you take a good look at yourself? Look at what you made.look at all you amount to.this is the best chance to get rid of me.all your worth up to this point is GARBAGE and never took you to somewhere,but i can change that.and you turned your nose up at me....cuz you don't want anyone else to die? What's the matter of keep adding kills to the kill count at this point? Just do us both a favor and do it,do it hehehe DO IT"
And with those last words, Reader took the suit and throw it forcefully against the wall, breaking the gas mask,as it fell to the ground reader ran away to his room while a distorted maniacal laugh echoed throughout the hotel (spiderman no way home reference where norman breaks the green goblins mask) and even if he breaks the suit there's always a new one as a replacement his other personality could wear.
postscript:i just realized that the song "nightcall" fits well with reader in the part where it says "there's something inside you" referring to his other personality "it's hard to explain" because his head is a mess "they're talking about you,boy" referring to the fame the miner gained with his murders "but you're still the same" Even after all the hell he went through and continues to go through, he remains a kind, gentle, and good-hearted person.
Title: No Rest for the Innocent (Part 2)
Rating: SFW
Warnings: Psychological trauma, DID themes, medical torture, body horror, emotional abuse, identity crisis, violence, dissociation, implied self-harm/cannibalism for survival, minor gore, panic attacks
Word Count: ~4,000
--- Rehabilitation Room ---
Rain tapped softly against the stained-glass windows.
Charlie had started calling these sessions rehabilitation meetings, though she quickly realized they felt less like therapy and more like sitting beside someone slowly bleeding out emotionally while pretending not to notice the floor turning red.
You sat across from her in silence.
Hands folded.
Eyes lowered.
The room smelled faintly of tea and dust.
Charlie kept her voice gentle.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to.”
You gave a weak nod.
But exhaustion had worn you thin these past weeks. The walls inside your mind were cracking again.
And maybe—
Maybe part of you wanted someone to finally know.
Not the rumors.
Not the murders.
Not him.
You.
Charlie noticed your hands trembling.
“You said before that your other personality was…created?”
Your jaw tightened slightly.
A long silence passed.
Then quietly—
“I don’t remember my real name anymore.”
Charlie froze.
“What?”
“They took it first.”
Your eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“Before the experiments. Before the splitting. Before the miner.” Your voice became distant. “They said names made subjects harder to condition.”
Charlie’s expression faltered.
“Subject?”
You gave a hollow laugh.
“That’s all we were.”
--- Flashback ---
White lights.
Steel walls.
Cold.
Always cold.
You remembered the sound before anything else.
Buzzing electricity.
The hum of machinery.
The click of boots approaching your containment room.
You had been young when they took you.
Too young to understand why adults in white coats smiled while hurting people.
At first they called them tests.
Then conditioning.
Then optimization.
Eventually they stopped calling them anything at all.
“They wanted obedience,” you murmured softly. “Not people.”
Charlie listened without interrupting.
Your fingers slowly curled into fists.
“They kept us underwater for hours.”
Her eyes widened.
Your breathing became uneven as memories surfaced.
“They’d strap weights to our legs and lower us into freezing tanks.” Your voice shook. “Every instinct screamed to breathe. Your lungs burned so badly you thought your chest would rip open.”
Flash.
Water flooding your nose.
Wrists tearing against restraints.
Muffled screaming.
“They wanted to see how long panic lasted before the mind detached itself.”
Charlie looked sick.
You continued anyway.
“Sometimes they’d pull us out just before we blacked out.” A pause. “Sometimes not.”
--- Another Flashback ---
A tray of food being slid past your door.
Then disappearing again untouched.
Days.
Weeks.
Starvation.
Your stomach twisting so violently you could barely stand.
“The food deprivation lasted longest,” you whispered.
Charlie’s hand slowly covered her mouth.
“They wanted aggression. Survival instinct. Dissociation under stress.”
You stared blankly ahead now, no longer seeing the room around you.
“One boy ate the padding from his cell walls.”
Your voice cracked slightly.
“He died choking.”
Silence.
Then quieter—
“I lasted longer.”
Charlie didn’t want to ask.
But she already knew.
You pulled your sleeve up slightly.
Beneath the scars covering your forearm were faint crescent marks.
Human bite marks.
Charlie’s eyes watered instantly.
“Oh my God…”
“I remember thinking,” you whispered shakily, “‘If I eat enough to stay alive… maybe tomorrow won’t hurt as much.’”
Your nails dug into your palms.
“But tomorrow always came.”
“They broke people there,” you said quietly. “Some screamed until their throats collapsed. Some forgot language entirely.”
Charlie leaned forward slightly.
“And you?”
Your expression went empty.
“I survived.”
Not proudly.
Not triumphantly.
Like survival itself had become a punishment.
“They pushed my mind so far that eventually…” Your voice lowered. “Something answered.”
The lights flickering during electroshock therapy.
Blood running from your nose.
A voice in the darkness.
Not loud.
Not monstrous.
Calm.
Cold.
Protective.
I can make it stop.
You swallowed hard.
“At first he only appeared during the worst experiments.”
Charlie listened carefully.
“He took the pain.”
You laughed weakly.
“No. That’s the lie I told myself.”
Your eyes slowly lifted to meet hers.
“He enjoyed it."
Charlie sat very still.
Not afraid of you.
Never that.
But heartbroken.
You rubbed tiredly at your eyes.
“When he finally became…stable… everything changed.”
--- Flashback ---
Sirens.
Red emergency lights.
Bodies on the floor.
Scientists screaming.
The miner walking silently through smoke.
Pickaxe wet with blood.
You remembered watching from somewhere deep inside your own skull.
Unable to move.
Unable to stop him.
But for the first time—
The doors opened.
Freedom.
You escaped the facility during the massacre.
Barefoot.
Half-starved.
Bleeding through hospital wrappings.
The world outside felt unreal after twenty years underground.
You remembered standing beneath rain for almost an hour because no one stopped you.
No restraints.
No needles.
No cages.
Just rain.
And hope.
“I wanted to go home,” you whispered.
Charlie smiled sadly.
“Your parents?”
You nodded.
“For weeks I searched for them.”
But the world already knew your face.
Televisions in store windows played distorted footage.
News anchors speaking with horrified expressions.
Authorities warn citizens to remain indoors…
The masked killer known only as “The Miner”…
Victims discovered mutilated beyond recognition…
Photographs flashed onscreen.
Rib cages torn open.
Eyes gouged out.
Bodies hanging from industrial hooks.
The miner became an urban legend almost overnight.
A monster people whispered about online late at night.
And eventually—
They revealed your identity.
You shut your eyes tightly.
“They showed my face everywhere.”
Charlie’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry…”
You ignored the sympathy.
Because this part still hurt too much.
“I found my parents two months later."
The house looked smaller than you remembered.
Blue paint peeling.
Wind chimes softly clinking on the porch.
Your mother opened the door.
And for one impossible second—
Hope returned.
You thought she would recognize you.
Thought maybe everything could still be fixed.
You smiled shakily.
“Mom…”
Her face collapsed in horror.
Your father appeared behind her.
Then immediately froze.
Not relief.
Not joy.
Fear.
Pure fear.
“They knew.”
Your voice hollowed out.
“They’d seen the broadcasts.”
You remembered your mother beginning to cry instantly.
Your father stepping in front of her protectively.
Like you were an animal.
You tried to explain.
Tried desperately.
But how do you explain twenty years of torture in thirty seconds?
How do you explain that the murderer wearing your body isn’t you?
You remembered your father shouting—
“Get away from this house!”
Your mother sobbing into her hands.
You remembered reaching toward them.
And both of them flinching.
Like they thought you might kill them too.
Charlie wiped at her eyes.
You laughed quietly.
Brokenly.
“I walked for hours after that.”
Your stare drifted toward the rain outside.
“Everything I survived for disappeared in under a minute.”
“And after all that,” you whispered, “only one thing remained for me…”
Charlie stayed silent.
“If I was going to die…” Your voice trembled faintly. “I wasn’t going to die as a monster.”
So you tried.
God, you tried.
You stopped fights.
Protected strangers.
Worked under fake names.
Fed homeless shelters.
Turned yourself in anonymously multiple times only to flee whenever the miner resurfaced again.
You spent years trying to bury him.
Trying to become good enough to outweigh the blood.
But every massacre reset everything back to zero.
Every body he left behind became another chain around your throat.
You looked at Charlie with exhausted eyes.
“I did everything I could to make amends for the pain I caused.”
A pause.
“And the reason I’m in Hell is because…” Your voice weakened. “…he’s still in there.”
Your hand slowly pressed against your chest.
“Over my shoulder.”
Another pause.
“Watching.”
Silence.
“Waiting.”
Charlie reached across the table carefully and took your trembling hand.
“For the moment to act,” you finished quietly.
The room fell silent again.
But this time—
You didn’t pull your hand away.
The courtroom glowed with divine gold.
Massive wings unfurled across marble pillars.
The trial had already gone terribly.
Angel Dust’s redemption argument was collapsing beneath Adam’s laughter and Sera’s cold skepticism.
Emily looked conflicted.
Charlie looked desperate.
“It doesn’t matter how nice they act,” Adam scoffed, spinning his exterminator spear lazily. “Sinners are sinners.”
Sera’s expression remained unreadable.
“The court has heard enough.”
Charlie’s heart dropped.
No.
Not yet.
Please not yet.
Then suddenly—
She remembered you.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“There’s one more person,” Charlie said quickly.
Adam groaned dramatically.
“Oh my God, another one?”
Charlie ignored him.
“There’s someone at the hotel who meets every requirement you gave.”
That got Emily’s attention.
“What?”
Charlie stepped forward.
“He’s kind. Selfless. Gentle. He protects people. He regrets the harm done in his life more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Adam snorted.
“So why’s he in Hell?”
Charlie hesitated.
Then quietly—
“Because the person who committed those crimes shared his body.”
The courtroom went still.
Emily frowned softly.
“I don’t understand…”
Charlie swallowed.
“He has Dissociative Identity Disorder.”
Even Sera’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Charlie continued carefully.
“He was tortured for over twenty years in a laboratory. His mind fractured from the abuse.”
The bubble beside her flickered to life.
And instead of violence—
Instead of carnage—
It showed you sitting alone in the Hazbin Hotel lobby.
Silent.
Still.
Adam blinked.
“That’s the guy?”
No chaos.
No blood.
Just dim lighting and silence.
You sat motionless in an armchair.
Hands folded quietly in your lap.
The hotel was empty tonight.
And for you—
That was comforting.
Silence meant peace.
Silence meant nobody screaming.
Nobody hurting you.
Nobody opening the containment door again.
Charlie’s voice echoed softly through the courtroom.
“He likes being alone sometimes.”
Emily watched carefully.
“Why?”
Charlie’s expression saddened.
“Because after the scientists tortured him… they’d leave him alone afterward.”
The courtroom went quiet again.
“In those moments,” Charlie whispered, “he could finally breathe.”
The image zoomed slightly closer.
And that’s when they noticed it.
The chair in front of you.
The miner’s suit resting perfectly upon it.
Boots.
Gloves.
Helmet.
Gas mask.
Pickaxe.
Like a corpse laid out for burial.
Emily shivered slightly.
Adam frowned.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
Because she didn’t know either.
You stared at the suit for a long time.
Then finally—
You spoke softly.
“You’re quieter lately.”
Nothing answered.
Yet you continued anyway.
Like someone speaking to a ghost only they could see.
“I know what you want.”
Silence.
“You always want the same thing.”
Still nothing.
Then suddenly—
The gas mask tilted slightly.
The courtroom collectively froze.
Charlie’s eyes widened.
Emily stared in disbelief.
And for the first time—
The miner spoke.
His voice sounded rusted.
Like machinery dragging across concrete.
“I…”
Static crackled faintly.
“…I’ve been giving you notoriety.”
You froze in your chair.
The courtroom erupted into horrified whispers.
The miner continued slowly.
“I can give you…wealth…”
The mask twitched toward you.
“I can give you…ALL that you ever wanted.”
Your breathing became shaky.
“What was it you wanted?” he rasped.
Silence.
“To get rid of me?”
The miner laughed quietly.
Broken.
Distorted.
“Is that what you want?”
His voice lowered further.
“All you need to do…”
The pickaxe scraped softly against the floor.
“…is listen to my proposal.”
Emily looked horrified.
“And freedom is YOURS.”
You remained silent.
Head lowered.
Then the miner tilted his head slowly.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?”
A crackling laugh escaped him.
“Oh…”
Another laugh.
“…yeah.”
His voice became crueler.
“I figured this much.”
The mask leaned closer toward you.
“Of course.”
“You don’t want anyone else to die.”
The courtroom had gone completely silent now.
Even Adam wasn’t speaking anymore.
The miner laughed harder.
“Can you take a good look at yourself?”
The voice became venomous.
“Look at what you made.”
“Look at all you amount to.”
He pointed the pickaxe toward your chest.
“This is the best chance to get rid of me.”
“All your worth up to this point is GARBAGE.”
The words hit like bullets.
“And it never took you anywhere.”
The miner’s breathing distorted through the mask.
“But I can change that.”
A pause.
“And you turned your nose up at me…”
The voice cracked into manic laughter.
“…because you don’t want anyone else to die?”
He leaned forward suddenly.
“What’s the matter with keeping adding kills to the kill count at this point?”
His voice rose violently.
“JUST DO US BOTH A FAVOR AND DO IT.”
The hotel lights flickered.
“DO IT.”
“DO IT!”
“DO IT!”
Breaking Point
And suddenly—
You snapped.
With a choked sound of anguish, you grabbed the suit violently and hurled it across the room.
The gas mask smashed against the wall.
Cracking apart instantly.
The courtroom gasped.
You stumbled backward breathing hard, tears already forming.
“No—NO—”
The broken mask hit the floor.
And from somewhere deep within the hotel—
Distorted laughter echoed.
Maniacal.
Inhuman.
The same laughter continued even as the suit lay broken and motionless.
Because the suit had never mattered.
It was only a symbol.
A shell.
There would always be another one.
Another mask.
Another pickaxe.
Another night.
You ran.
Straight down the hallway toward your room.
The laughter followed the entire way.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Emily looked devastated.
Charlie’s eyes shimmered with tears.
Adam’s grin had vanished completely.
Sera stared silently at the shattered gas mask onscreen.
Then finally—
Emily whispered softly:
“He’s suffering.”
Charlie nodded.
“Yes.”
Emily looked toward the court.
“And despite everything…”
The image lingered on your empty chair.
“…he still doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
Charlie smiled sadly.
“That’s who he is.”
And somewhere far below Heaven—
Curled alone behind a locked bedroom door—
You repeated the same words you once whispered inside that laboratory decades ago.
Genre: Sci-fi • Space AU • Mystery • Slow Burn • Found Family • Dark Romance
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~3.5k
Warnings: Amnesia | Survival trauma | Power imbalance | Slightly suggestive tension | Identity loss
✦ SUMMARY ✦
You wake up on a ship you’ve never seen before… surrounded by seven strangers who don’t trust you. You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember your past. And according to them.. You should be dead.
✦ AUTHOR’S NOTE ✦
This is going to be a slow burn with tension, emotional damage, and… questionable decisions 😭
we’re starting soft but i promise it gets worse (affectionate)
pls scream in the tags i feed off that energy...anywho 😂
---
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
✦ 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙊𝙉𝙀 ✦
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The Girl Who Fell Through Space
---
The first thing you feel isn’t cold.
It’s pressure.
Like your chest is being crushed from the inside.
You try to breathe—and nothing happens.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Panic hits fast, sharp, instinctive. Your fingers twitch, your throat strains, but your lungs won’t cooperate.
For a terrifying second, you think, "This is it."
Then suddenly.
Air.
It rushes into your lungs so hard it hurts.
You jerk forward with a gasp, coughing immediately, your body folding in on itself as you try to catch up with something as simple as breathing.
“Hey—hey, easy.”
A voice.
Close.
Grounded.
A hand presses gently against your back, steadying you as you cough again, your chest burning.
“Inhale slowly,” the same voice says. “You’re okay.”
You’re not sure that’s true.
But you try anyway.
---
When you finally manage to look up, everything is too bright.
White lights. Clean walls. A faint hum somewhere beneath you, like machinery that never stops running.
You blink a few times, trying to focus.
There are people around you.
Seven of them.
And all of them are looking at you like you’re a problem they haven’t solved yet.
---
“Can you hear me?”
The man standing closest to you speaks calmly, like he’s done this before.
You nod, still catching your breath.
“Good. Take your time.”
He gives you a second before continuing.
“I’m Namjoon. I’m in charge here.”
There’s something about the way he says it—steady, grounded—that makes you believe him instantly.
---
“You were found outside the ship.”
You turn your head.
Another man stands near a glowing panel, eyes scanning information too fast for you to follow.
“You weren’t wearing a suit,” he continues. “No oxygen. No signal.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“That shouldn’t be survivable.”
Your stomach twists.
“I… don’t remember anything.”
The words feel small.
But they’re all you have.
---
The silence that follows is worse than anything.
It’s not loud.
But it’s heavy.
You feel it settle in the room.
Doubt.
Suspicion.
---
“Convenient.”
You look toward the voice.
A man pushes himself off the wall and walks closer, slow and deliberate.
He doesn’t look shocked.
He doesn’t look relieved.
He looks like he already decided something about you.
“Amnesia?” he says. “That’s what we’re going with?”
Your jaw tightens.
“I’m not ‘going with’ anything. I just woke up.”
He stops in front of you, studying your face like he’s trying to catch you slipping.
“People don’t survive out there,” he says quietly. “So either you’re very lucky…”
A slight tilt of his head.
“…or you’re lying.”
Frustration sparks in your chest.
“I don’t even know what I’d be lying about,” you snap, your voice shaking slightly. “Do you think I’d choose this?”
That seems to catch him off guard for a second.
Just a second.
---
“Yoongi,” Namjoon says.
It’s not loud, but it’s enough.
Yoongi exhales, stepping back.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But I don’t trust it.”
---
“Let’s not interrogate her immediately,” another voice cuts in.
You glance over.
He gives you a small, reassuring smile.
“I’m Jin. Medical.”
He gestures around.
“My job is keeping you alive. The rest of them can argue about everything else.”
---
“You are suspicious,” someone else adds quickly.
You look over.
Bright energy. Restless.
“But we’re still going to help you,” he says, softer this time. “I’m Hoseok.”
---
You nod slowly, trying to keep up.
Names. Faces. None of them familiar.
And yet—
Something about all of this feels like it should be.
That thought unsettles you more than anything.
---
Your gaze shifts toward the corner of the room.
And stops.
There’s someone sitting there.
Quiet.
Still.
Watching you.
When your eyes meet his, something in your chest tightens.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something you don’t understand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just looks at you for a moment.
Then looks away.
---
“Don’t mind him,” a soft voice says.
You turn.
“I’m Jimin.”
He steps closer, careful.
“You’ve been through something we don’t understand yet,” he adds. “So it’s okay if you’re confused.”
Something about his tone helps.
Just a little.
---
“And yet,” another voice says thoughtfully, “we should probably understand it.”
You glance at the last one.
He looks almost amused.
“She appears out of nowhere, survives the impossible, and has no memory?”
A small smile.
“That’s not normal.”
No one disagrees.
Namjoon exhales quietly.
“We’re not going to throw you out,” he says.
Relief hits you instantly.
“But we are going to keep an eye on you,” he adds.
That relief fades just as fast.
“You’ll stay here until we figure out what happened.”
You nod.
You don’t really have a choice.
“…okay.”
---
One by one, they leave.
Jin checks your vitals again before going.
Hoseok gives you a small wave.
Jimin lingers for a second—then follows.
The quiet one pauses at the door.
Glances back.
Then disappears.
---
You’re alone.
Or at least—
You think you are.
“You’re not going to figure it out by staring at your hands.”
You flinch, looking up.
Yoongi is still there.
Leaning in the doorway.
Watching you again.
“…you could’ve said something,” you mutter.
He shrugs.
“You looked busy.”
---
He walks a little closer this time.
Not as intense as before.
But still close enough to make you aware of him.
“You really don’t remember anything?” he asks.
You shake your head.
“No.”
He studies your face again.
Longer this time.
“…that’s going to be a problem,” he says.
You let out a small breath.
“Yeah. I figured.”
There’s a pause.
Then.
“Get some rest,” he says.
You blink.
That wasn’t what you expected.
“You’re no use like this.”
There it is.
Still blunt.
Still him.
He turns to leave.
Pauses.
“Just don’t do anything weird.”
You frown.
“I don’t even know what counts as weird right now.”
That almost makes him smile.
Almost.
Then he’s gone.
---
The room is quiet again.
You lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
No memories.
No past.
Just this.
---
Your hand lifts slightly.
You watch your fingers move.
Everything looks normal.
Feels normal.
But...
Something isn’t.
For a split second something flickers inside you.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
Gone before you can understand it.
You inhale sharply.
Your hand drops.
Your heart starts racing again.
“…what was that?”
No answer.
Only the quiet hum of the ship.
And the growing feeling, that whatever happened to you…
Didn’t leave you the same.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
✦ END OF CHAPTER ONE ✦
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
---
A/N: Hi… okay, I’m a little nervous posting this 😭 but welcome to ORBITAL 🖤
This idea has been stuck in my head for a while, and I really wanted to try something a bit different uh.... something slower, moodier, and more focused on tension and characters rather than everything happening all at once. Also… I’m still trying to make it make sense myself, I mean idk 😂
I won’t lie… this story is going to get messy. Not just plot-wise, but emotionally too. Trust isn’t going to come easy here, and honestly? You probably shouldn’t trust anyone right away… not even the reader.
Also… about the dynamics 👀
Some things are going to feel obvious, and some are going to come out of nowhere. I’m not rushing anything, but I’m also not holding back when the tension decides to do something about itself.
I really want this to be one of those stories where you sit there like “wait… why am I feeling like this??” 😭
Please tell me your theories as we go!!
I love seeing what people pick up on (and what you completely miss hehe). Who do you trust right now? And who do you think is going to get a little too close first?
Next chapter goes deeper into the ship… and into the characters 👀
PS. Keep an eye on the quiet ones. And the ones who talk too much.
I just want to say I’m deeply sorry for leaving some of my fics unfinished. I never intended to cancel them, and I truly hate that they were left hanging. Please know that it was never my choice. I just lost all my files from my phone because my phone locked itself and I had to flush it.
I care about these stories so much, and I promise I’m back, and I have fresh content coming tomorrow.
Thank you so much for your understanding, and for sticking with me. It means the world.
kissing him from forehead to waist on a lazy day spent in bed just so that he gets all warm and flustered and hard as a rock before i pull down his underwear and ride him until he’s moaning broken i love you’s into my mouth
The reader is married to Alastor and accepts him as he is, perhaps a marriage of convenience. Alastor always goes out without the reader at night, and the reader doesn't know about Alastor's secret hobby. Well, the reader isn't asexual, so when she thinks Alastor has gone out drinking and having fun, leaving her alone at home, she uses that time to masturbate (the reader refuses to cheat on Alastor, but doesn't want to be a bad person to him and force him to do these things with her; she loves him too much for that). If, one night, Alastor arrives home early and finds the reader masturbating, what would happen? This would be the first time he'd seen her doing it…
BET EAT THYNE MEAL I SHALL MAKE FOR YALL
I Have Always Wanted you
Human Alastor x Human Reader
Mature Themes | Smut | MDNI
They were a pair forged in the innocent fires of childhood, back when the world was merely a playground and Alastor was just a boy with a sharp mind and a silver tongue. Her father, a man of foresight and affection, saw the flicker of ambition in the young man and provided the ladder Alastor needed to climb: connections to radio towers, introductions to the city’s elite, and the financial backing to turn a voice into an empire. In exchange, he asked only for his daughter’s safety, determined she would never know the cold bite of poverty or the hollow ache of an empty stomach.
Their marriage became a masterpiece of social theater. To the public, they were the pinnacle of New Orleans grace: he, the doting, eccentric gentleman; she, his serene, supportive anchor. Behind closed doors, however, they navigated a labyrinth of “mutual respect.” They were companions, confidants, roommates who shared tea and intellect but never a bed. For her, it was a beautiful torture. She had loved him since the days of scraped knees, holding her breath whenever a local girl confessed her feelings to him, only for Alastor to retreat to her side and vent his confusion. “Honestly, I am so glad we are friends,” he would say, his voice free of malice but edged with a sharpness that cut her heart. “I can tell you these things without the mess of sentimentality.” She would smile—a practiced, brittle thing—and bury her longing beneath the guise of perfect friendship, terrified that one honest word would shatter the only world she knew.
As the years matured them, Alastor’s thoughts grew longer, darker, more complex. He had never been a man of the flesh; women, to him, were as pleasing as a fine painting or a well-bound book, but he had never felt the pull of gravity toward another human being—until the marriage settled into his bones. He began to notice the way light caught the depths of her eyes, the way her laughter felt like a physical warmth against his skin. He, who prided himself on control, found himself bringing home bundles of jasmine or her favorite chocolate—not out of obligation, but because he was addicted to the way her cheeks flushed a soft rose.
The nights they were forced to share a room due to visiting family became the most grueling tests of his resolve. He would lie perfectly still, listening to the rhythmic, soft cadence of her breath. One evening, moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating her in a slip of silk that looked like liquid water. A single strap had surrendered to gravity, sliding down her shoulder to reveal the curve of her skin. Alastor felt his breath hitch, a sudden, violent thrum in his chest he couldn’t rationalize away. He watched the slight rise and fall of her chest, her hair a chaotic, beautiful halo against the pillow, and felt a hunger that had nothing to do with the dark things he did in the bayou.
The tension bled into their daily lives in subtle, agonizing ways. When she cooked, a stray dusting of flour might settle at the corner of her mouth. Alastor would reach out, his thumb lingering a second too long as he brushed it away. She would look up, offering a bright, innocent thank-you, unaware that he was fighting the primal urge to catch her lower lip between his teeth, to taste the sweetness she unknowingly offered. He was a monster—his hands stained with the blood of the city’s scum, his soul tangled in voodoo shadows—but she was the one creature he refused to tarnish. He would burn the world to give her warmth, yet feared that touching her would be the match that started the fire.
The topic of children became the thorn in their side. At every social gathering, well-meaning aunts and prying neighbors chirped, “When will we see a little Alastor Jr.?” In public, they laughed it off in rehearsed harmony, but in the quiet of their home, the question lingered like smoke.
“Alastor?” she asked one evening, her voice small as she toyed with the hem of her apron. “What do you truly think about... kids?”
Alastor, adjusting his radio dial with focused intensity, didn’t look up—though his heart did a strange, uncomfortable somersault. He assumed she was only asking out of obligation, perhaps feeling the weight of societal pressure. “Oh, my dear, are you worried about the wagging tongues of the neighbors? Darling, you needn’t give them a second thought. We won’t ever have children, so you can simply ignore their tiresome chatter. You are free from that burden.”
He thought he was being gallant, liberating her from a duty he assumed she didn’t want. He didn’t see the way her eyes clouded, or how she turned to hide the tremor in her chin. She excused herself quietly, slipping into the bathroom to let silent tears fall. She wanted a child—a piece of him to hold when he was away at his “late-night meetings.” She wanted the family her father had dreamed for her. But she believed he found the idea repulsive, and so she buried that dream in the same grave as her romantic hopes.
Meanwhile, Alastor began to notice a shift. He was a predator by nature, attuned to the slightest change in his environment. His wife was... different. He noticed the way her bottom lip seemed perpetually swollen, bitten raw by some hidden anxiety or passion. Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she’d worry at it with her teeth, the faintest hint of pink bruising at the delicate skin. It had become a tell—a secret sign of some storm swirling beneath her calm exterior. He noticed, too, the way her hair, which she took pains to wear in a neat, elegant coiffure each morning, would be a wild, tangled mess by the time he returned late from the bayou. The pins she so carefully twisted in would lie abandoned on the vanity, and loose strands would cling to her cheeks as if even her hair had grown restless in his absence.
He saw the flush blooming on her throat, a delicate, trembling color that crept from her collarbone to her jaw, and the way her breath came in shallow, frantic hitches whenever he entered the room. Sometimes, her eyes would flick to the window, or the clock on the wall, or down to her hands twisting a kitchen towel—anywhere but to his face. All of it was subtle, but to Alastor, it was unmistakable.
A cold, unfamiliar coil of jealousy tightened in his gut. He knew he was gone for hours, occupied by the grisly work he performed in his hidden cabin, and assumed she was lonely. Does she have a lover? the thought hissed. Is there someone else providing the fire I’ve been too afraid to light? She’ll leave me, won’t she? I can’t let that happen.
The truth was far more solitary. She assumed Alastor was out at jazz clubs, drinking and reveling with other socialites, leaving her alone in a house that felt too large. Months prior, a close friend had gifted her a “marital aid”—a sleek, scandalous dildo—hidden behind a wall of giggles and whispers. She had been mortified, shoving it to the back of her dresser, certain she would never touch it. But longing became an ache she couldn’t ignore.
During those late nights, while owls screeched in the bayou, she would retreat to her room. She would pull the device from its hiding place, her heart hammering against her ribs. As she explored her own body, she closed her eyes and conjured him—his gloved hands, usually so clinical and precise, becoming frantic and desperate against her skin. She whispered his name into the dark, a soft, whimpering “Alastor...” as she bit her lip to stifle the moans that threatened to echo through the halls. She would finish in a haze of guilt and relief, frantically smoothing the sheets and hiding the evidence before his key turned in the front door.
When he finally entered, smelling of the damp earth of the swamp, she would greet him with the same polite smile, her secret burning hot beneath her skin. Alastor would watch her, eyes narrowing behind his monocle, noting the flush on her neck that hadn’t been there when he left. The air between them, once so clear and friendly, was now thick with unsaid desires and growing suspicions—a storm front building over the quiet life they had built together.
The suspicion within him did not merely sit; it festered, growing more corrosive with each day, fueled by a fierce, territorial instinct he hadn’t realized he possessed. Every time he caught the scent of her skin—now often carrying the faint, salty tang of exertion, not the delicate perfume he’d bought for her—or noticed the way she avoided his gaze, the static in his soul seemed to crackle with a dangerous frequency. He prided himself on being the most informed person in any room, a man who thrived on secrets and subtext, yet in his own home, he felt like a guest excluded from a private joke.
One Tuesday evening, after dinner, Alastor made a calculated decision. He watched her move about the kitchen, her motions tense, hands shaking just slightly as she washed the dishes. He cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “I’ll be at the radio station tonight,” he said, tone casual, almost offhand. “We’re running a marathon broadcast, and I want to oversee it myself.”
She looked up, startled, a plate clattering softly in the sink. “All night?” Her voice was thin, barely above a whisper.
He nodded, stepping closer. He took her hand, turned it palm-up, and pressed a lingering, ghostly kiss to the soft skin between her fingers. He felt her shiver, saw her eyes brighten—not with malice, but with a frantic, desperate sort of relief. That look carved something cold and dark into his heart, something he only saved for his victims.
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Don’t wait up for me.”
She swallowed, nodding quickly. “Of course. I’ll leave a plate for you, in case you get hungry.”
“Always so thoughtful,” he murmured, letting his thumb trace the line of her wrist. He stepped out the front door, clicked it shut behind him, and stood for a moment on the porch, listening to the creak of the old wood beneath his feet and the cicadas humming in the dusk. Instead of heading to the radio station as he’d said, he circled back through the shadows, moving silently along the wraparound porch and past the rose bushes he’d planted for her last spring. He had built this house for them, with his own hands—every hallway, every window, every damn floorboard. Tonight, he would use those familiar hallways to catch her with the man she thought she could hide.
His mind burned with cold purpose. Whoever her lover was, whoever she was risking everything for—Alastor would find him, and when he did, there would be no mercy. He would make the man suffer, make him pay for daring to steal what was his. The thought of blood, of violence, coiled hot and electric in his veins.
Meanwhile, Y/N did what she always did when Alastor was at work. She cleaned the parlor, scrubbing the floors until her knuckles ached, the sharp tang of lemon and soap filling the air. She prepped dinner—roast chicken and potatoes, glazed carrots, a loaf of fresh bread she’d started before dawn. She ran her errands in town, nodding politely to neighbors, smiling at the grocer even though her heart wasn’t in it. When she finished dinner, she set aside a plate for Alastor, wrapping it carefully and placing it in the old icebox so it would stay fresh for him. She always did this, no matter how late he returned.
She glanced at the clock; it wasn’t even seven. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. The loneliness crept in slowly, seeping into her bones. She poured herself a glass of wine—just one, she told herself, but after the second glass, the empty rooms seemed even larger, the shadows deeper. She turned on the radio for company, fiddling with the dial until Alastor’s voice crackled through the static, distant and bright. She laughed bitterly. “You’re always here, even when you’re not.”
She sang along with the music aswandered the house barefoot, the cold floors biting at her toes. She paused by the window, staring out into the dark yard, the silhouette of the bayou just visible in the moonlight.
She whispered, “What am I doing?”
The wine loosened her tongue, the words tumbling out into the emptiness. “You’re a fool,” she told her reflection in the window. “A fool for hoping, a fool for staying.”
She finished her glass and poured another.
Upstairs, the house groaned in the wind, and Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the weight of secrets pressing down on her chest.
Outside, Alastor waited in the shadows, breath slow and steady, his eyes fixed on the light in the kitchen window, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation.
Alastor moved through the secret corridors of his home like a phantom—unseen, unheard, a human predator with a heart of cold calculation. Yet, for the first time in his life, his composure was fracturing. Inside him, a chaotic symphony of bloodlust and rage drowned out reason.
He had spent weeks scrutinizing the subtle changes in his wife’s behavior. To a man like Alastor—who understood the dark impulses of the human soul better than anyone—there was only one logical conclusion: Y/N, his anchor, his only true friend, was entertaining a lover beneath the very roof he had built for her.
Jealousy churned in him like a sickness, a bitter bile rising in his throat. He’d told her he’d be at the radio station all night—a lie, bait to draw the rat into the open. Now, crouched in the shadows behind the parlor wall, his fingers whitened around the cold steel of his shotgun. He already knew how the man would die. It would not be quick. He would carve the interloper to pieces, using the blood for his swamp rituals, ensuring not even a memory remained to haunt his wife’s heart.
In the parlor, Y/N was oblivious to the monster lurking mere inches away. Loneliness ached inside her, a void the wine in her glass couldn’t quite fill. She had finished her chores early, setting aside a plate of Coq au Vin for Alastor. Taking a long sip of wine, she let the warmth spread through her chest before a sudden thought struck her.
“Oh, I should let him in,” she whispered to the empty room.
Behind the wall, Alastor’s heart stuttered. Him. The word was a dagger. He heard her footsteps moving toward the back door, the soft click of the latch, his thumb hovering over the shotgun’s safety. He prepared to spring, to finally see the man who dared to touch what belonged to him.
“Hi, love,” Y/N cooed, her tone dripping with a fondness Alastor would have died to hear. “Aren’t you a handsome thing? I’ve missed you.”
He heard her scratching something, followed by the soft, rhythmic sound of a creature’s contentment. His vision tunneled. Through the narrow slats of the vent, he glimpsed only a tall, dark shadow near the floor and the hem of his wife’s dress. In his mind—clouded by rare, blinding possessiveness—he saw a man. A man she was holding. A man she was calling love.
“I saved you a little something, my dear,” she said, her voice light and playful as she drifted toward the kitchen. Alastor heard the clinking of china. “Here, baby! I saved you some of your favorite. I had leftover chicken from dinner tonight.”
Murderous adrenaline surged through him. She was feeding him. She was nurturing the man cuckolding him under his own roof, using the very meal prepared for her husband to sate her lover. The disrespect seared his soul. In the gloom, he watched her kneel, back shielding the “man” from view.
“You’re lucky my husband isn’t here,” she chuckled—a sound that once brought Alastor peace, now tolling like a death knell. “I don’t think he’d approve of you being here at all.”
Suddenly, the “lover” let out a sharp sound and lunged at her. Y/N’s melodic, bubbling laughter pierced Alastor’s heart. “Stop that! That tickles! Haha, okay, okay... no need to bite!”
He’s biting her, Alastor thought, his eyes darkening with mania. The cur is marking her in my own kitchen. He tightened his grip on the shotgun, breath coming in silent, jagged hitches. His mind hammered one single mantra: I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him. I am going to make him scream until his lungs burst.
Y/N stood, smoothing her skirts, oblivious that her life—and her guest’s—hung by a frayed thread. She picked up the wine bottle and her dog-eared romance novel, cheeks flushed from drink and playfulness.
“All right then, let’s go to my room, shall we?” she said softly, beckoning her companion.
Alastor watched the shadow follow her down the hall toward the bedroom. He didn’t see the tail flicking back and forth, nor the four paws of the stray black cat she had adopted in secret, knowing Alastor “wasn’t a pet person.” Through the warped lens of his rage, he saw only a rival.
He crept through the crawlspace, trailing them with agonizing slowness. He would wait until they were settled. He would wait until the man thought himself safe, nestled in blankets scented with Y/N’s perfume. Then, Alastor would step from the shadows and show this “lover” what became of those who tried to steal from him.
Every sound was a lash against Alastor’s pride. He clutched his shotgun, his knuckles white, his mind a fever dream of violence. He had already envisioned the ritual—the way he would drain the life from this man who dared to touch the woman Alastor had realized, far too late, that he truly loved.
Y/N, unaware that she was being hunted by the man she adored, retreated to the master bedroom. She felt a warm, buzzing glow from the wine, her inhibitions loosened just enough to let her fantasies roam free. She settled onto the bed with her adult romance novel, the pages crisp against her fingers. As she read, the story began to consume her—a scene of a husband returning from work, overcome with sudden, desperate passion, taking his wife right there against the kitchen table.
Her breath hitched. Her mind immediately replaced the nameless protagonist with Alastor. She pictured his sharp features, his elegant hands, and the hidden fire she sensed beneath his polite exterior. She wanted him to see her as more than a childhood friend or a convenient partner. She wanted him to break his gentlemanly facade and claim her with the same intensity she felt burning in her own blood.
Behind the wall, Alastor heard the door handle jiggle. He scrambled back, melting around a corner into the deep shadows of the hallway just as she stepped out. He watched her look back toward the kitchen, speaking to the "man" Alastor still hadn't managed to get a clear look at.
“Go ahead and eat more, love bug,” Y/N said softly, her voice thick with a sweetness that made Alastor’s skin crawl. “I’ll be in my husband’s room. You can join me shortly.”
Alastor’s world tilted. In his room? The audacity was staggering. He waited until she disappeared into his private quarters, his mind racing. He slipped out from behind the wall and moved like a predator through the dark house, searching for the man. He checked the kitchen—nothing but a half-eaten plate of chicken. He checked the bathroom, the parlor, the shadows under the stairs. The man was a ghost; he was silent, fast, and seemingly invisible.
How did he move so quietly? Alastor wondered, his fury reaching a boiling point. He must be a professional. A coward hiding in the cracks of my life.
Then, a sound drifted from his bedroom door. It wasn't the sound of conversation or footsteps. It was a low, desperate moan, followed by a soft, melodic whine of pleasure.
Alastor’s blood ran cold, then turned to pure, liquid fire. He dropped the shotgun—too loud, too impersonal. He wanted to feel the life leave this man's body. He lunged for the kitchen, snatching a jagged, heavy carving knife from the block. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown into dark pits of rage.
Not in my room, he thought, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards as he abandoned all pretense of stealth. Not in my bed. Not with my wife.
He didn't care about being a gentleman anymore. He didn't care about the "arrangement." He stomped up the stairs, the knife gleaming in the moonlight, ready to burst through the door and paint the walls red with the blood of the man he thought was stealing his soul's only light.
Alastor stood just outside his bedroom door, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of the carving knife. He had recaptured a terrifying, icy composure—the kind of silence that hangs before a storm. He expected to burst in and find a tableau of sweaty, frantic betrayal; to find a man to slaughter.
When he nudged the door open, the wood didn’t creak, but the sight that met him brought his internal world to a screeching halt.
There was no lover. No rival he had thought he stalked through the hallways. Instead, his gaze landed on her discarded garments—her silk robe and panties—flung carelessly across the floorboards like autumn leaves. The flickering orange light of the fireplace led his eyes to the soft, plush rug. There, silhouetted against the flames, was a shadow moving with desperate, agonized grace.
Alastor melted into the darkness of the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He watched, breath caught, as he realized she wasn’t with anyone. She was alone. But the sight was far more intimate, far more devastating than any affair.
Y/N was draped in one of his discarded white button-ups, the fabric oversized on her frame, saturated with the scent of his cedarwood cologne and tobacco. She was kneeling on the rug, head thrown back, her body arched in a way that made Alastor’s vision blur. She was lost in a haze of wine and unfiltered longing, her hands roaming her own skin with a hunger he’d never dared acknowledge.
“Alastor…”
The sound of his name, gasped in a fractured, high-pitched moan, hit him harder than any blow. The knife in his hand felt suddenly heavy, useless, absurd. He crept closer, footsteps soundless on the thick carpet, drawn in by the sheer vulnerability of the woman he thought he knew.
She was weeping—soft, crystalline tears that caught the firelight as they slid down her flushed cheeks. She clutched the fabric of his shirt over her heart, fingers trembling.
“Alastor… please,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of years of repressed love. She ground her hips into the rug, eyes squeezed shut as she surrendered to a fantasy where he was finally touching her, finally seeing her. “Please… breed me… please, please…”
The raw, carnal plea shattered the last of Alastor’s porcelain resolve. He stood just feet away, watching the woman he’d called a friend unravel beneath the force of her desire for him. He saw how his shirt clung to her damp skin, how her hair was tangled against the white collar. She wasn’t acting “off” because of another man; she was falling apart from the void he’d left in her bed and her heart.
The territorial rage he’d felt earlier didn’t vanish—it transformed. It became a dark, possessive heat surging through his veins, more intoxicating than any wine. He dropped the knife. It hit the rug with a dull thud, and for the first time, Alastor didn’t care about the “hassle” of feelings or the boundaries of their arrangement.
Meanwhile before Alastor caught her, Y/N found herself drawn to her husband's room, her steps unsteady from the wine buzzing in her veins. She paused at the threshold, her gaze landing on a button-up shirt draped across the bed. Oh, how she missed him—missed the way his presence filled the space, missed the touch she craved but never received. What was she doing here again? The thought flickered through her hazy mind, but she pushed it aside, her hand slipping into her pocket to feel the sleek dildo she'd brought with her.
Blushing deeply, she began to undress, letting her clothes pool on the floor. She'd clean everything before he returned; no one would ever know. Glancing at the clock, she noted she still had two hours until Alastor came home. With a soft sigh, she lit the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames casting flickering shadows across the room. Her thoughts drifted to the romance novel she'd read earlier—the one where the husband burst through the door and claimed his wife right there on the kitchen table, no words wasted.
She moved to the bed and picked up Alastor's button-up shirt, slipping it over her bare skin. It smelled like him. The fabric hung loose on her frame, brushing against her thighs as she inhaled deeply, her body responding with a shiver. Soft moans escaped her lips as her hands wandered, tracing the curves of her breasts, dipping lower to tease the ache between her legs. "Oh fuck," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Sinking to her knees on the fluffy rug before the fireplace, she placed the dildo down and positioned it upright. Slowly, she lowered herself onto it, imagining it was Alastor beneath her. In her mind, she gripped his brown curly hair, riding him as he thrust up into her. "Alastor," she moaned, tears pricking her eyes from the sheer need clawing at her. She was so fucking needy, her virginity a barrier that only heightened her desperation. "Alastor," she said again, louder this time, not caring about the quiet she'd always maintained. "Please, please breed me. Please..."
Her head threw back as she grabbed her breast, tugging sharply on her nipple, arching her back in ecstasy. She never took the dildo fully inside—just the tip, teasing her untouched entrance—but gods, she fantasized about Alastor taking her completely, seeing her not as a friend or a duty-bound wife, but as a woman to claim, to fill, to breed. Her fingers found her clit, rubbing in frantic circles as pleasure built, coiling tight in her core.
She was so close, teetering on the edge, when suddenly his voice cut through the air. "My, my, darling," Alastor's voice dropped to a low, velvet hum that vibrated through the room, no longer masked by his radio persona. The words sliced through the haze of Y/N's intoxication like a razor. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. In blind, frantic panic, her hands scrambled beneath the folds of his oversized shirt, desperately trying to shove the scandalous toy deeper into the shadows of her thighs or under the edge of the rug. She looked like a cornered animal, her face draining from passionate crimson to ghostly pale in seconds.
"A-Alastor!" she gasped, her voice hitching as she yanked the shirt's hem down to cover herself. "You... you were supposed to be... the radio... I didn't..."
Alastor didn't move. He stood at the edge of the firelight, the orange glow dancing in his eyes, making him appear less like the polite gentleman she knew and more like the predator he'd been embodying all night. His gaze dropped to her fumbling hands, still clutching the hidden object. With slow, deliberate grace, he reached out and caught her wrist. His grip wasn't cruel, but it was absolute—unyielding steel wrapped in warm skin.
"There is no need to hide your... little companion, darling," he murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble that made the hair on her neck stand up. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, the scent of cold night air and bayou clinging to him. "I must admit, I spent the last hour quite convinced I was going to have to dispose of a body. I thought you were entertaining a guest."
Y/N's eyes widened, tears still shimmering in them. "A guest? Alastor, I would never—I only—"
"I know that now," he interrupted, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner wrist in a way that made her breath catch. He glanced at the discarded romance novel on the floor, then back at her, his eyes dark with a hunger he'd denied for years. "Though I find I am quite offended. You were calling out my name, begging for your husband... and yet you were settling for a piece of cold silicone?"
He reached down, his fingers brushing against hers as he firmly but gently confiscated the toy from her trembling grasp. He didn't regard it with disgust; he eyed it like a rival already bested. With a casual flick, he tossed it back onto the hardwood floor, the dull thud echoing like finality.
"Alastor, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, covering her face with her free hand, the shame and embarrassment crashing through the wine's fog. "I know you don't... you don't like me that way. I know the marriage was just for my father... I'll go, I'll go to my room—"
She tried to scramble up, but Alastor's hand shifted from her wrist to her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. The contact was electric. For the first time, she felt the hard, lean muscle of his body and the frantic drum of a heart that had always seemed so cold.
"Don't be absurd," he hissed, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I have spent years convinced that you stayed with me out of duty. I thought the idea of a man like me—a man with blood on his soul—touching you would make you recoil. I stayed away to protect you from myself."
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his hands sliding up to cup her face. His thumbs wiped away her tears with a tenderness that shattered her defenses.
"But hearing you call for me... seeing you in my clothes, wishing for my touch..." A dark, genuine smile spread across his face—one not for a camera or crowd. "It seems we have both been very foolish, haven't we? You asked me to breed you, Y/N. You asked for your husband."
He lowered his head, his nose brushing against hers. "I think it's time I stopped being a "friend" and started being the man you were actually crying for. I believe we have a great deal of lost time to make up for, don't you?"
Alastor's words hung in the air between them, charged with promise and unspoken desire. Before Y/N could respond, he closed the distance, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger long restrained, his tongue slipping past her parted lips to taste the wine on her breath. She moaned into the kiss, her body melting against him, the oversized shirt riding up her thighs as her hands clutched at his shoulders.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of her neck. His teeth grazed her pulse point, biting just hard enough to draw a gasp from her, then soothing the sting with slow, deliberate licks. Y/N's head fell back, exposing more of her throat to him, her fingers tangling in his curly hair as shivers raced down her spine.
"On your knees, Mon Cherie," he whispered against her skin, his voice a low command wrapped in velvet. The words sent a thrill through her, and without hesitation, she obeyed, sinking down onto the fluffy rug before the flickering fireplace. Her knees pressed into the soft fibers, the warmth from the flames licking at her bare legs.
Alastor's eyes darkened as he watched her, his hand lingering on her cheek. "Grab that toy," he instructed, nodding toward the discarded dildo on the hardwood floor. "Show me the show I interrupted."
Heat flooded Y/N's face, embarrassment and excitement twisting together in her chest. She hesitated for a moment, her shy nature warring with the ache between her legs, but his steady gaze urged her on. Biting her lip, she reached for the sleek silicone, her fingers wrapping around it as she positioned it upright on the rug between them. Slowly, tentatively, she straddled it, the tip brushing against her slick folds.
"Good girl," Alastor murmured, his tone laced with approval that made her heart flutter. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Touch yourself, my darling girl. Let me see you."
Emboldened by his words, Y/N's hand slid down her body, fingers circling her clit as she lowered herself onto the dildo. She took only the tip inside, her virginity making her cautious, but the stretch sent sparks of pleasure through her core. A soft moan escaped her lips—"A-Al"—as she began to rock her hips, riding the shallow intrusion while her other hand teased her breast through the shirt.
"Yes, just like that, darling girl," Alastor praised, his voice husky. "So beautiful and such a mess. A wanton slut for me, aren't you?"
The crude words hit her like a spark to dry tinder. Y/N gasped, her rhythm faltering as a fresh wave of arousal soaked her thighs. She moaned louder, her body arching, chasing the building tension.
"Open your mouth, darling," he commanded next, his fingers deftly unfastening his trousers. Y/N's eyes widened, but she complied, parting her lips and sticking out her tongue in eager submission.
Alastor freed his cock, hard and throbbing, the length curving slightly as he guided it to rest heavy on her waiting tongue. The taste of him—salty, musky—made her whimper. "Can you take me in your mouth, my darling?" he asked, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Can you do that for me?"
"Y-yes," she moaned softly, her voice muffled around him. Clumsy at first, she paused her riding, leaning forward to wrap her lips around the tip. Her tongue flicked experimentally, lapping at the bead of pre-cum, then she sucked gently, hollowing her cheeks as she took more of him in.
Suddenly, his hands threaded into her hair, gripping firmly and pulling her back. She looked up at him, eyes wide and glistening, his cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop. "Did I tell you to stop riding it or to stop touching yourself?" he demanded, his tone stern but not unkind.
"N-no," she whispered, breathless.
"No what?"
"N-no, my love."
A satisfied smile curved his lips. "Then keep going, darling."
Y/N nodded eagerly, resuming her motions. She sank back onto the dildo's tip, grinding against it while her fingers worked her clit in tight circles. At the same time, she leaned forward again, taking Alastor's cock deeper into her mouth. Her sucks grew more confident, bobbing her head as she swirled her tongue around the head, savoring his groans of pleasure.
Alastor watched her with rapt attention, his hips twitching forward slightly, but he held back, letting her set the pace. The sight of her—his shirt clinging to her sweat-damp skin, her body undulating on the toy while she pleasured him—pushed him toward the edge. His grip tightened in her hair, breaths coming ragged as he felt the coil in his gut tighten.
Just as he neared release, he pulled her off with a sharp tug, his cock glistening and twitching in the firelight. Y/N whined in protest, her movements stuttering. "Please, honey," she begged, voice raw with need. "I want you. I need you. Please breed me."
Alastor's eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he gazed down at her, her plea hanging in the thick air like a siren's call. His cock throbbed, slick from her mouth, but he held himself in check, savoring the desperation etched on her face. "Oh, my sweet girl," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through her. "You beg so prettily. But I won't rush this. Not when you've waited so long."
He released her hair, his fingers trailing down to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. Y/N's lips were swollen, glistening with saliva and his pre-cum, her breaths coming in shallow pants as she continued to grind shallowly on the dildo's tip, her fingers slick against her clit. The firelight danced across her skin, highlighting the flush that spread from her cheeks to her chest, the oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder to expose the curve of her breast.
"Stand up, darling," he commanded softly, extending a hand to help her rise. Her legs trembled as she obeyed, the toy slipping free with a wet sound that made her whimper. Alastor pulled her close, his free hand sliding under the shirt to grip her hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh. He kissed her again, slower this time, tasting himself on her tongue as she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Breaking the kiss, he guided her toward the bed, the massive four-poster with its rumpled sheets still carrying the faint scent of her earlier arousal. He sat on the edge, pulling her between his spread thighs. "Undress for me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet laced with the affection that made her heart swell.
Y/N's hands shook as she grasped the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and lifted it over her head, letting it pool at her feet. Naked now, vulnerable under his scrutiny, she stood before him, her body a canvas of soft curves and untouched innocence. Her nipples pebbled in the warm room, her thighs pressed together to ease the ache, slickness trailing down her inner leg.
"Beautiful," Alastor breathed, his hands roaming up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts before cupping them fully. He leaned in, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking firmly while his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud. Y/N cried out, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as jolts of pleasure shot straight to her core.
He lavished attention on her breasts, alternating sides, biting gently until she squirmed, then soothing with licks and kisses. All the while, his cock pressed against her belly, hot and insistent, reminding her of what was to come. "Lie back," he instructed, releasing her with a final nip that made her gasp.
She climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows, her legs parting instinctively as he followed, kneeling between them. Alastor shed his own clothes swiftly—trousers kicked aside, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the lean muscles of his chest, dusted with dark hair. His erection stood proud, veins pulsing along the length, the head flushed and weeping.
He reached for the dildo again, discarded nearby, but set it aside for now. Instead, he lowered himself over her, bracing on his forearms to avoid crushing her. "Tell me what you want, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "Say it all."
"I want you inside me," Y/N confessed, her voice breaking on a sob of need. "Please, Alastor. Fuck me. Breed me. Make me yours completely."
His response was a growl, low and possessive. He kissed her deeply, one hand sliding between her thighs to part her folds. His fingers explored her wetness, circling her entrance before pressing one inside, testing her readiness. She was soaked, clenching around the intrusion, but he took his time, adding a second finger to stretch her gently, curling them to brush that spot that made her arch and moan.
"So tight," he praised, his thumb rubbing her clit in firm strokes. "My beautiful wife, dripping for her husband." Y/N's hips bucked, chasing the building pressure, her nails digging into his shoulders as she teetered on the edge.
But he withdrew his fingers just as she neared climax, earning a frustrated whine. "Not yet, darling. I want you coming around my cock." Positioning himself at her entrance, he nudged the tip inside, the stretch immediate and intense. Y/N tensed, a sharp breath escaping her, but he paused, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, murmuring endearments. "Breathe for me. Relax. I've got you."
Inch by inch, he pushed forward, her walls fluttering around him, yielding to his girth. It burned at first, a mix of pain and pleasure that had tears pricking her eyes, but as he bottomed out, filling her completely, the fullness overwhelmed her. "Alastor," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He stilled, letting her adjust, his own control fraying at the velvet heat enveloping him. "My perfect girl," he rasped, starting with shallow thrusts, building a rhythm that had her moaning beneath him. The bed creaked softly, the fireplace's glow casting shadows that danced across their joined bodies.
Y/N's hands roamed his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moved, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. Each plunge stretched her, hit deep, rubbing against her inner walls in ways the toy never could. "Harder," she begged, lost in the sensation. "Please, my love. Fuck me harder."
Alastor obliged, his pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, changing the angle to drive even deeper, his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside her. Y/N's cries grew louder, uninhibited, her body coiling tight as orgasm built.
"Come for me," he demanded, his hand slipping between them to pinch her clit. "Milk my cock, darling. Show me how much you need it."
The command shattered her. Y/N shattered, her pussy clenching rhythmically around him, waves of ecstasy crashing through her as she screamed his name. Alastor followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her, hot pulses of cum flooding her depths. He groaned, collapsing onto her, their breaths mingling as aftershocks rippled through them both.
For a long moment, they lay entwined, his weight a comforting anchor. Alastor kissed her temple, whispering, "Mine now, truly. And I'll fill you again and again, until you're carrying my child." Y/N smiled through her haze, sated and cherished, his hand resting on her belly as if already imagining it.
boys who stare and tilt their head. boys who pout and huff when they want attention. boys who get all fussy when they don't get a kiss every 2 seconds. boys who hide their face when they're shy. boys who love fingers in their mouth. boys who love their hair pulled.
On March 25th, 2019, at 7:30 in the morning, I had peri-areolar top surgery with Dr. Daniel Medalie in Cleveland, Ohio. I cannot recommend this surgeon enough. He and his team made feel comfortable and were extremely supportive. I was very nervous at the beginning but Dr. Medalie helped calm me down.
Lucifer rules Hell like a man who knows he could destroy everything with a thought and chooses not to.
That restraint is what makes him terrifying.
You feel it the moment you step into his private chamber.
Not the grand throne room with its onlookers and noise, but the quieter space behind it, where the lights dim low and the walls breathe warmth instead of fire.
He’s already there, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled just enough to show skin that looks deceptively human.
“Ah,” he says gently, eyes lifting to you. “You came.”
There’s no command in his voice.
No threat.
Just certainty.
You nod, and that small act seems to amuse him far more than obedience ever could.
Lucifer rises slowly, every movement unhurried, deliberate like he’s savoring the space between you rather than rushing to close it.
“You know,” he murmurs, circling you, “most people think power is about force.”
His fingers trail close to your arm but never quite touch.
The near-miss is worse than contact.
“I find it’s about permission.”
You turn to face him, pulse loud in your ears.
“Is that what this is?” His smile sharpens not cruel, but hungry.
“That,” he says, “depends on what you give me.”
He finally touches you then two fingers at your wrist, warm and grounding.
The contact is soft enough to make you doubt yourself, to wonder if you imagined the tension at all.
But his thumb presses just slightly into your pulse point, and you feel how aware he is of your body.
“How fast your heart jumps,” he murmurs. “How you don’t pull away.”
You don’t.
Lucifer leans closer, close enough that his presence crowds your senses heat, faint smoke, something sweet and dangerous beneath it all.
His voice lowers, not domineering, not submissive balanced perfectly on the edge.
“I can be very gentle,” he says. “But only with someone who understands what that costs me.”
Your breath catches.
“And if I don’t?”
His grip loosens instead of tightening.
He steps back, giving you space.
Choice.
“Then,” he says softly, “I let you walk away.”
That, somehow, is what breaks you.You step forward instead, closing the distance yourself.
His eyes darken not with anger, but with something rawer.
Approval.
Want.
The kind that’s earned.
Lucifer exhales, slow and steady, like he’s grounding himself now.
“Careful,” he warns quietly. “I don’t play at surrender lightly.”
You tilt your head.
“Neither do I.”
For a moment, Hell’s King looks genuinely stunned.
Then he laughs low, breathy, delighted and places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you closer without forcing you.
His forehead rests against yours, wings stirring faintly behind him, a subtle reminder of exactly what he is.
“Then we’re going to be very dangerous together,” he whispers.
The kiss doesn’t come immediately.
He lingers there, lips hovering, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter until your body is begging even if your mouth isn’t.
When he finally closes the distance, it’s slow, controlled devastating in its patience.
Not claiming.
Promising.
And as his hand slides from your back to your waist, firm but reverent, you realize the truth Lucifer doesn’t dominate to conquer.
He submits to feel.
And when he chooses you, it’s not because he must……it’s because he wants to lose himself just enough to let you hold the leash.
He dragged you by the wrist the moment he saw you, yanking you into the dark with a force that stole your breath.
---
Alastor didn’t bother greeting you this time.
Your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the frame, and his hand was already around your throat, thumb pressing lightly over your pulse.
“Did you really think,” he murmured, voice twisting with static, “that you could walk in here looking like that and I wouldn’t put you in your place?”
His smile split wider, too wide, teeth sharp and delighted.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your knees go weak. “You filthy little thing. I barely touch you and you melt.”
Shadow tentacles coiled around your ankles, dragging them apart without mercy.
Another snapped around your waist and slammed your body flush to his.
He didn’t even let you catch your breath.
“What’s wrong?” he mocked sweetly. “Overwhelmed already? You begged for nastier, darling — don’t act surprised when I give it to you.”
His voice distorted, glitching with hunger.
His gloved hand slid down your chest, over your stomach, fingers dragging slow and cruel like he was savoring the way you shook.
Then he grabbed your hip hard enough to bruise.
“You’re shaking,” he purred. “Pathetic little sinner… trembling for me like you’re starving.”
His fingers traced lower then abruptly pulled away.
You whimpered.
He laughed.
“Listen to you. Desperate.” His lips brushed your ear, his breath hot, wicked. “Do you have any idea how obscene you sound? How needy? You think I don’t hear how your heartbeat jumps every time I touch you?”
His shadows curled higher, tighter, sliding between your thighs with deliberate, taunting strokes never enough pressure, always just shy of relief.
You squirmed.
He forced you still with a sharp tug, shadows locking you in place.
“Don’t you dare move unless I move you,” he hissed. “You wanted filth. Act like you can take it.”
His hand returned to your throat, squeezing, controlling every breath you managed to pull in.
His thumb dragged over your lower lip, smearing it open.
“Suck,” he ordered.
You obeyed.
His hum vibrated straight through your bones, his pupils narrowing with feral satisfaction as you wrapped your mouth around his thumb like you were starving for it.
“Well, well…” he drawled. “At least you know how to behave with something in your mouth.”
He pulled his thumb out, letting spit drip down your chin.
He lifted your face roughly to make you look at him.
“That’s my nasty little wretch,” he whispered, voice trembling with dark delight. “So filthy you’re practically begging without saying a word.”
His shadows tightened around your thighs one sliding higher.
Stroking.
Teasing.
Cruel.
“And you’re not getting release,” he said sweetly, “until I hear you beg like you mean it.”
Surprisingly meticulous. He wipes you down with a warm cloth, straightens your clothes, fixes your hair. His touch is careful but his grin stays wickedly satisfied.
B — Body Part
His favorite on you? Your throat. He loves watching it bob when you swallow, loves the way his fingers almost wrap fully around it. His favorite on himself? His hands — sharp, elegant, built for control.
C — Control
He owns the pace. Slow when it tortures you. Fast when you’re overwhelmed. You never get to decide a single thing unless he allows it — and that permission becomes its own reward.
D — Dirty Talk
Old-radio smooth, wickedly articulate, and never crude.“Now now, my dear—do try to keep up. I’d hate to leave you behind… or perhaps that’s exactly what you’d like.”
E — Experience
Not “experienced” in the mortal sense — but centuries of predatory observation have made him terrifyingly intuitive about what unravels you.
F — Favorite Position
Anything where your movement is restricted. Pinned over his knee, against a wall, on his lap while he does absolutely nothing but restrain your wrists with his claws and watch you squirm.
G — Grabbing
He’s a grabber. Hips, wrists, chin — especially your jaw. He loves tilting your face up and forcing eye contact.
H — Humiliation
Light, classy, and psychological.“You’re trembling already? How adorable.”Never cruel, always intentional.
I — Intensity
Unrelenting. Even his “gentle” nights feel like being devoured by candlelight.
J — Jealousy
He doesn’t get jealous — he gets amused.And then he gets possessive in subtle, extremely dangerous ways.
K — Kinks
Power playBrat tamingRestraints (shadowy, silky, supernatural)Praise with a sharp edgeFear play (soft, controlled, never unsafe)Voice kink (his, not yours — he uses it as a weapon)
L — Location
He loves privacy. Locked rooms, dim halls, forgotten corners where the static hums just for you.
M — Marking
No visible hickeys.…but faint scratch marks?Shadows shaped like fingerprints?A phantom ache where his claws traced you?Absolutely.
N — Noise
You’re the noisy one. He stays maddeningly calm, chuckling or purring whenever you break.
O — Obsession
Elegant, disguised, but real. He won’t chase — he’ll lure. And when you walk into his orbit? You never walk out unchanged.
Surprisingly meticulous. He wipes you down with a warm cloth, straightens your clothes, fixes your hair. His touch is careful but his grin stays wickedly satisfied.
B — Body Part
His favorite on you? Your throat. He loves watching it bob when you swallow, loves the way his fingers almost wrap fully around it. His favorite on himself? His hands — sharp, elegant, built for control.
C — Control
He owns the pace. Slow when it tortures you. Fast when you’re overwhelmed. You never get to decide a single thing unless he allows it — and that permission becomes its own reward.
D — Dirty Talk
Old-radio smooth, wickedly articulate, and never crude.“Now now, my dear—do try to keep up. I’d hate to leave you behind… or perhaps that’s exactly what you’d like.”
E — Experience
Not “experienced” in the mortal sense — but centuries of predatory observation have made him terrifyingly intuitive about what unravels you.
F — Favorite Position
Anything where your movement is restricted. Pinned over his knee, against a wall, on his lap while he does absolutely nothing but restrain your wrists with his claws and watch you squirm.
G — Grabbing
He’s a grabber. Hips, wrists, chin — especially your jaw. He loves tilting your face up and forcing eye contact.
H — Humiliation
Light, classy, and psychological.“You’re trembling already? How adorable.”Never cruel, always intentional.
I — Intensity
Unrelenting. Even his “gentle” nights feel like being devoured by candlelight.
J — Jealousy
He doesn’t get jealous — he gets amused.And then he gets possessive in subtle, extremely dangerous ways.
K — Kinks
Power playBrat tamingRestraints (shadowy, silky, supernatural)Praise with a sharp edgeFear play (soft, controlled, never unsafe)Voice kink (his, not yours — he uses it as a weapon)
L — Location
He loves privacy. Locked rooms, dim halls, forgotten corners where the static hums just for you.
M — Marking
No visible hickeys.…but faint scratch marks?Shadows shaped like fingerprints?A phantom ache where his claws traced you?Absolutely.
N — Noise
You’re the noisy one. He stays maddeningly calm, chuckling or purring whenever you break.
O — Obsession
Elegant, disguised, but real. He won’t chase — he’ll lure. And when you walk into his orbit? You never walk out unchanged.
Surprisingly meticulous. He wipes you down with a warm cloth, straightens your clothes, fixes your hair. His touch is careful but his grin stays wickedly satisfied.
B — Body Part
His favorite on you? Your throat. He loves watching it bob when you swallow, loves the way his fingers almost wrap fully around it. His favorite on himself? His hands — sharp, elegant, built for control.
C — Control
He owns the pace. Slow when it tortures you. Fast when you’re overwhelmed. You never get to decide a single thing unless he allows it — and that permission becomes its own reward.
D — Dirty Talk
Old-radio smooth, wickedly articulate, and never crude.“Now now, my dear—do try to keep up. I’d hate to leave you behind… or perhaps that’s exactly what you’d like.”
E — Experience
Not “experienced” in the mortal sense — but centuries of predatory observation have made him terrifyingly intuitive about what unravels you.
F — Favorite Position
Anything where your movement is restricted. Pinned over his knee, against a wall, on his lap while he does absolutely nothing but restrain your wrists with his claws and watch you squirm.
G — Grabbing
He’s a grabber. Hips, wrists, chin — especially your jaw. He loves tilting your face up and forcing eye contact.
H — Humiliation
Light, classy, and psychological.“You’re trembling already? How adorable.”Never cruel, always intentional.
I — Intensity
Unrelenting. Even his “gentle” nights feel like being devoured by candlelight.
J — Jealousy
He doesn’t get jealous — he gets amused.And then he gets possessive in subtle, extremely dangerous ways.
K — Kinks
Power playBrat tamingRestraints (shadowy, silky, supernatural)Praise with a sharp edgeFear play (soft, controlled, never unsafe)Voice kink (his, not yours — he uses it as a weapon)
L — Location
He loves privacy. Locked rooms, dim halls, forgotten corners where the static hums just for you.
M — Marking
No visible hickeys.…but faint scratch marks?Shadows shaped like fingerprints?A phantom ache where his claws traced you?Absolutely.
N — Noise
You’re the noisy one. He stays maddeningly calm, chuckling or purring whenever you break.
O — Obsession
Elegant, disguised, but real. He won’t chase — he’ll lure. And when you walk into his orbit? You never walk out unchanged.
