same time next year? | 3•9 | alastor mating season fic
3 | Sweet ‘N Sour
this is part three of an nine part mini series, and can also be found on my ao3
part one | part two
pairing: alastor x wife!reader
divider credit: @steviebbboi
series content: fem!doe!reader, alastor is down bad and needy, male! masturbation, bickering, temporary angst, fast burn, courting, mating season, dom/sub dynamic and undertones, body worship, cunnilingus, praise kink, biting, scent marking, knotting, soft-top!Alastor/power-bottom!reader, non-sex repulsed alastor, fluffy spice
summary: Alastor can feel his mating season approaching, creeping over his limbs like an unwelcome, burning frost. And it's all the fault of the immovable object to his unstoppable force.
His estranged wife. His better half. The only other deer demon that seemed to both illicit and satiate the sudden spike of hormones and arousal of his annual rut.
Unfortunately for him, she's as stubborn as he is, and is still pissed at him for disappearing without a word for the past seven years.
And for the first time in a long time, Alastor has to rely on his ability to woo her to convince her to spend the duration of his rut with him.
TLDR: actions speak louder than words, and Alastor attempts to seduce his estranged wife over the course of a week leading up to his impending rut.
wc: 5k
author's note: wow, the concept post for this fic blew up lol, ng this is the first time I've actually felt the pressure to produce something great since it seems so many people like the concept, hopefully it's met expectations, and like always with me, this story kind of got away from me and it looks like it's going to be eight chapters of longing and horniness
plot notes: the mc is a doe demoness, she is also an established small-time overlord who specializes in theatre and is a semi-famous showgirl in hell, and while her appearance is mostly left ambiguous, she does wear a porcelain half mask over her right eye, her stay at the hotel occurs only because she knows alastor doesn't want her there, she's a petty woman and he loves it, she will be featured more prominently in all of the other parts, we just need alastor being stubborn and horny alone first
The sweet aroma of sweat and sweet vanilla perfume echoed throughout the backstage hallway of his wife’s theater.
Alastor followed the lingering aroma of flora, hand tucked behind his back as he slipped between stage workers and shadows, down the winding labyrinth beyond the curtain, until his carmine gaze located the familiar sight of a golden plaque engraved with his favorite careful scrawl. With his favorite name and the little love heart she always signed off with.
He lingered in the open doorway, cast in the warm glow of her dressing room as he tilted his torso to lean against the wooden doorframe.
A softened edge tempted the corner of his ever-present grin, blinking slowly as he watched her gather powders and garments, collecting every article of clothing set out for her on a clothing rack and inspecting the detailing with a meticulous eye. She seemed to settle on a deep red one-piece, emblazoned with thousands of tiny sparkling rubies, glittering under the yellowed glow of her room.
It left his mouth dry, and loath as he was to admit it, he wasn’t sure if he could control himself if he stayed long enough to watch her don the piece. If he could resist the urge to close the distance between them and bury his face in the crook of her neck. If he could deter his eager hands from wandering over every sequin and glittering jewel, over every generously exposed piece of silky fur.
“I’m afraid I don’t do meet-and-greets.”
It made him jerk, the breach of quiet making his eyes instantly jolt to find her eyes in the reflected image provided by her wall-length mirror. She arched a bemused brow at him, lips twisted into an inquisitive pout, fingers clasping a golden earring along the edge of her ear.
He opened his mouth to respond but found his tongue leaded and weighed down, mouth dry as words failed him.
But then, she ducked her head, chin tucked against the voluminous plume of fluff adorning her sternum as her teeth pulled at her bottom lip to stifle an unwitting grin.
He felt something inside of him loosen at the sight. Like the bolt that had been screwed tight and forcing his limbs to lock in place had been undone, and he was newly free to move. To step into the inviting glow of her dressing room and let its warmth ease every tensed nerve within him.
A few long strides were all it took for him to come hoof to hoof with her, breath hitting in his throat and words briefly catching on his tongue when she peered up at him through her lashes.
“I do believe we’ve already met.”
She hummed, eyes flitting downward as her mouth succumbed to the small smile that tempted the edge of her freshly painted lips. And, when she finally did look up again, when she finally let her twinkling gaze rove over his expression, eye twitching to every anchor point of his face, a tiny little frown tilted her brows.
He looked… tired. A little disarrayed, light grey circles hanging low under his eyes, though his grin never faltered. The fluff of his hair was unusually unkempt and messy, sticking out in all directions like he’d been witlessly dragging his claws through it all morning.
“You look awful,” she stated, tilting her head to squint her eyes up at him, porcelain mask glinting in the warm glow of her dressing room.
It was forceful habit that drew her hand up. That tempted her to even attempt to ruffle The Radio Demon’s hair into a neat, fluffed-up do. A habit she really should vanquish from her repertoire.
It was desperation and longing that prompted the sinner in question to tilt his head down just a little. Just enough to let her run her hands through the mess of hair sitting atop his head.
And it was such desperation that almost made Alastor let out a low groan of frustration when she hesitated. Right before her fingertips could brush against his burning forehead. Right before she could touch him. Innocent and finally, but it would have been enough to satiate him, even if just for a short while.
He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, letting his eyes slip shut as a shudder ran through him at the loss of something he didn’t even have.
But he shook it off before she could question his slackened disappointment.
“And you, my dear,” he chirped, forcing a broadened grin to stretch his mouth wide around his effusive declaration. “Look absolutely radiant.”
As if to punctuate the complimentary attestation, his hand emerged from where he had kept it hidden against his spine, presenting a proffered bundle of roses held together by a scarlet ribbon and his own tightened fist. He pushed the bouquet close to the underside of her nose, more than playful in his ebullient presentation of the offering.
Her small hands tentatively wrapped around the thornless stems, fingers brushing the edge of her husband's as she tilted her head to meet his gaze around the bouquet. “Flowers?”
“As you requested,” he reminded.
There was a beat of momentarily stunned silence as the sweet aroma of delicate petals emanated between them.
Then, she huffed a small laugh through her nose.
It eased something inside of the buck, and he felt his own omnipresent simper soften just a little.
“Nice try,” she crowed, smirking up at him as her fingertips traced the fragile edge of rose petals and leaves. “But these aren’t my favorite.”
“I wasn’t going for favorites,” he shrugged. “It’s a statement piece.”
She hummed, thumbing at the discolored dips in the stems where thorns had been plucked and vanished. “And what’s the statement?”
“Isn’t theatre full of metaphors?” He crooned, hands clasping behind his back before he dipped slightly at the waist so that his eyes were in line with her own. “I’m sure you can figure it out, darling.”
“Easy on the sugar cubes, babes,” Angel warned lightly, only halfhearted in his effort to slide the bowl of sugar away from his current drinking buddy, across the unmanned bartop, and out of her habitual reach. “You’re a deer, not a horse.”
“Shut up,” she groaned, ears perking from behind the bar at the telltale sound of ceramic scraping across wood as her fingertips danced across the array of alcohol Husk had neatly assorted so kindly and so unknowingly for them under the countertop. Finding the bottle of liquor she’d been seeking, she dragged it out and bounced up from behind the bar, leveling the spider with a belated glare. “I need the energy.”
“Why?” He probed, tilting his head down so that he could blink coquettishly up at her, feigning innocence as he shimmied his shoulders with a surreptitious and teasing undertone; “Alasta keepin’ you up all night?”
She choked on a drink she hadn’t yet concocted, sputtering for a response as her eye widened and her masses glinted dangerously under the low lights of the bar. “What?”
“He ain’t exactly subtle, toots.” Angel jerked his head towards the staircase with an aloof lift of his shoulders. To the swirling metal balcony that overlooked the hotel’s lobby. To the looming demon already staring at her from his overt vantage point.
Alastor straightened just a little when her sweeping gaze met his, lifting his jaw from where he had it cradled on his palm. His other hand, hanging boneless over the edge of the balcony, curled a little tighter around the parchment clasped in his fist. The very edge of his omnipresent grin wobbled just a little, just enough for her to notice despite the vertical distance between them.
“Been makin’ goo-goo eyes at ya all evenin’.” Angel’s certain proclamation pulled her attention from her estranged spouse, a warmth she hadn’t noticed creeping across her cheekbones under her husband’s watchful gaze blooming a little hotter at the assertion. He chomped at the air with a grin. “Looks like he wants to eat ya.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes, collecting a pair of glasses and placing them between her and her friend. “He’s a cannibal.”
“Not like that,” he scoffed, waving off her attempted deflection with a limp bend of his wrist. And instead of allowing her the relief of moving on from the subject, he framed his smirking mouth with his middle and pointer fingers, tongue poking between the digits briefly. “The right way.”
“Angel!”
She all but screeched, almost jumping over the bartop to pry his hand away from his face, mortification reigniting the heat under her cheeks as he cackled and stepped away from her grabbing hands. She grumbled and glowered, and then…
And then.
Imbued by static and bursting with energy, the ebullient greeting of her husband sounded from behind her.
“My darling!”
Sudden and loud, it made her jolt in her place behind the bar. And, reflexively letting out an unholy squeak, she spun on her heel and hurled the bowl of shaped sweetness at his head.
Alastor caught the ceramic with a detached tentacle of lightlessness, tilting his head just slightly to avoid having his cheek become a mess of splintered pottery and blood.
“You said you wished to be wined and dined,” he prattled on, as if she hadn’t almost lobbed his head off. As if he hadn’t settled one large hand on the small of her back, halting her surprised wobble with a familiarity she really ought to extinguish.
Instead, she could only stumble into him when his other hand acquainted itself with the bones of her wrist, lifting her arm over her head and leading her into a twirl, stopping only when they were chest to chest. He kept his hand fixed to her spine but relinquished the careful hold he had on her wrist so that he could flap a glossy sheet of paper and present it to her as a sort of peace offering. “Which is why I have spent the entire afternoon acquiring a private table for us both at this fine new establishment at the center of Pride.”
Her brows twitched, pinching inwards as she craned her neck to gawk up at him, the hands she’d instinctively latched onto the fabric adorning his shoulders curling and furling into the material. “It- You took that seriously?!”
The buck only shrugged, blinking down at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I was being sarcastic,” she said slowly.
Alastor shook his head. “No, you weren’t.”
“I was shoving you out the door as I said it.”
She pushed herself away from him on the emphasis.
And he let her. His hand reluctantly fell from the base of her spine before he could trace the edge of his thumb along the top of her tail. Before he could squeeze her waist and make it foolishly clear that the placement of his hands was anything but familiarized purposeness.
Instead, he swung his elbow and retorted with a jovial declaration; “And giving me the encouraging push I needed in the right direction towards our reunification.”
She crossed her arms, hip jutting as one of her booted hooves began an incessant rhythmic tap against the floorboards. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”
The deer demon inched a little closer, nudging at her cheekbone with the edge of his knuckles. “And I don’t appreciate your stubborn refusal to make peace.”
“Aw, you’s two are adorable,” Angel cooed, elbows perched on the bartop, chin resting on his palms as he grinned impishly up at them.
The reemergence of his voice hurled both deer demons from their personalized verbal jousting, a screech of static intermingling with the restive air surrounding them. The spider demon remained undeterred by the matching halfhearted glares he was sent, wiggling his brows at them playfully, gesturing between the pair; “Bickerin’ like an old married couple.”
“Thank you!” Alastor beamed.
“Angel…” his wife warned.
The arachnid sinner sent her a wry grin, ignoring the obvious edge to her tone as he tilted forward in his stool, eyes searching until they found the corners of the flyer perched between her husband’s claws. “Watcha got there, Al?”
The doe rolled her eyes at her friend’s deflection.
“Dinner reservations!”
Alastor answered jubilantly, holding the parchment over the lower half of his face, eyes twinkling pridefully.
Angel’s grin broadened, his own mismatched eyes glittered when they twitched back to the demoness, something a little more mirthful and amused dancing across the colors of his irises.
“Divorce papers,” she amended with a childish cock of her head and a flattened drawl.
“Don’t be so sour, darling,” Alastor cooed, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. And, almost absentminded, like his joints were being puppeteered by an ancient habitual need to hold, his thumb ran along the bottom edge of her lip.
The ruby gloss glittering across her bottom lip smudged against the edge of his thumb, and he watched with rapt curiosity as her eye widened slightly, just enough to let the light catch in the glow of her iris and evince the sudden dilation of her pupil. He made a short noise, something akin to a hum of satisfaction, when her breath hitched on the hot exhale that flowed over his knuckle.
With that, and a snap of his unoccupied fingers, he reproduced the sugar bowl and procured a cube of glittering sweetness between his claws. He cocked his head with an amused tilt of his lips when she opened her mouth to admonish his unearned familiarity with her face.
But every biting retort she could have uttered and snapped was interrupted when the buck before her popped the sugar cube between her parted lips, letting his finger drag over her bottom lip as it retreated from her mouth. He nudged gently at the underside of her chin with the backs of knuckles, manually urging her mouth closed before he playfully patted her on the cheek. “You look like you’re sucking on a lemon.”
Alastor disappeared in a shroud of shadows, darkness inking over his smiling visage as he stepped away from her, hands perched on the microphone of his cane. He left her to grapple with the hot flush pooling beneath her skin, burning along her cheekbones and making the short flyaway hairs along the back of her neck stand on end.
Sugar dissolved on the flat of her tongue, sweetness bleeding into her taste buds as she stared openly at the dissipating wisps of darkness marking where her husband had stood just seconds before.
“Oh, honey,” Angel purred after a moment of watching her jaw work around words that refused to leave her lips. He clambered up and turned around to sit fully on the stool, spine pressed to the edge of the counter, and let his back lounge over the bar top lazily, growling playfully at her through a sly grin. “You’ll be suckin’ on somethin’ else if he keeps that shit up.”
“You shush,” she hissed finally, shoulders bunching by her jaw as her spine tensed under his teasing. Her hands fisted by her sides, the small sound of paper crumpling in her grip drawing her attention down to the flyer Alastor had bestowed upon her. She unfurled the sheet, thumbs smoothing out the newly formed creases as similar lines appeared between her downturned brows, pulling the material taut to gawk at the printed illustration. “Where did he even hear about a place like Ozzie’s?”
She allowed her bemused gaze to float back to Angel Dust, waiting for an answer as he readjusted his positioning on the stool, knees dipping into the leather of the seat as he planted his elbows on the countertop and perched his chin on interlaced fingers.
“Dunno.” The spider proffered none, shoulders shrugging with a dismissive wave of his hand. He craned his neck, head tilting to peer up at her with a sanguine smile and a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. “You married a total whacko.”
She hummed, a defeated nod of her head accompanying the press of her lips and fluttering roll of her eyes. When her gaze returned to its previous downward trajectory, her brows pinched slightly, teeth tugging at the flesh of her bottom lip.
She hummed, a defeated nod of her head accompanying the press of her lips and fluttering roll of her eyes. When her gaze returned to its previous downward trajectory, her brows pinched slightly, teeth tugging at the flesh of her bottom lip.
Angel watched her, sly grin slipping just a little as he eyed the physicality of her hesitance. He felt a small teasing remark die on his tongue at the sight, and the hands that were working to unscrew the jeweled cap of a bottle of vodka hurried their efforts.
“Hey,” he called, offering the demoness a wry smile and a gliding glass of ‘Sex On The Beach’ across the flat plain of the countertop. She caught it with a deftness that eased the worry in his brow, even if just temporarily enough for him to edge a tentative inquiry; “Ya gonna go, right?”
She swigged the proffered beverage in one fell gulp, slamming the glass down on the counter with a pop of her glossed lips and a jump of her brow; “Nope.”
“What?!”
Angel’s shrill outburst made her limbs jolt, knuckles whitening around the stem of her glass as she gawped at the arachnid sinner. She watched under an arched brow as the spider grasped at the air for one astonished moment before he ragged his gloved fingers through the fluff atop his head.
He stumbled over his emphasis, reaching across the bar to pluck the flyer from between her fingers and shake it in her face. “But- The guy got you a table at Ozzie’s.”
“So? You take it.” She bumped a hip against the edge of the counter, tilting at the waist and gesturing towards the porn star with the glinting edge of her glass, swilling the remnants of ice and alcohol in a methodical swing. A knowing smirk tempted the edge of her scowl, wiggling her brows at him as she leaned over the bartop to whisper conspiratorial nothings in his ear. “Bring Husk.”
Angel interrupted his stupefied bewilderment to scowl at her teasing, glowering up at her over the rim of his own glass as she cackled her way around the bar and situated herself on the stool next to him. He shook his head in a meandering attempt to relieve his cheeks of the blooming heat pooling under his fur and looped the toe of his boot under her stool’s footrest.
“Baby, I love you,” he announced, dragging her seat into his proximity before standing and planting his palms on her bunched shoulders, outstretched arms hindering her view of anything outside of his confounded expression. “But you are so incredibly stupid if you’re gonna turn down an invitation to one of the fanciest-schmanciest digs in hell just ‘cause your man’s in the doghouse.”
The doe demoness responded with a hefty upward toss of her gaze, hands batting at the spider’s wrist as he jostled her with every emphasized syllable.
“Well, when he crawls out of the doghouse and grovels,” she quipped, overly sweet and sardonically drawled, a sharp grin forced upon painted lips. She turned away from him, toying with the ridged bend of her unused straw. “Then he can take me to dinner.”
“Well, maybe this is his way of grovelin’,” he offered slowly, leaning over the bartop to source the creased flyer she’d put down in her bid to down her beverage in one quick swallow. “Besides, if ya wanna stay pissed at him, stay pissed at him.”
She watched from under an arched brow and through the corner of her eye as Angel smoothed the glossy sheet on the counter. Gloved palms flattened out the remnants of wrinkled lines through the typography before he pushed the paper along the wood until it stared up at his friend’s dubious expression.
“But just imagine the look on his face when he realizes what kinda joint he took ya to,” he purred, draping one of his long arms across the doe demoness’ shoulders. He propped his chin upon the curve of her shoulder and stared up at her with lidded eyes that twinkled with unrealized amusement, golden tooth glinting dangerously under the low lights of the hotel’s foyer.
He watched her for a moment, watched as a flurry of thoughts manifested themselves in pinched brows and pursed lips. As humored petulance dances across her facial features. As something a little softer and a little forlorn filtered over her visage for a second before she smothered the expression with an arrogant smirk. She let out a quiet hum, leaning into his hold and letting her temple rest against the mess of hair atop his head.
Angel felt his own grin broaden at the change of expression, perking up where he sat as he nudged the slice of paper under her fingers with a conspiratorial murmur; “Temptin’, ain’t it?”
It was tempting.
Just not in the vindictive, petulantly vengeful way the spider demon was suggesting. But in a quieter, more longing, and barely-there hopeful way. One that reminded her of when she was just a teenager and the prospect of the boy she loved returning her devotion set her heart alight and made her lovesick mind spiral.
She was older now, obviously. A little more jaded, a lot less girlish in her aspirations for romance. Though she supposed that was mostly down to her willing heart being caged between the fingers of the man who’d let her live a lie that only came to light after a bullet had splintered through his skull. And then, the demon who’d disappeared on her without a word, leaving her to her own lonesome devices for seven long years before he’d cropped back up as the hotelier of a rehabilitation program for plagued and sinful souls.
To say she was remiss to know that he’d returned and hadn’t sought her out would have been a lie. A dolled-up macabre version of reality that prompted her arrival at the Hazbin Hotel with the sole intention of purging an explanation from her husband.
She supposed she should have known he wouldn’t have made it that easy.
With a bodily sigh, the ebbing sweetness that had long since dissolved on her tongue lingering behind her gums, she ran her tongue along the sharpened tips of her canines as the doors of the elevator parted to unveil the dimmed lighting of one of the hotel’s many winding corridors.
Her room was the first in a hall of vacancy, and as the toes of her boots crossed over the narrow gap between the elevator and the area it ventured into, she stilled.
Breath catching and limbs locked, her eyes twitched from her intended destination to the shift of shadows a few feet from her doorway. Reflexively, her fingers twitched around manifesting threads of magic, scarlet weaves of power curling over her knuckles at the subtle movement along the edge of her door.
And just as quickly, every tensed nerve in her body slackened and softened when the sentient silhouette of the soul she’d vowed to eternally tie hers to stretched along the flat of her door. Alastor’s shadow paused at her unexpected arrival, the slits of its eyes narrowing slightly as its shaded hand seized around the dark reflection of a rustling wrap of plastic before it seemed to comprehend just who it was facing.
And, instead of merging itself with the rest of the casted shadows in the hallway, instead of instantly retreating into the night that stretched on outside and returning to its master, the shadow offered her a sharpened grin. With an unhurried deliberateness, the silhouette of his arm extended to lower the crinkling bundle of plastic before her threshold. It hovered there for a moment, the razored edge of its narrowed eyes softening slightly before it whispered away in a flurry of casted shadows and lightless wisps.
She felt her magic dissipate between her fingertips, shoulders drooping slightly as a bemused slant tempted the corner of her mouth. Her head swiveled to scan from the darkness before her to the golden light pouring down from within the elevator.
Her roaming eyes came up with nothing.
No lingering shadows or skulking husbands.
A dubious pout adorning her painted lips, she edged closer to the glinting plastic. She toed at the material, watching as it rocked under her booted hooves before it collapsed onto its side, exposing the burst of flora tied together by a red ribbon.
An assortment of reds and pinks bloomed up at her. Blooming peonies arranged in concentric circles to halo a single blossoming camellia, the hanging spray of sedum flowers caressing her wrist when she turned the bouquet over in her hands.
A little stupefied, a little awestruck, her ring finger traced the edge of a pink peony petal.
Her favorite, she mused.
She pressed the flowers to her chest, petals sinking into the plume of fluff spilling over the neckline of her blouse, neck craning to peer into the darkness of the hall on either side of her. As though prying eyes could intrude upon her wordless acceptance of the bouquet.
Because she really should kick the flowers into the shadows they’d emerged from. She should have the sense to crush the fragile tissues beneath the rubber soles of her boots and send the floral corpses to the man who’d sent them to their deaths.
Instead, she clutched them like a secret she intended to throw away as she slipped into her room. The noisy crinkle of plastic under her protective hold made the fluff of her ears twitch. The resulting bloom of a floral scent invading her nose and sending her tail into a frenzied state.
Against her will and better judgement, a cautious smile quivered at the corners of her mouth, teeth sinking deep into the plush flesh of her bottom lip to conceal the unwitting affections as she scooped the offering into her hands.
Her nightly ritual of undoing that of her morning routine had been unwittingly postponed by an hour. An hour of her hands absentmindedly twirling thornless stems between her fingers and plucking blooming peonies from their original bouquet. Flowers were interchanged, and both bouquets she’d received during the daylight hours were rearranged to form one amalgamation of reds and pinks, all sitting in a vase of twirled glass and crystal water.
Hair pins accumulated in a neat pile next to the vase, accompanied by a quiet hum under her breath as locks slipped out of their pinned places and cascaded over her shoulders. And, as she swiped gentle circles across her eyelids and cheekbones, vanquishing the light layer of glittering makeup she’d adorned that morning, she couldn’t help the drift of her gaze towards the bloom of flora between flexes of her wrist.
The quiet of her bedroom was interrupted only by the murmured croon of her voice, an old and familiar melody echoing within her larynx as her hands raked through her hair, undoing the informal updo with a loose shake of her head. She leaned across her dresser, eyes fluttering over the reflection of her freshly barefaced expression, inspecting for remnant specks of powder on her nose.
Finding none, she nodded once at her own reflection before her eyes wistfully drifted back to the mirrored image of her newly arranged bouquet. It tempted a small smile at the edge of her lips, one that she quickly smothered with a sharp, relaxing intake of breath that lifted her chest and prompted her to stand to her full height. She turned on her hooves, shaking off the giddy fluttering feeling under her sternum with a loose shake of her head and stepping towards the edge of her bed.
With a quick brush of her hands over her physique, the blouse and skirt she’d donned in the early hours of the afternoon and shortly after her evening show were enveloped by familiar tendrils of glittering scarlet, every fitted thread and sequin transposing for the comfortable fabric of satin pajamas.
And then, as her voice ebbed into a tired quiet, and her legs slipped under the plush terrain of her duvet, a short twitch of static to her right made her jolt. She sat up, short-lived boneless relaxation fleeing immediately, duvet pooling around her waist as she twisted her neck to locate the source of the noise.
Her wide-eyed, panicked expression instantly quelled into something flat and exasperated when her roaming gaze found the old, small, wooden, old-timey radio sitting innocently on her bedside table. Right where he’d slipped the last few. Before she’d smashed them or personally returned them to their sender. Dials twitched back and forth as static popped and broke before the device seemed to settle, and the voice of Ella Fitzgerald picked up where she had left off in her humming.
Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear
Still cravin’ your kiss
I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear
Her brow arched at the familiarity of the tune, and she reached out to grab onto the radio, pulling it into her lap with a purposeful downward angle of her lips as she glared down at the broadcaster. She ran her thumb along the intricate carvings embedded in the radio’s sides, forming a familiar nick in the wood and letting knowing amusement settle over the bow of her shoulders.
She really should have smashed it when he’d first bestowed her with it.
“You’re not subtle.”
She meant for it to come out flat and knowing, admonishing the brazen attempts of the demon who she undoubtedly assumed could hear every utterance since he’d somehow snuck a radio into her room.
Instead, the words came humored and reverent, a bodily roll of her eyes preceding the sudden flop of her upper body, head bouncing in the pillow as her hair fanned out to halo the cautiously amused expression filtering across her masked visage.
The radio rumbled against her mattress, speakers echoing towards the alert fluff of her ears as she flicked her gaze to the ceiling briefly, a weighty sigh harmonizing with the reiterated syllables of the song’s famed chorus.
Dream a little dream of me
notes: So? Whattya think? I'm trying to work out my writers block by working on this mini series, but I'm not a hundred percent on my prose at the minute, so any feedback is appreciated.
the next chapter is the reason I started this fic in the first place so I’m really excited to get to the date at Ozzie’s! and then, the smut starts, so look forward to that lol
let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist by either commenting, liking my comment, or reblogging this post
comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always
thanks for reading
- route
next part
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