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I'm 21, I'm a fellow ace in the hole! (A what now?), I'm nonbinary, use the good old classic they/them combo.
This blog is Alastor centric, but also serves as just my place to repost Hazbin stuff, talk about hazbin stuff, etc.
You will find: Alastor Art, Alastor x reader content, General Hazbin reposts, and more! [My yapping, usually.]
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Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people. The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Notes: Murder confessions, smut. As always MDNI
Series Masterlist
Laid Bare
Alastor POV
Alastor loved you. Body, mind, and soul. There was no point attempting to deny or run from that fact. Yet alongside that realization sat another, one that pricked at his conscience with increasing persistence.
Never before had he desired for another soul to know him completely. He had spent years cultivating his masks, carefully offering the versions of himself the world wished to see while the darker corners of his life remained his alone. But the deeper his attachment to you grew, the more heavily those hidden pieces settled upon his already sin stained soul. He found himself wondering how you might look at him if you knew the truth. If you knew that the infamous Bayou Butcher was not some faceless monster whispered about in newspaper columns, but the very man who held your fragile heart in his bloody hands.
And then there was the cruel little possibility that refused to leave him in peace. What if he had been the one to kill your husband?
He could not even remember the man’s face. There had been so many over the years, each blending into the next until only fragments remained. It was entirely possible your late husband had crossed his path one unfortunate evening. The uncertainty gnawed at him in ways he had never anticipated. Not because he regretted what he had done (he did not). But because he now feared what that truth might steal from him.
As though the burden of truth was not enough, fate had chosen to mock him even further. He could not even ask for your hand.
Marriage had never once occupied his thoughts before you. The notion had always seemed little more than a pleasant fiction reserved for other people. Yet now he found himself aching with the absurd desire to call you his wife, to have the right to keep you close without whispers from busybodies or judgment from polite society. Instead he was forced to endure the long months of mourning, smiling patiently while every instinct within him screamed that you already belonged beside him.
“What are you thinking about?” you whispered.
Your voice gently pulled him from the depths of his thoughts. He looked down to find you smiling up at him where you lay comfortably against his chest, the two of you tucked away within your bedroom with the curtains drawn tightly against the afternoon sun.
How he hated that. How he hated that loving you had to be hidden behind locked doors and drawn curtains, as though it were something shameful.
“Everything and nothing, mon ange,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head.
You smiled against him, fingertips lazily tracing idle circles over his bare chest.
“That sounds rather exhausting,” you teased softly. “Care to unburden yourself?”
His arms instinctively tightened around you.
“I was merely thinking of you,” he admitted. “And how I wish things were different. You deserve the world, my love, and I have every intention of placing it at your feet one day.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, your expression impossibly gentle.
“I don’t need the world, Alastor.” Your thumb brushed affectionately along his sharp jaw. “I just need you. Exactly as you are.”
The words struck him like a blade between the ribs. A quiet chuckle escaped him, though there was little humor behind it. If only you knew who he truly was. If only you knew what those hands now cradling you so tenderly had done. For the first time in his life, the thought of being truly known made him feel ill yet he wanted it all the same.
Guilt truly was a wretched thing. Settling deep within his stomach, heavy and sour, churning until he found himself nauseated by its presence. Alastor had never pretended to be a good man. He was not merely flawed or misguided, he truly was a monster. And somehow, despite all of that, each evening he found himself returning to you, wrapping those same bloodstained hands around your waist as though he had any right to hold something so wonderfully good. It almost felt… wrong.
Then there had been the “incident” during his latest hunt. He should have taken it as a sign to stop. You had been waiting for him, no doubt wondering why he was late, while he stalked unfamiliar streets, convincing himself there was still time for one more indulgence.
As he forced the lifeless weight into the rear of his automobile, something caught the corner of his eye. Movement. There was someone watching. Half concealed behind a rusted dumpster at the mouth of the alley.
For the briefest instant their eyes met. His blood ran cold.
“Fuck… fuck… FUCK!”
The curse tore from him before he had the presence of mind to swallow it. Slamming the boot shut, he threw himself behind the wheel and tore from the alley, tires protesting against the rain slick pavement as the city blurred past in frantic streaks. Forcing himself to slow down, he prayed he was wrong.
Had the man actually seen him? Could he offer the police anything more than the frightened ramblings of a drunk who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time?
Alastor gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. For years he had hunted with meticulous precision. Tonight, for the first time in a very long while… He had made a mistake.
The following morning found the two of you tucked away in the warmth of his kitchen, sunlight spilling through the windows as Jambalaya wove lazy figure eights around his ankles. Alastor moved between the stove and the table, sliding a generous helping of scrambled eggs onto your plate.
“There we are.”
“Thank you, my love,” you smiled, never looking up from the morning paper spread across the table before you. He answered with an affectionate hum, reaching for the coffee pot.
“Oh!” you exclaimed suddenly. “Look at this!”
“What is it, cher?”
“They’ve got a description of the Bayou Butcher.”
The glass percolator nearly slipped from his grasp. Fuck.
It was only years of practiced composure that kept his expression from betraying him. Setting the pot down with deliberate care, he wandered over as though mildly curious and rested a hand upon the back of your chair.
“Have they now?” he asked lightly.
You nodded, reading aloud.
“‘Police are searching for a middle aged man of medium complexion believed to be responsible for the recent string of disappearances…’”
Alastor blinked. Middle aged? His eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Middle aged? I am not even forty.
The absurd indignation flared so brightly it managed, for one glorious second, to smother the panic threatening to consume him.
“…Approximately average height… dark hair… last seen wearing a dark overcoat…”
Relief seeped into his tight chest. What they had was wonderfully vague. Half the men in New Orleans could have matched that description on any chilly evening. He allowed himself a slow, measured breath. That had been much too close.
By the time Alastor arrived at the station, the entire building seemed to be buzzing with speculation. Every hallway conversation eventually circled back to the same topic.
“The police are keeping some things close to the chest,” one of the broadcasters remarked as they gathered around the coffee pot. “That’s what I heard this morning. Apparently they’ve released only a fraction of what they actually know.”
Another nodded knowingly.
“I’ve heard they’ve even got a basic description of the fellow’s automobile. They’re just withholding it for now.”
Alastor’s stomach lurched. He offered nothing more than a thoughtful hum before continuing toward his office, careful to keep his stride measured.
Of course they are.
Why would they show their full hand? His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs. For the first time ever, uncertainty had wormed its way beneath his skin. He felt like people were looking at him from every angle. It was absurd, he knew. Paranoia accomplished nothing.
Yet he could not silence it. When the red studio light blinked to life, instinct carried him through the broadcast. His voice remained smooth. To anyone listening across New Orleans, Alastor Hartfelt sounded exactly as he always did. Only he knew the ugly truth.
His collar clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck. Sweat dampened his palms beneath the desk where no audience could see, and his heartbeat refused to settle no matter how brightly he smiled into the microphone.
It was exhausting. Fear, he decided, was a thoroughly unpleasant emotion. He very much preferred being the one who inspired it.
The moment the broadcast concluded, Alastor slipped from his office without so much as lingering for conversation. His measured pace carried him through the station until the parking lot came into view.
A cluster of men stood gathered near the entrance, laughing amongst themselves. His pulse stumbled. Their attention drifted toward the row of automobiles. Were they discussing his? Had the police released the description after all?
He forced a pleasant smile onto his face as he approached.
“Gentlemen.”
One of them tipped his hat, another offered a cheerful greeting before the conversation resumed as though nothing were amiss. Alastor returned the gesture with practiced ease, unlocked his automobile, and climbed inside without allowing himself to look hurried.
Only once the engine had turned over and the station had disappeared in his rearview mirror did the nausea finally wash over him in earnest. This could not continue. He had been fortunate for years. Luck, however, truly was a fickle companion.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as mile after mile of Louisiana countryside rolled past his windows. Then, somewhere along the familiar drive home, the answer settled quietly into place.
Two things had to happen. The first was painfully obvious. He had to tell you the truth. Not because he wished to ease his own conscience, but because he refused to build a future with you upon a foundation of lies. If he asked you to leave everything behind for him, you deserved to know precisely the sort of man making that request. You deserved the opportunity to walk away while you still could.
The second revelation followed almost immediately. You needed to leave Louisiana.
Distance would place miles between the two of you and whatever investigation now threatened to tighten around his neck. It would pull you safely beyond the reach of curious detectives, whispering neighbors, and the endless expectations of New Orleans society.
And, perhaps most beautifully of all… It would free you from mourning. No one in some quiet town hundreds of miles away would know you were expected to remain in black for another year and a half. No one would care how recently you’d been widowed or whether propriety dictated patience before another marriage.
You could simply be a woman. He could simply be your husband. The thought should have filled him with hope. Instead, dread settled heavily in his chest.
Because before he could ask you to run away with him… He would have to tell you that the Bayou Butcher had been sharing your bed every night for the past several months.
By the time he pulled into his drive, the decision had settled firmly in his mind.
His gaze drifted instinctively toward your cottage only a few yards away, and for one fleeting, shameful moment he nearly abandoned every ounce of resolve he possessed. It would have been so easy to cross the garden as he always did, gather you into his arms, steal a kiss, and pretend none of this existed.
Instead, he remained where he was. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, he rested both hands upon the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
He understood now that the next few hours would determine the course of the rest of his life. By nightfall, you would either condemn him for the monster he truly was…Or you would choose him. There was to be no middle ground. Though deep down he knew a woman such as yourself would never choose the monster. Oddly enough, he had made peace with telling you the truth. You deserved nothing less. If he truly loved you, then he owed you every terrible corner of himself, no matter how grotesque they might appear beneath the light.
Whether you accepted them… That was never his decision to make. Still…He was, at his very core, a profoundly selfish man.
He intended to savor every smile you offered him, every gentle touch, every lingering kiss, every whispered my love that fell from your lips before the illusion shattered. If those precious moments were to be his last, then he would commit each one to memory.
“Hello, my darling,” you smiled as he ascended the back steps of your cottage just before nightfall.
Before he could utter so much as a greeting, you slipped your arms around him, drawing him close.
His resolve faltered immediately. The thin cotton of your nightgown caught the fading light, skimming the graceful lines of your figure as the evening breeze stirred its hem. You looked impossibly lovely, waiting there for him with that gentle smile that never failed to undo him. God, how perfectly you suited him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands instinctively finding your waist. “I simply couldn’t wait to see you any longer. I…”
This was it…The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, every sentence rehearsed a dozen times during the drive home. He had come to strip away every carefully constructed facade, to lay bare the man and the monster alike, and allow you to judge them both.
But then your lips found his. As though kissing him was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers slipped around the nape of his neck, disappearing into the chestnut curls at its base as you drew him nearer still.
The speech dissolved of course. A quiet sigh escaped him into the kiss as his eyes drifted shut, every dreadful thought momentarily swept away by the simple miracle of having you in his arms.
This! This was all he had ever truly wanted, though he had not realized it until you. He would gladly surrender every sin, every dark ritual that had once brought him satisfaction. He vowed to abandon the hunt forever if it meant waking each morning beside you for the rest of his days.
And with that silent vow, Alastor granted himself one final indulgence. Just one fleeting moment beneath the blissful veil of new love, before truth came crashing through it.
He surrendered himself completely to your embrace, gathering you against him with newfound urgency. A soft gasp escaped your lips as he drew you flush to his chest, kissing you with a tenderness edged by quiet desperation, as though he were trying to memorize the very feeling of you.
You smiled against his lips, breathless.
“Did you miss me?”
He rested his forehead against yours, unable to suppress the small, affectionate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Most ardently,” he murmured before stealing another lingering kiss.
Walking you away from the open doorway, he didn’t care at this moment if anyone were to see the two of you. Nothing mattered anymore. He kissed you through every step as you moved within the house. A passionate dance the two of you had come to learn through one another. He’d savor every second that this final act would provide him.
When the back of your legs hit your mattress you gasped as you fell back. He took his place between your legs, pushing your nightgown up to expose your beautiful unclothed cunt. He stopped for a moment to admire the sight.
His plan had diverted in that moment at the stairs in a cruel selfish way, but he figured as it was to be the last time he’d know you this way, he may as well enjoy his damnation.
Alastor loved you, yes. But he was still a cruel, selfish monster. The new plan was to make you drunk on his love so as to enjoy you carnally one last time.
Slipping to his knees he completely ignored the way his own arousal strained at the confines of his trousers. Too focused in that moment on savoring your taste.
Using his thumbs to part your slick folds he wrapped his lips around that little bundle of nerves and sucked, eliciting noises from you that made his heart sing and his cock twitch. You were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted and he’d gladly devour you for an eternity if permissed.
You writhed beneath him, he seemed hungrier than normal. Gone was the gentle lover who had stolen countless nights. He was moving like a man who had only hours to live and you were his final meal.
“Ah, ah, Alastor,” you gasped as his tongue delved into your needy cunt. “What ever has gotten into you?”
He didn’t answer. As he was much too taken by the consumption of you. His focus was solely on the two fingers he slid between your folds as he continued his assault on your clit. Curling them ever so slightly up into that one spot made your back arch off the mattress.
The waves of pleasure were intoxicating as he worked his fingers inside of you. Unable to stifle the moans as your orgasm crashed over you all too quickly. Fully subdued in your pleasured haze it wasn’t until you heard his belt buckle unfastening that you rose up on your elbows to watch. You’d begged him more than once to fuck you again. However up until this moment the two of you had only ever truly made love that one time in the greenhouse.
“I’m afraid tonight I know no restraint, mon amour.” Alastor muttered darkly, as he worked his thick length up and down, tearing his eyes away from your core only to catch your curious gaze with his own heavy lidded one. You’d never seen him like this.
“Please, Alastor” was all you managed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to once again feel him nestled deep within you. Lining himself up he rubbed his heavy cock head along your slit gathering the residuals of your orgasm, as he readied you for his intrusion.
The stretch was intense, but nothing like the first time. This time your body welcomed him as if this was the only correct thing in the world. Pulling him in with every moan and gasp that escaped your sweet lips. You were utterly full of him in the loveliest of ways.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he moaned as he bottomed out, pelvis rubbing along your overly sensitive clit, unable to keep himself still once surrounded by your gummy walls. The squeeze was delicious as he began to rock slowly, testing just how ready you were.
Your own gasps were the only answer you could manage, as you peered down at the union of your bodies. Hoisting your leg up and giving himself a better angle, he pulled out just enough for you to see your own slick glistening on his shaft before plunging back in. He was trying to go slow, truly. To enjoy every second of what was apt to be the last time he was ever to enjoy something as sweet and innocent as you. But the monster inside of him was begging for more. More movement, more passion, more of you.
And so he indulged, fucking you senseless. Groping your chest, pinching your pert nipples and making you moan, he bent down to capture your lips in order to drink up every last gasp. Your hands roamed over his strong shoulders and slid up into his dark curls, tangling themselves in an attempt to anchor yourself to him. Your hips moved to meet his, desperate for everything he had to offer.
Pulling back, he searched your tear brightened eyes. He wanted nothing more than to remember you exactly as you were in this moment. Hair tousled, lips kiss swollen, cheeks damp with pleasured tears, beautiful beyond anything he had ever dared imagine. Were anyone near enough to the cracked window they would have no doubt heard the most salacious noises known to man. Both lost in one another neither of you cared to keep quiet. This kind of love was something not meant to be hidden or kept covered. It was loud, intense, and real. Alastor knew this now.
And when he felt your walls fluttering around his cock he knew you were once again at that peak. Slipping one hand between your sweat slick bodies, he found that spot again and rubbed, as another orgasm washed over you. Fuck. He cursed internally, as your walls grasped what little restraint he had tried to hold over his body away. He hadn’t wanted to come before undoing you at least one more time. But the human body is not always one to oblige.
Leaning down into your neck he panted, screwing his eyes shut, willing his own tears away as his hips rutted into you, burying himself somehow impossibly deeper. He came with your name desperate on his lips. Uttering sweet devotions and promises he knew not if he would be able to keep. Silently pleading that he would never lose the woman who had so completely, so irrevocably, become his heart as he painted your walls with thick ropes of hot seed.
When at last peace settled over you both, leaving nothing but tangled limbs, damp skin, and two hearts beating in quiet unison, Alastor gathered what little courage remained. He could not allow you to fall asleep beside a monster without knowing precisely what sort of man held you in his arms.
“Cher,” he murmured.
“Hm?” you answered softly, already nestled beneath his chin, perfectly content to drift off there against him.
His fingers brushed absentmindedly through your hair, lingering as though it might be the last time he was ever permitted such a privilege.
“Would you still love me,” he asked at last, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, “if you knew the evil things I have done?”
One eye cracked open to peer up at him, heavy with sleep.
“That depends, Alastor.”
He swallowed.
“Would you still love me if you knew of mine?”
A quiet, humorless laugh escaped him. Impossible. Whatever sins weighed upon your conscience could never rival his own.
“Cher…” He hesitated, his throat suddenly dry. “I’ve done things I cannot undo. Terrible things. Things I believe would make you despise me.”
You frowned faintly, lifting your head just enough to study his face.
“I know not what you mean, my love.”
He closed his eyes for only a heartbeat before forcing the words free.
“I believe…” He drew a slow breath. “I believe I am responsible for your husband’s death.”
His confession was greeted with silence. For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face. Then, to Alastor’s complete bewilderment, the corners of your mouth curled upward.
“Nonsense, darling,” you replied with an amused little smile. “That would be quite impossible.”
His brow furrowed.
“No, you don’t understand. I am not a good man.”
“I never asked you to be.”
“No…” he insisted quietly. “You truly don’t understand.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek with infuriating tenderness before giving your head a small shake.
“I don’t particularly care whether you’re a killer, Alastor nor for any sins you have commited.”
His breath caught.
“But I do know, beyond all doubt, that you had absolutely nothing to do with my late husband’s death.”
He stared at you, utterly lost.
“…How could you possibly know that?”
Your smile widened, equal parts sweet and wicked.
“Oh, that’s rather simple.”
You settled comfortably back against his chest, as though remarking upon tomorrow’s weather instead of confessing to murder.
ik I make a lot of jokes about being addicted to writing but oh my god I think I'm actually addicted
ellipsus keeps crashing and I can't edit anything so now I'm pacing around my room and biting my nails like I'm gonna fucking die if I don't get some words down 😭😭😭😭
ellipsus come back to me my love..... please I have cuckhold torture porn I need to write....
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people. The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Warnings: lots of oral and masturbation
Series Masterlist
Spills
It is safe to say neither you nor Alastor had any notion of the floodgates the two of you had opened with one single fuck. He was starving. You were just as hungry.
The two of you found any and every excuse to steal one another’s time. Beneath the respectable guise of tending the garden or exchanging harmless neighborly favors. He would appear to mend a loose gutter or “borrow” a bit of baking soda despite having a perfectly full tin sitting untouched in his own pantry. You found yourself lingering on your porch just a little longer each afternoon, hoping to catch the familiar rumble of his automobile or the sight of his handsome figure making his way across the property line.
And each night he would come to you. The two of you would quietly explore the intimacy your marriage had been void of. He’d given you a couple days to heal, even after you begged him otherwise.
“Nonsense cher, you need to let your body heal after your first time. We aren’t animals.” He had whispered into your hair when you had tried to draw him into your bedroom the night after the greenhouse. You were incredibly sore, but the need to feel more of him had you wanting to protest otherwise.
So for three days he’d kiss you until your lips were bruised but always withdrew until the soreness had subsided and you were fully healed. Ever the gentle lover. Dear Alastor.
After his mandatory waiting period you were perfectly abuzz with excitement the entire day. How you longed to feel him in that carnal way again. Patiently you went about your day tending to the house, washing your sheets, in an excited preparation of what was to come. Since your house was the more hidden one from prying eyes,locationally, it had been quietly agreed upon this would be the rendezvous area.
Having prepared a simple meal, you hoped you did not seem too presumptuous. He had told you the day before that he would arrive around nine, as soon as his evening radio broadcast had concluded.
Drying your hands absently upon your apron, you caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, smoothing an errant strand of hair behind your ear before the low rumble of an automobile drifted through the evening from somewhere down the road.
A smile found you before you could stop it.
You busied yourself setting the table, straightening silverware that had already been arranged to perfection, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from the tablecloth simply for something to occupy your restless hands. Before long, a gentle, familiar rap sounded against the back door.
You hurried to answer it. The moment the door swung open, your breath caught.
He looked almost ethereal standing beneath the warm glow of the porch lamp, his suit jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, dark hair just slightly mussed from the long drive home. That familiar smirk tugged at his lips, and all you could think about were those very lips and how desperately you had missed kissing them.
“Good evening, cher,” he murmured.
Before you could utter so much as a greeting, he swept you into his arms and captured your mouth in a soft lingering kiss.
He tasted faintly of cigarette smoke and good whiskey.
“Forgive me,” he said, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “The fellows at the station insisted on a drink after the broadcast concluded. I escaped as quickly as I could.”
“Nonsense, Alastor,” you smiled, stealing another gentle kiss. “You’re here now, that’s enough for me.”
Stepping fully into the cottage, his gaze immediately fell upon the little table waiting in the kitchen.
“You cooked?” he exclaimed, genuine surprise warming his voice as he wandered closer.
The rich aroma of pot roast and vegetables filled the room, the home cooked meal having simmered low and slow for most of the afternoon.
“Cher…” He looked back at you with a smile so wide it made your heart flutter. “This looks absolutely wonderful.”
Warmth rushed to your cheeks beneath his praise.
“You’ll make it go cold if you keep admiring it instead of eating it,” you teased, motioning toward a chair for him to sit in. And with a chuckle, he obliged.
The two of you settled across from one another, the little cottage wrapped in an easy, peaceful silence. You realized, with no small measure of surprise, that this humble supper felt warmer and more intimate than any lavish dinner you had ever shared with your late husband.
You knew what was coming, you’d catch the mischievous hunger that glinted in his eyes when you caught his gaze across the table. The waiting period was over. He was to have his way with you again and your heart was racing at what was to come after three agonizing days.
After dinner the two of you worked diligently to clear the table, scraping the dishes and putting them into the washbasin, where you assured him they’d be fine overnight.
“I refuse to leave you with a house to clean at my expense.” Alastor had protested, turning on the tap and rolling up his sleeves to reveal his delicious forearms. And so for several more agonizing minutes, the man you loved, edged you with dish washing and kitchen cleaning, brushing up against you just so, pressing his crotch into your backside as he reached over you to hang the pot back on its hook on the wall.
God he was driving you mad. Whipping around with a gasp you noticed the small smirk upon his face. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Well I guess that’s about it then.” He said softly as you put the last spoon away and turned to him.
“Shall we make our way to the bedroom amor?” He said, taking your hand in his as you nodded breathlessly. You had been anticipating this all night.
“Undress for me cher.” He murmured as he began unbuttoning his own dress shirt.
Looking up you were suddenly self-aware of what was about to transpire. The first time you’d been nearly fully clothed, now he was to see your nakedness fully.
“I want to see you touch yourself, I’ll talk you through it. It is only right for a woman to know her own body.”
Nodding you slipped from your dress and chemise now standing before him in nothing but your stockings in underwear his breath hitches at the sight of your bare breasts.
“Beautiful” he whispered, already making quick work of his trousers. You take this time to shed the last of your clothing.
“Lay down on the bed and spread your legs, I want to see you glisten.”
He stood at the foot of the bed, looming over you, working his length in his hand as your fingers tentatively explored the parts of you society had told you were never to be discovered except by your own partner.
Now you lay here in front of this beautiful man as he talked you through the act of masturbation. How to find your clit, rubbing it then dipping between your delicate slit and gathering the oozing desire and using it to help your fingers glide between the folds of your cunt.
“I want you something terrible, but I’m afraid, I may not be able to withdraw myself in time, so I’m afraid we will have to make do with other forms of love making, amour” Alastor moaned as he watched you fuck yourself with your fingers for the first time. Your needy gasps spurred him on, as he worked his heavy cock faster, taking the oozing drip of precum that had gathered at the tip to slicken his palm as he bucked into it. Chasing the feeling your needy cunt would give him had he lessened his resolve.
“I promise I will make you feel just as good, you just have to let me do as I please? Will you allow me to taste you mon ange?”
His words scandalized you, placing his perfect mouth, down there?? You started to get up on your elbows in an effort to protest but he was already on his knees, his face between your thighs, his soft curls brushing up against the inside of your thighs as he dipped down. His nose and mustache tickled your clit as he nuzzled your folds.
And my god, the sensation you felt when he latched onto your clit, suckling at the little nub of nerves causing your back to arch up from the mattress and your fingers to tangle into his hair. You had no clue if you were trying to pull him away or push him down harder. It was delicious.
“Oh, oh my god Alastor.” You mewled as he suckled and lapped at your core.
“Isn’t this? Isn’t it wrong?”
“Is it wrong for a man to love a woman?” He gasped, pulling away just enough to slide two long slim fingers into your weeping cunt. Looking down between your legs you just about came right there, this perfect man doing everything in his power to make you feel like you were touching the heavens.
“I’m, I’m.” You gasped as he slipped in another finger working you until your soft spongy walls began to spasm, and proof of your orgasm leaked between his quick moving fingers. Only when your shuddering breaths had stilled did he reintroduce his tongue, lapping up the slick from between your thighs before licking his fingers one by one.
“You taste amazing amour.” He beamed, never once breaking eye contact.
Falling back onto your pillows you sighed, your legs felt like jelly and your heart was still pounding when you remembered Alastor had been so busy taking care of you, he hadn’t been able to tend to himself.
“Wait!” You gasped sitting up on your elbows to see him pulling his trousers back up, his arousal still very apparent.
“What about you?” You glanced down at his heavy cock that he was struggling to tuck back into his pants. When he stopped.
“Tonight was about you, anour.” He said simply.
“Is…” you stopped yourself almost too embarrassed with your own thoughts to continue. He cocked an eyebrow as you tried to speak again.
“Is there, something…I can do… that still prevents um… you know,” you hoped your glance at your stomach was enough to get your point across so you wouldn’t have to say more.
“There…are ways” he said slowly. Making no move towards you.
“But, I don’t want you to ever feel obligated to take care of me. I am perfectly capable, and like I said, tonight was all about you.” He moved forward to caress your head, smoothing away the stay hairs that clung to your cooling skin.
“What if I want to learn? How to make my partner…feel just as good as he made me feel?” You asked earnestly looking up at him.
“Fuck” he muttered. And you could see the internal turmoil he was dealing with. “Mon ange, you do know how to weaken a man’s resolve.”
“Please, Alastor.” You begged again. Grabbing his wrist from your face and kissing his knuckles gently.
“There are… well you could take me in your mouth.” Your cheeks blushed instantly at his words. But your mouth watered at the thought.
“But there are other things we could-“
“No,” you cut him off. “That is what I want to do.”
“Fuck.” Was all he managed as you slid off the bed and positioned yourself on your knees in front of him.
Hastily he undid his trousers again, angry cock springing free. Licking your lips you inched forward, your hands hovering waiting for his instruction or permission, you weren’t quite sure.
“You can touch it.” He whispered breathlessly as you began your exploration. It was warm and big, veiny and thick. He shuddered when you first grasped it. Spurred on by the noises he made you felt emboldened. You wanted to hear more.
And when your lips parted and you licked the tip he audibly gasped, hand flying to tangle in your tresses.
“Yes, fuck, just like that.” He moaned as he guided his cock between your lips filling your mouth with as much of his thick cock as he could without causing you discomfort.
“God you feel amazing, cher.” He gasped, leading his length further into your throat. You took it like a champ, wanting morning more than to see him undone just as he had done to you. Bobbing back and forth, gagging as saliva spilled from your lips and coated his length allowing him even easier entry.
“I’m afraid I won’t last long. I was so worked up from finger fucking you mon ange” he excused himself breathlessly. “But I fear you won’t want your lips around me when. I. When I - fuck!”
Alastor withdrew quickly, pushing your face off with more force than you were expecting as he spilled out onto your neck and face.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” He chanted, trying to aim away, spilling the rest of his orgasm into his palm before he was able to catch a breath.
“God, I am so sorry my darling.” He signed. “In no way should I have defiled you that way.”
Startled scarcely began to describe what you felt as you timidly lifted a hand to swipe up some of his hot seed.
“It’s…warm.” You whispered, and he lifted his gaze to meet yours, a warm blush creeping across his cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah it’s warm.” He agreed timidly, visibly embarrassed by what had just transpired.
And oh, how his madness deepened when you hesitantly swept a stray, glistening strand from your cheek with the pad of your finger, only to draw it between your lips with absentminded innocence. The sight struck him like a blow. God help him, you were going to be the death of him.
“Mm. Perhaps next time… you might not withdraw.” You suggested softly, savoring the salty unique flavor of him.
That alone could have brought Alastor to his knees all over again.
“Damn you, woman,” he breathed, watching as you drew your seed soiled fingertips between your lips. A shaky laugh escaped him as he dragged a hand over his face. “Damn you, and whatever dark magic you possess over me.”
I just signed up for Stat and Quant classes I feel sick taking them both in one semester but I’m so ready to be done 💀 can I please request a studious Al to make me feel better? 😭
Summary: Vincent simping over reader. That’s it. That is all.
Pairing: Vincent Whitman/ Fem Reader
Warnings: Age gap 40s/20s, obsession, pining, two teeny tiny hints at reader being Hispanic.
Notes: This is my first time trying to write a Vincent/Reader AND my first time writing a oneshot 🙈 if you know me you know Vox was my first love so a story for him is long overdue. And yes, I was playing the song for which it’s named nonstop when writing this 🤣
Vincent Whitman was more than accustomed to his groupies throwing themselves at him day and night. Women were hardly a novelty to him. On the occasional whim he had even taken a male lover, though that was a secret he would sooner carry to the grave than ever confess aloud. Monogamy too, had never particularly appealed to him, nor had any of his affairs endured beyond a single evening. By morning, each had dissolved as neatly as the night itself, disappearing with the darkness as the first rays of sunlight crept through the floor to ceiling windows of his luxurious penthouse apartment.
So when he found himself, however just slightly, taken with the young waitress at the café where he spent his afternoons editing television scripts, he thought very little of it.
Nothing but another passing fascination, he assumed. One that, like all the others before it, would vanish soon enough. He had every intention of fucking her silly and getting over this little fascination as soon as possible. Though,it quickly became apparent that his usual charm held very little sway over this girl.
She was… pretty. Not in the impossible, polished way of the women he usually surrounded himself with, you know, the ones who belonged on television screens and magazine covers. Hers was the sort of beauty that made a person pause halfway through a sip of coffee simply to admire the way her smile deepened into dimples as she laughed with a customer or topped off an empty coffee mug.
At first, Vincent assumed she simply didn’t know who he was. That was the only explanation that made sense. Everyone knew Vincent Whitman. Yet when he had casually offered his name, expecting the flicker of recognition he had grown so accustomed to, she had only looked at him with a blank sort of smile.
“Oh that’s nice. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Whitman.”
That was it, nothing more. She regarded him with all the enthusiasm of someone being told the daytime sky was blue. It made his skin crawl, his stomach lurch and heat pool in his groin. He had to have her now.
And so Vincent devoted nearly every hour he wasn’t working to the singular task of earning her attention, employing every tactic that had never before failed him.
He arrived wearing a brand new expensive Omega watch, making an obvious show of checking the time whenever she leaned over to refill his perpetually empty cup of black coffee. When that earned him little more than a polite smile, he left a crisp twenty dollar bill beneath the saucer. Surely that would do it.
A tip like that ought to make any city waitress squeal with delight, or at the very least shower him with grateful thanks. Instead, she merely blinked, tucked the bill into her apron, and offered him the same warm smile she gave every other customer.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitman. Have a lovely afternoon.”
Her complete indifference was beginning to irk him. Frankly, it bordered on offensive. He had lost time stewing on just how much he hated her, completely engrossed in the way she leaned over to wipe a table down or when she reached to stack freshly washed mugs upon the highest shelf. He caught himself watching the way her shirt drew taut across the gentle curve of her breasts as she slipped off her apron at the end of her shift, neatly hanging it behind the counter.
“Hey, I’m about off, but my coworker Claire will be taking over. If you need anything, have a goodnight.”
She offered him the same warm, maddeningly polite smile she bestowed upon every customer before retrieving her purse from the employee hallway. So with a small wave, she was gone.
It was then that the restless ache which had been quietly gnawing at him for months finally reached its breaking point.
Before he could think any better of it, Vincent slapped a few bills onto the table, snatched up his briefcase and overcoat, and hurried after the peculiar young woman who, somehow, had become the most fascinating person he had ever met.
He caught up with her at the bus stop, where she stood waiting patiently, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular as the evening traffic rolled lazily past.
“Excuse me…”
He called out her name. The very same name he had read from the little tag pinned to her uniform every afternoon for the better part of three months.
She turned, surprise flickering across her face.
“Oh, can I help you Mr. Whitman?”
Suddenly, Vincent found himself at a complete loss for words. How he wished he had a script to guide him through the situation he had so impulsively created for himself.
He dragged a nervous hand through his silver streaked hair, silently wondering how on earth he intended to recover from this. This was humiliating. At last, he opened his mouth to speak, when he noticed her attention drift toward the approaching bus.
“Why don’t you like me?”
Her brows shot nearly to her hairline.
“Um…Excuse me?”
Vincent winced.
“I’m sorry. That was rather presumptuous.” He rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed laugh. “I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”
She continued staring at him, clearly waiting for more of an explanation.
“Doll…” he sighed. “Why don’t I impress you?”
Shifting uncomfortably beneath his earnest gaze, the object of Vincent’s increasingly inconvenient obsession glanced around as though to make certain no one else had overheard the strange confession he had just made.
“I… I don’t know, Mr. Whitman.” She gave a small, apologetic shrug. “I’ve just never really felt the need to be impressed by things like that.”
She hesitated for only a moment before adding, with disarming honesty,
“If I’m being truthful… it makes you come across as rather conceited.”
Vincent blinked.
“What,” he asked after a long pause, “would it take to convince you to go out with me?”
She laughed
“I don’t know…” She tilted her head, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her sweet lips. “Maybe start by not being a total prick?”
“Tonight, then?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Right now, if you’re free. Do you have somewhere you need to be?”
She hummed thoughtfully before giving a small shake of her head.
“I’m busy tonight. What about tomorrow? I’m off.”
A sound of unmistakable relief escaped him.
“Tomorrow,” he echoed, unable to keep the grin from his face. “Wonderful. Where may I pick you up?”
She recited the address to her apartment as though agreeing to a date with the Vincent Whitman was the most ordinary thing in the world. And just like that, it was settled. He practically floated home as he made plans on where to take her in order to wow her.
The following afternoon, Vincent pulled up outside her decidedly less luxurious apartment building. She was already waiting on the front steps and, upon spotting him, offered him a small wave.
His heart gave an altogether unfamiliar thud. Stepping from his sleek automobile, he hurried around to open the passenger door for her. She thanked him with a small smile before settling into the seat beside him.
She was so close…He could just lean over and…
“So,” she chirped, interrupting his racing mind, fastening her simple lap belt, “where are we off to?”
Vincent glanced her way, momentarily distracted by the rosy warmth dusting her cheeks. He found himself wondering what it might feel like to press a kiss against them.
“I was thinking dinner at the Four Seasons,” he said, clearing his throat. “If that sounds appealing. They do have an exceptional ribeye.”
The way she scrunched her nose told him immediately he had chosen poorly.
“Or…” he amended quickly, “perhaps Lundy’s? It’s a bit of a drive out to Brooklyn, but they serve the finest oysters in the city.”
She looked no more convinced than before. Throwing every rule of courtship he thought he understood clean out the window, Vincent slapped both hands against the steering wheel with an exasperated sigh.
“Then why don’t you just fucking pick, princess?” he snapped. “Since apparently nothing I suggest is good enough for you.”
She didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she just rolled those beautiful eyes of hers.
“Well, there was no need for the attitude.” Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “I just think you’re trying too hard again.”
He stared at her.
“…I’m craving Puerto Rican, I know a place. Just trust me.”
And that was how Vincent Whitman found himself parked outside a tiny neighborhood bodega, silently praying to a God he did not believe in that neither he nor his car would be robbed before dessert.
Instead of dry aged steak and crystal chandeliers, he was eating mofongo with shrimp beneath flickering fluorescent lights, sharing a plastic spoon with the woman who had somehow commandeered every waking thought he’d had for months. Truthfully, he had skipped one of the year’s biggest galas for this date.
“So?” she asked, watching him expectantly. “Do you like it?”
Vincent chewed thoughtfully before swallowing.
“It’s… a little spicy.”
She stared at him for a beat before letting out an incredulous laugh.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She rolled her eyes again. “You’re pathetic. There’s barely any spice in it.”
Vincent found himself wishing he could make them roll back in another manner altogether.
“What do you say we head back to my place for a drink?” he asked, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as they made their way back toward the car, the empty paper containers already discarded. He held the passenger door open for her, one brow cocked with unmistakable confidence. (The car was fine by the way. Vincent was just racist and paranoid.)
She narrowed her eyes at him from the passenger seat, studying him for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh.
“I know exactly what you want, Mr. Whitman.”
“Please,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face already dreading where this was going. “Call me Vincent.”
“Fine then.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Vincent.”
He thought his name had never sounded quite so lovely.
“I know exactly what you’re expecting.” She leaned back against the seat, folding her arms across her chest. “And while I certainly don’t find you unattractive, I’m just not that sort of girl.”
She held his gaze without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
“And frankly, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself for ever thinking I’d even consider going home with you after one date.”
Vincent simply stared ahead through the windshield in defeat. He had never been a particularly patient man. He possessed a temper when sufficiently provoked, and this woman was testing every ounce of it.
She was making everything far more difficult than it had any right to be. Unfortunately, her hooks were already buried too deep, and his ego had taken far too many bruises to retreat now.
“So,” he said, impatiently drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, “what would you like to do next then, princess?”
She eyed him pointedly.
“Well, for starters, we can change that to princesa if you’re going to insist on calling me anything but my name.”
He blinked.
“Secondly…” She turned toward him with the faintest trace of amusement dancing in her eyes. “I think we ought to know a little more about one another before you start trying to get beneath my skirt.”
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose.
“God… fuck. Fine. You can have whatever you like.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in quiet triumph as she settled comfortably back into her seat.
And so he drove her home. When they finally pulled up outside her apartment building, Vincent did something that, until meeting her, he never would have considered with any of his previous partners. He walked her to the front entrance like the respectable gentleman he most certainly was not.
She turned to face him beneath the warm glow of the streetlamp, that infuriatingly beautiful smile returning to her lips.
“I had a really nice time tonight, Vincent.”
Before he could muster a response, her fingers curled lightly around the lapels of his coat, drawing him forward just enough to press a firm kiss to his lips.
It lasted half a moment. Then she stepped back with a satisfied smile, gave him a little wave, and disappeared into the building. Vincent remained glued to the sidewalk.
She had refused his lavish penthouse invitation, turned her nose up at his expensive restaurants, called him conceited, called him a prick…And yet she had still chosen to kiss him. A warm blush crept across Vincent’s cheeks. Was this love?
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people. The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Series Masterlist
Warnings: Smut
Notes: Yall knew I wouldn’t make you wait a whole 24 hours ;)
Propriety Be Damned
Alastor POV
He could scarcely believe the forwardness of your request. But, he was no moron; he knew the way he had been looking at you did more than suggest his own internal struggle with the close proximity of your faces. He just had been a little taken aback by your requesting it first.
His mind was racing. He wanted to kiss you; he wanted much much more.
But then your sweet voice and those big eyes staring up into his made him stall. He was a monster. And here was this impossibly sweet thing, begging to be kissed by him. How could he allow himself to stain something so wonderfully good?
Then your fingers tightened ever so slightly against the front of his shirt. Your voice was quieter now, fragile enough to splinter his resolve.
“…Please?”
God. That single word undid him. Whatever remained of his restraint simply… gave way.
Closing the final inches between you, Alastor lifted his hands. His fingers disappeared into your hair, gently cupping your face with the same gentleness he’d just exercised on the flowers. Every movement was unhurried.
Your own hands rose to him of their own accord, settling against his chest drawing yourself into his embrace until scarcely a breath remained between you.
Alastor had imagined this kiss more times than he cared to admit. Dreamed of it. Denied himself the very thought of it. Now, with your permission whispered, he finally drew your face toward his.
His lips met yours with such gentleness. He refused to kiss you the way the monster inside him longed to. You deserved better than his hunger. You deserved devotion. And, God help him, you were the most beautiful thing he had ever been privileged enough to hold.
Sweet. Soft. Just like you.
Alastor smiled against your lips before reluctantly drawing back, his hands still cradling your face as though he couldn’t quite bear to let you go. He searched your expression, expecting to find the same shy uncertainty that had so often colored your features.
Instead…He found hunger. His breath caught. You, oh, you wonderful little devil. He didn’t know you had spent so much of your life being denied tenderness that now, having discovered what a kiss born of genuine affection felt like, you found yourself hopelessly greedy for it.
This… This was what everyone had been talking about. Oh, how you wanted more.
Before Alastor could utter a single word, your arms slipped around his neck, your fingers disappearing into the soft curls at the nape of it as you rose onto your toes.
With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you drew him back to you. This time, you kissed him. With the quiet confidence of a woman finally choosing something simply because her own heart desired it.
The startled sound that escaped Alastor only urged you on. The restraint he had held lasted all of half a heartbeat now that he knew what you were wanting of him.
Then, with a contented noise that seemed to come from somewhere deep within his soul, he melted into your embrace, returning the kiss with all the hunger he’d been denying himself for weeks.
His hand slipped to the small of your back, gently drawing you flush against his chest while the other remained cradled at the nape of your neck.
He met your kiss with an eagerness that mirrored your own,you were slowly but surely discovering, moment by heated moment, what it felt like to be kissed by someone who truly desired you.
Parting his mouth just enough to slide his tongue between your sweet lips you immediately gasped, allowing him entry into your mouth. Startled at first, your tongue soon met his. God how sweet you were, even better than he had imagined.
Your sinful moans spurred his greedy hunger on. His hands found the round swell of your ass, urging you up, you wrapped your legs around his slim waist and he kissed you with a passion he had not known himself to possess. Holding you to him, he stumbled the two of you backwards onto the work table, settling you down so he could slot himself between your thighs.
You gasped suddenly pulling back from the kiss to stare down at the scandalous sight in front of you. Both of your clothed crotches pressed up against each other in this newfound angle.
Your eyes widened when you caught sight of his arousal, hard and heavy straining against the confines of his trousers. Without knowing, only feeling you tentatively rolled your hips earning a hiss from Alastor.
“I’m, I’m trying my hardest to be a gentleman here cher, but when you do that it makes it very hard to think as a decent man should.”
“But…I don’t want a decent man, Alastor.” You practically whimpered rolling your hips again grinding into him, eliciting a thrill through your core you had no clue you could feel.
“Fuck,” Alastor moaned as he bunched your skirt up around your thighs exposing your already soaking panties, you wanted to blush, turn away, but your mind was screaming for his touch. In one swift movement he helped you wriggle out of them exposing yourself to this man, begging him to touch you.
“I need you to be very sure of this cher,” Alastor said, eyes glued to your soaking core. You had never known your body could react this way to another person. You were more than sure.
“I know the situation we are in is a little difficult. But I’m not looking for a quick fuck. You bewitch me, woman,” Alastor whispered, his voice scarcely more than a breath. “And I fear that after tonight, I shall no longer be content with fleeting moments. You have made me greedy enough to desire forever.”
Your breath hitched as he moved to rub his thumb over your core. He had found a little nub you yourself had never explored, nor known of. Moaning you threw your head back. His touch was electric, the response it drew from your body immediate. This was not like anything you had ever known. His thumb over that little pleasure pearl had your mind numb to anything but desire.
“So I need you to understand that while I know we will have to be discreet because of your situation I want…” your body instinctively bucked into his hand, responding to his ministrations. “Fuck, I want you. Do you understand?” Alastor stilled long enough to find your gaze, your eyes half lidded beneath the heat of his touch.
“I don’t want fleeting,” you whispered. “I only want you. I never knew love could feel like this… nor that I could feel it.”
The admission escaped before you could stop it, carried not by courage, but by a heart that had finally found the words it had been searching for.
A slow smile curved across Alastor’s face as he leaned in to steal another bruising kiss, his lips lingering against yours. When he drew back, it was only far enough for his mouth to graze the delicate shell of your ear, his warm breath sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
“I want nothing more than to fuck you with my fingers until I make you scream my name, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough patience to run to the house and wash them cher. Can I take you as you are now?”
Nodding quickly your breath hitched. This felt nothing like your wedding night.
When Alastor unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down you were suddenly very aware of just how inexperienced you were. His cock was long, thick, and glistening at the tip with his own desire.
“Fuck, I’m not… I don’t know if it will fit Al” you gasped as he pumped himself a couple times to ready himself to breach your entrance.
“Nonsense cher, I’ll make you feel so good, so much better than your husband ever did.”
Slotting himself between your legs he rubbed the tip along your slit covering himself in your slick, you worried now might not be the time to mention that you and your late husband had never actually…done the deed. His age had played a large factor in the lack of intimacy. Not that you had ever desired him that way either.
But your little secret seemed impossible to ignore because as Alastor tried to push himself inside you hissed in pain trying hard to play the part of a woman who had done all of this before.
Alastor worried you just weren’t turned on enough, so he moved his thumb back to that little bundle of nerves, pulled back and plunged his length into your sore needy cunt.
You cried out in pain, fingernails digging into his back, undoubtedly leaving bruising marks on his shoulders as he tore through the proof that your marriage had never been consummated.
His eyes widened in horror as his gaze dropped to where the two of you now met as one body. The tale tale trickle of blood that dripped along your thigh all the evidence he needed to understand what had just happened.
“Fuck, cherie, I thought you were married” he gasped at the realization that he had indeed, just taken your virginity dawned upon him fully.
“We um…he was very old we never…actually….” You managed to gasp between sobs as your body adjusted to the sudden feeling of being wholly and completely filled by Alastor.
A moment of horror flashed across his face before his whole body shuddered as you involuntarily squeezed around his length, as the pain had begun to fade into something else entirely.
“I’m so sorry, had I known, I would not have let my hunger overtake me and I would have made it more romantic. I’m sorry your first time is in a greenhouse on a table, amor.” Alastor said softly as he stilled trying to gauge where to go with this next. The little squeezes your cunt was giving him were driving him mad.
But he felt terrible for hurting you, little did he know the pain had subsided and now you wanted nothing more than to feel him move. You prayed he’d take your fluttering squeezes and do something, anything…but he didn’t.
“Move Alastor.” You said finally.
“What?”
“I said move. Do something. Please for the love of god just fuck me.”
That did it. He was already teetering on madness. Four months of want had driven him to the brink of insanity and finally he had the permission to do what he had longed to for far longer than he wanted to admit.
He drew back and you whined at this momentary absence, before slamming back in, fuck too hard. He needed to go slow. But you cried out, a sweet pleasured sound so different from the pain he had caused you moments ago. He wanted to show you how good he could make you feel.
“Fuck you’re so tight. I, fuck, shit.” He cursed as he found a steady pace at which to rut into you. The sound of the table squeaking lost amongst your pleasured gasps, his nonsensical talking, and the explicit noises of your bodies slamming together.
“Fuck yes, Alastor, oh my god that feels so fucking good.” You gasped too entranced in pleasure to worry about how dirty you might sound.
“You’ve got quite the mouth on you don’t you.” Alastor smirked, grabbing your knee to angle himself better so as to thrust deeper, hitting that soft part deep inside of you that had you seeing stars.
He was loving every second of this. The sensual squelching sound your cunt made as he drove into it like a madman. Again and again.
“Shhh mon ange,” he crooned, grabbing your chin to force you to look at him, “we wouldn’t want anyone to hear us would we? What would they make of you?”
You shook your head fighting back pleasured tears, this felt…Amazing.
“Taking my cock so well. Fuck you feel like you were made for me.” He chanted, slamming into your needy slick cunt again and again, steadying a hand on your hip he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss.
Perhaps later, he would regret taking you so roughly. Especially since it was your first time. But in this moment all he could focus on was those sweet sounds you were making, the clenches of your velvety walls around his thick cock that told him you were close. Oh. And the fact that he himself had never felt this good in his entire life.
Releasing your face and pulling back from the kiss he moved his hand down to rub your clit again, he was close and he needed you to finish before he did so he didn’t do anything stupid. How he longed to finish deep inside you, painting your womb with his hot white seed, he knew that was not something the two of you would be able to engage in for some time.
Another day. He told himself as he worked your clit and your orgasm came crashing down. He fucked you slowly through every spasm, withdrawing himself just in time and finishing on the greenhouse floor.
He held you as you gasped, coming down from your very first high. Cradling your face with reverence he peppered kisses along your face and nose. Pulling away only to pull up his trousers, not even bothering to refasten his belt, as he steadied you and helped you off the table. Smoothing your skirt down before taking you in his arms as the two of you took a seat on the bench.
Gasps gradually gave way to slow, steady breaths as he held you close, quietly savoring the feeling of your heartbeat settling beneath his hand. Neither of you spoke. There was no need.
Alastor did not like to be touched.
He had spent most of his life avoiding it, shrinking from idle brushes of hands or well meaning embraces as though they were inconveniences to be endured rather than comforts to be sought. Yet somehow, without a second thought, he had gathered you into his arms and now found himself making no effort whatsoever to let you go.
God help him. He knew it with startling certainty, so plainly there was no use attempting to reason his way around it.
He was in love.
Hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the sweet young widow nestled in his lap. A woman he could not call his own publicly for another eighteen months.
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people. The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Series Masterlist
Lessons in Pollination
Alastor POV
Alastor needed to clear his head.
Far too much of it had become occupied by thoughts of you. They drifted through his mind no matter how fiercely he willed them away. It was becoming… inconvenient.
He stood alone within the warm embrace of his greenhouse, the humid air scented with damp earth and blood. Methodically, he drew an oil soaked cloth along the length of the blade he concealed amongst his gardening implements. To the untrained eye it might have passed for an ordinary machete, something used for clearing brush or hacking back stubborn vines.
He needed to hunt. Ordinarily, nothing quieted the restless corners of his mind quite like the ritual. The stalk through the nightlife scene in the city. The moment their terror gave way to silence beneath his hands. It was cleansing in a way little else ever had been.
Tonight, it had merely delayed the thoughts.
His latest quarry had met much the same fate as the others. Poor bastard. Now reduced to neat, manageable pieces.
Some rested neatly wrapped within the icebox in his kitchen, destined to become the rich meat he so enjoyed. Other portions had already disappeared beneath the black waters of the bayou where nature eagerly accepted its offerings. The remainder had been worked into the special compost reserved solely for his flowers. No sense wasting perfectly good fertilizer. His prize blooms had never looked healthier.
As he wiped the last trace of crimson from the blade and returned it to its place amongst the innocent looking garden tools, that familiar calm finally settled over him. Dawn had only just begun to creep across the bayou, pale ribbons of light filtering through the heavy clouds and casting the greenhouse in a muted silver glow. There was just enough time for a cup of coffee and a cigarette before the rest of the morning demanded his attention.
For the first time in days, Alastor almost felt like himself again. Almost. The feeling proved painfully short lived.
On the brief walk from his greenhouse back toward the house, his gaze wandered, as it had developed the unfortunate habit of doing.
There, amongst the neat little rows of your garden, stood a familiar figure wrapped in a soft shawl against the morning chill. He stopped without realizing it.
Curiosity returned with startling force, followed closely by that maddening yearning he had spent the entire night trying to carve out of himself.
You wandered slowly between the beds, pausing every few steps to inspect the tiny green shoots beginning to break through the rich soil. Your attention lingered longest over the bulbs he had gifted you weeks ago. His irises. A cultivar he had spent years perfecting until the blooms emerged such a deep shade of violet they appeared black beneath anything but direct sunlight.
Strolling toward you, Alastor found himself gripped by an altogether different sort of hunger.
His arms ached with the sudden, absurd desire to draw you against him. To feel the warmth of your body beneath the shawl. To tilt your chin upward and discover whether your lips were every bit as soft as he’d imagined during far too many sleepless nights.
Ridiculous.
He had spent the better part of the evening bloodying his hands in an effort to quiet thoughts of you, only for them to return with renewed vengeance at the mere sight of your silhouette amongst the flower beds.
You looked perfect there. As though you had always belonged amongst the flowers.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he called, his voice carrying easily through the cool morning air.
You turned so abruptly he almost laughed.
Your brows lifted in surprise, eyes widening as they settled upon him, as though you had never expected another soul to be wandering about at such an ungodly hour. The surprise quickly melted away, and a beautiful smile bloomed across your sweet face the moment you realized who it was.
How would you look at him if you knew where he had just come from? Would your smile falter? Would those gentle eyes fill with horror instead of warmth?
Would you still laugh as freely just as you had upon discovering his curious collection of bones tucked away in the greenhouse?
You had seemed to possess an appreciation for life’s darker curiosities, delighting in the beautiful things that made others uneasy. But this… This was something else entirely.
Would you still allow him close enough to steal a kiss if you knew those same hands had so recently been stained crimson? Alastor doubted it.
Yet the thought refused to loosen its grip. The impossible fantasy of someone knowing every monstrous corner of his soul, every awful thing he had ever done… and choosing him regardless.
What a dangerous thing to desire.
Your POV
“Good morning, Alastor.” You smiled. “No, I was restless. Thought a walk might help.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep.”
He tilted his head ever so slightly, studying you with that quiet attentiveness that always seemed to make your pulse stumble. Suddenly aware of the brightly colored shawl draped around your shoulders, you instinctively gathered it closer, as though it might somehow hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks beneath his gaze.
You certainly couldn’t tell him what had stolen your sleep. It hadn’t been grief. Nor guilt.
Instead your thoughts had drifted to the life you had left behind. The sprawling house that had never truly felt like home. The marriage arranged more for appearances than affection. The husband whose fondness for whiskey had so often left you wondering which version of him would stagger through the front door after sundown.
The marriage had lasted only a handful of months, yet somehow it had still managed to change you. It wasn’t the man you mourned. It was the woman you had been before him.
Your entire life had been dictated by someone else. First your father. Then your husband. A dutiful daughter. A dutiful wife. Women were expected to endure, to obey, to smile prettily while others decided the course of their lives.
Somewhere along the way, you had forgotten what it felt like to make a choice simply because it was your own.
And now you stood before a man who asked nothing of you beyond making sure to water your plants. A man whose company made your heart race instead of your stomach knot.
It was frightening to realize you wished, with an ache that bordered on foolishness, that you had met him first. Before you’d resigned yourself to believing companionship was simply something other women were lucky enough to find.
The soft light before dawn wrapped itself around him as though morning itself had chosen him. His dark hair sat charmingly tousled, as if he’d only just returned from some early excursion, and for a moment you simply stared. He looked almost unreal standing amongst the drifting mist.
You wondered why he had been awake at such an hour. Then again… He had just asked you precisely the same question.
“Do you often wander before sunrise?” you asked, unable to keep your curiosity at bay.
A soft chuckle escaped him.
“Only when sleep proves elusive. One can only stare at the ceiling for so long before it begins losing its conversational skills.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“You know, in my own experience, I’ve found the garden to be a far better listener than the walls of my bedroom.”
“Have you now?” His smile widened. “Careful, amie. Spend enough time out here and you’ll start talking to every bee and bloom you come across.”
“I believe I may already have engaged in one or two similar conversations,” you mused, leaning into his little joke.
“Then I’m afraid there’s simply no saving you,” he teased, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re bound here now. There’s no escaping it. Once my beautiful bayou gets hold of a person, it never quite lets them go.”
His gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer than it ought to have.
“And I daresay…” he said softly, “…this lovely backdrop is a rather fitting place for someone such as yourself.”
Your heart nearly forgot its purpose. Was he… calling you lovely? As lovely as the gardens he so carefully nurtured? As worthy of this quiet little paradise as the magnolias and moss draped elms he spoke of with such affection? The thought alone was enough to make you feel positively lightheaded.
And he looked entirely at ease amongst the rows of vegetables, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets as he inspected the thriving tomato plants with quiet satisfaction.
Standing amongst the garden beds the two of you had tended together, your heart seemed to sink even as it raced within your chest. Every flourishing vine, every budding herb, every flower beginning to bloom bore the quiet mark of the hours spent side by side with this beautiful man.
And somewhere between the turned soil and easy conversation, between shared laughter and lingering glances, you had fallen for him.
Lord… That was wrong. You needed to distance yourself from this prison of your own making. You couldn’t stand next to him without the ache of want.
So you offered him one last smile, murmuring your well wishes before turning toward the porch steps. Every instinct begged you to look back, but you forced yourself to keep climbing, refusing to acknowledge the warmth prickling between your shoulder blades beneath the weight of his gaze.
Each step felt heavier than the last. It was a peculiar sort of ache, distancing yourself from the one person who had made your heart feel truly alive. Yet what choice did you have? You were in mourning.
It wasn’t until much later, after spending the better part of the day running from the truth of your own heart, that your pulse finally began to settle.
You filled your quiet Sunday with anything that kept your hands busy. A fresh loaf of fresh bread was cooling upon the counter, a visit to town for groceries now tucked neatly into their proper places. Every little household task became another excuse not to think about him.
You told yourself you were simply tending to your home as any young homeowner would. In truth, you were trying desperately to outrun your own emotions.
Anything to keep Alastor from your thoughts.
Naturally, fate seemed to find that notion positively hilarious. A gentle knock sounded at your front door late that evening.
When you opened it, you found Alastor standing upon your porch, absentmindedly twirling a pair of fine botanical tweezers between his fingers. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms and there was the slightest smudge of soil along the side of his hand. He looked as though he had wandered over in the middle of whatever had captured his attention.
“Good evening, amie.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Good evening.”
“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything terribly important.”
“Not at all.”
“Splendid.” His smile widened ever so slightly. “I appear to have reached something of an impasse.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
“An impasse?”
“Mmm.” He held up the tweezers with an almost sheepish expression. “I’ve been attempting another iris cultivar this afternoon. You seemed rather fond of the black bloom, and I’ve discovered I require a second opinion before I do something irreversible.”
You blinked.
“My opinion?”
“Yes, I find yours has become surprisingly valuable to me.”
The words left his lips so matter of factly you weren’t entirely convinced he’d realized what he’d just admitted.
“I hardly know the first thing about breeding flowers.”
“Excellent.” He chuckled warmly. “Then your judgment won’t be clouded by years of stubborn habit.”
“You realize you’ve made absolutely no argument for why I should be of any help.”
“Perhaps.” His eyes danced with quiet amusement. “But you’ll indulge me all the same.”
You shook your head, unable to suppress your smile.
“I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”
He stepped aside, extending one hand toward the narrow path leading to the greenhouse with a theatrical flourish.
“After you.”
The familiar warmth returned to your chest. You had spent the better part of the day trying desperately not to think about Alastor Hartfelt. And it had taken him less than five minutes to undo all of your hard work.
The greenhouse greeted you with its familiar warmth, the humid air fragrant with damp earth, composter decay and growing things. Dim evening light filtered through the glass panes overhead, bathing everything in a soft glow.
Alastor led you toward one of the long wooden benches where several irises rested in neat clay pots.
“Now then,” he said, rubbing his hands together with quiet enthusiasm. “I find myself at something of a crossroads.”
He gestured toward the bloom you recognized immediately. The same velvety black iris that you now had in your own garden. Beside it stood two others. One was a pristine ivory, its petals almost luminous beneath the fading light. The other bloomed in a rich crimson, the color so deep it bordered on burgundy.
“I’ve managed the black,” he explained proudly. “But I should like to see what happens when I introduce another color into the line. With a little luck…” His fingers ghosted over one of the petals. “…the next generation may bloom with feathering or dappling. Perhaps crimson veining across black petals. Or white edges like painted lace.”
His eyes sparkled with unmistakable excitement.
“The question is…” He looked toward you. “Which would you choose?”
You didn’t even need to think.
“The crimson.”
“So quickly?”
You nodded, stepping closer to admire the deep red flower.
“I think the contrast would be prettier with the black.”
Your fingertips hovered just above one velvety petal.
“Its so rich, it kind of reminds me of blood.”
The observation slipped out before you thought better of it.
“I don’t know, there is something rather beautiful about it.”
You were met with silence, glancing up. Alastor was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Then, slowly, his smile widened.
“How right you are cher.”
You felt heat rush to your cheeks.
“An excellent choice,” Alastor murmured, satisfaction warming his voice.
With practiced care, he carried the two irises to the workbench beneath the brightest lamp in the greenhouse. He motioned for you to join him, already reaching for the fine tweezers tucked neatly into the pocket of his shirt.
“Come here.”
You stepped beside him.
“No, closer,” he said absentmindedly, entirely focused upon the flowers before him. “You’ll never see from all the way over there.”
You obeyed, closing the small distance between you until your shoulders were nearly touching.
“There.”
He smiled to himself.
“Now.”
With astonishing precision, he slipped the tips of the tweezers beneath one of the flower’s delicate anthers.
“This fellow will be our father.” His voice had softened into the patient cadence of a teacher. “The pollen is carried here.”
He carefully removed each pollen laden anther one by one, setting them upon a sheet of clean paper.
“If I were to leave them, the flower would simply pollinate itself. Perfectly practical…” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…but rather unimaginative.”
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“So we cheat nature?”
“No, we encourage it.”
The correction was accompanied by a wink. Your attention drifted from the flower to his hands. You had never noticed how careful they were. Long slim fingers capable of so much.
Strong enough to rebuild your garden beds without effort, yet impossibly gentle as they worked amongst petals so delicate they seemed capable of bruising beneath the slightest touch.
He gathered a dusting of golden pollen upon the tip of a fine brush before lifting the crimson iris toward the light.
“And now…”
Instinctively, you leaned closer.
“So this one becomes the mother?”
“Precisely.”
He inclined his head toward the center of the bloom.
“The stigma.”
Your brows furrowed as you tried to follow the tiny structures nestled amongst the petals.
“I still can’t quite…”
Without a word, Alastor shifted beside you. One arm came to rest lightly against yours as he leaned in, his shoulder brushing your own. Close enough that the sleeve of his shirt grazed your skin, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of tobacco and the faint sweetness of rich soil that always seemed to cling to him.
“Here,” he murmured.
His voice was so near your ear that a shiver raced down your spine. He guided the tip of the brush toward the delicate stigmatic lip at the flower’s center before gently dusting it with the golden pollen.
“There.”
His hand lingered only a heartbeat longer.
“If fortune smiles upon us…” he said quietly, “…these two will spend the next season becoming something neither could have been alone.”
Your heart was racing and you felt a warmth deep in your stomach you could hardly name. You weren’t certain whether he was still speaking about the flowers. Your gaze drifted upward almost against your own will. But he was already looking at you.
Not at your eyes. But your lips.
For one impossible moment, the flowers were forgotten altogether as neither of you moved.
His gaze lingered upon your mouth with a longing so openly displayed it stole the very air from your lungs. The warmth of his breath mingled with your own, each shallow inhale seeming to belong to you both.
He wanted to kiss you. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name. Yet he made no move to close the final inch between you.
Your heart pounded so fiercely you feared he must surely hear it. Every lesson ever impressed upon you urged restraint.
A proper lady would never sit this close to an unmarried man. A proper widow certainly did not ache to be kissed scarcely months after her husband went missing. A proper woman knew when to walk away.
But propriety had governed every chapter of your life before this one. It had chosen your husband. It had dictated the way you moved throughout the world. And what had it ever given you in return? A house that had never felt like home. A marriage devoid of love. A life lived for appearances instead of joy.
Then Alastor had wandered into your life with his troublesome cat and an armful of seedlings, and somehow, little by little, he had reminded you what it felt like to laugh. To look toward tomorrow with something other than obligation.
He made you feel alive. Perhaps for the very first time. So in that moment, you knew propriety needed to be damned.
Your fingers found the front of his shirt before your courage had the opportunity to abandon you. Eyes wide and pulse racing, you drew one trembling breath.
“Kiss me, Alastor…”
The words were scarcely more than a whisper. Your breath caught.
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people.
The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Series Masterlist
Sticky Trousers
Your POV
It had simply been a meal together. And yet somehow, sitting beside Alastor on his porch had felt more intimate than any conversation you had ever shared with your late husband.
Conversation flowed with an ease that still surprised you. He never seemed bothered by your natural quietness, never rushed to fill every small silence. Instead, he seemed perfectly content to speak when he wished and let the pauses settle comfortably between you. He told stories about his early days in radio, about disastrous broadcasts and eccentric guests, while you listened with genuine interest, occasionally offering a thought or question that only encouraged him further.
You found yourself enjoying the sight of him far more than was probably proper.
There was something charming about the way his entire face seemed to brighten when he became excited about a subject. His smile came easier. His voice seemed more animated. You had to repeatedly remind yourself not to stare. Every time you caught yourself studying the sharp line of his jaw or the warmth hidden beneath his usual confidence, you forced your attention elsewhere before he noticed.
Somehow the hours slipped away without a thought.
One moment the sun had been high overhead and the next golden evening light stretched across the yard. The remains of the late lunch had long since been forgotten, abandoned somewhere in the middle of a story neither of you had wanted to interrupt. It struck you then, with a small jolt, that you had spent the better part of a day talking with him. And you had enjoyed every minute of it.
It was not until Susan wandered past the walk, basket hooked over one arm, that reality came rushing back.
The older woman slowed noticeably as she spotted the two of you seated side by side on the porch steps. Her smile widened with unmistakable interest. For one horrifying moment you became acutely aware of how the scene must appear.
The two of you sat entirely too close. Alastor was looking at you with his full attention. And you, judging by the warmth suddenly flooding your cheeks, were undoubtedly looking back at him much the same way.
“Oh my goodness,” you blurted, scrambling to your feet. “I best be on my way home.”
Heat climbed all the way to your ears as you smoothed your skirt. You could only pray the afternoon had not appeared quite as inappropriate as it suddenly felt.
“In such a rush already?” The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable.
“I need to, um…” You faltered, suddenly unable to remember a single responsibility awaiting you at home.
Alastor rose from the porch steps, dusting off his trousers as he stood. The faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth suggested he may already know this was all just an excuse to remove yourself from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
“Ah, yes. Urgent widow business, I presume?”
You laughed despite yourself.
“Something like that.”
“A shame.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “I was rather enjoying myself.”
The simple admission sent your heart stumbling over itself. Here you were standing beneath the warm glow of the setting sun, with Alastor looking at you as though your company had genuinely brightened his day, you found yourself wishing you needn’t have an excuse. “Well…” you began, smoothing your skirt again unnecessarily. “Perhaps we could do this again sometime?”
His smile softened.
“I should like that very much, amie.”
Later on, seated in your own living room and curled into your favorite armchair, you attempted to focus on the novel resting open across your lap.
It was a hopeless endeavor. The words blurred together no matter how many times your eyes passed over the same paragraph. Your thoughts refused to remain on the page, drifting instead toward a certain handsome radio host with an infuriating consistency.
Alastor.
The very thought of his name was enough to bring warmth to your cheeks.
You knew it was hardly a good look. Certainly not a proper one. The two of you had done nothing inappropriate. And somehow he had managed to make you feel more in a matter of weeks than you had in the entirety of your short marriage.
That realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.
For years you had convinced yourself that something inside you was simply missing. That perhaps other women experienced things you never would. They spoke so easily of longing and romance and fluttering hearts while you had listened from the sidelines, unable to understand what all the fuss was about.
Now you wondered if perhaps it had never been the feeling that was absent, but the person.
You had never desired your husband, nor had it ever seemed that he truly desired you. Whatever affection had existed between you had been polite and expected. A marriage born of convenience and obligation rather than love.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the book as your thoughts wandered somewhere entirely unhelpful.
You found yourself wondering what it would feel like to have Alastor’s hand wrapped around yours. To feel the gentle press of his lips against yours.
The images alone were enough to send your heart racing. With an exasperated groan, you dropped your head back against the chair and covered your face with one hand. You needed to stop this.
You needed to put some distance between yourself and Alastor Hartfelt before these feelings grew into something far more dangerous.
You were a widow. A recent widow at that. Society expected you to spend the next two years in mourning, draped in black and carrying on as though your heart had been shattered beyond repair. The very idea of entertaining romantic thoughts so soon after your husband’s death would have sent half the women in New Orleans reaching for their smelling salts.
By the time those two years had passed, Alastor would likely be long gone from your reach anyway. The thought settled unpleasantly in your chest.
A man like him would not remain unattached forever. He was handsome, charming, well spoken, and held in remarkably high regard throughout the city. Women undoubtedly threw themselves at him every time he stepped foot into New Orleans. Surely there were dozens of pretty young things eager to catch the eye of the famous radio host.
Which only led to a rather troubling question. Why had he never married? You frowned down at your neglected book.
A man like Alastor should have been snapped up years ago. Surely some beautiful debutante with impeccable manners and a wealthy family had tried her luck. Perhaps several of them.
But somehow he remained stubbornly single. What could possibly be wrong with Alastor Hartfelt that no woman had managed to keep him?
The thought lingered for a moment before you found yourself laughing softly. Whatever the answer was, you suspected it could not be nearly as concerning as the fact that you were sitting alone in your parlor wondering about his future wife.
Lord help you. You were in far deeper than you had realized. Maybe a bath would help…
Alastor POV
On his routine smoke break in your yard, Alastor had intended to do little more than watch you as he did most evenings. It had become something of a habit. A pleasant one, if he was being honest with himself. Yet tonight something seemed off. You were restless. Frustrated, perhaps. He watched from his usual spot as you sat curled in your chair, attempting to read. Again and again your eyes scanned the page only for you to sigh, shift, and start over. Eventually you snapped the book shut and stormed from the room altogether.
His brow furrowed around the cigarette balanced between his fingers. What on earth had happened?
The day had been perfectly pleasant. At least, he thought it had been. He had enjoyed himself immensely. More than immensely. Every excuse to spend time with you had quickly become the highlight of his week. And unless he had suddenly become incapable of reading people, you had seemed to enjoy his company as well.
Had he said something wrong? The thought immediately soured his mood. He replayed the afternoon in his mind, searching for some offense he might have unknowingly committed. Had he talked too much? The possibility sat unpleasantly in his chest.
Then again, your mood had not seemed to shift until Susan had arrived with her usual brand of unsolicited meddling. No doubt sniffing around for fresh gossip to feed the rumor mill. He had watched the way your smile had faltered during that little interaction. It had put you on edge.
With a slow exhale of smoke, Alastor scowled into the darkness. Ugh. Susan. That ornery old bitch.
Interrupting his precious afternoon with his darling neighbor and leaving him to spend the evening wondering what exactly had stolen that lovely smile from your face.
He desperately wanted to know where your frustration had carried you.
Up until tonight, he had never ventured fully onto your property. He always remained near the fence line, concealed by shadows and common sense. Watching from a distance was one thing. Creeping closer was another entirely.
And yet before he could stop himself, he found his feet carrying him onward.
Slowly, quietly, Alastor slipped around the side of the house. He told himself he merely wished to ensure you were alright. That was all. Certainly not because curiosity was gnawing at him like a starving thing. He rounded the corner, hoping to be rewarded with another view like the one your living room window so often provided.
Why would you bother closing the windows on this side of the house, after all?
The rear of the property faced the bayou, stretching dark and endless beyond the tree line. No sensible person would be wandering about out there in the middle of the night. No one but a creep. The thought drew an amused smirk from him.
That smirk vanished the moment his eyes landed on the window before him. Your bedroom. Well….Now his curiosity was truly piqued.
Taking a few careful steps closer, he remained hidden beneath the cover of darkness as he studied the room. It was quiet. The bed neatly made, the curtains partially drawn. A faint ribbon of golden light spilled from beneath a nearby door, which he could only assume led to the bathroom.
Tilting his head, he strained to listen. At first he heard nothing. Then, faintly, came the rush of running water. Ah. So that was where you had disappeared to. His gaze lingered on the illuminated doorway as he imagined you washing away your frustrations.
Your manner of dress had never been scandalous, but that doesn’t mean his thoughts weren’t. Yes, Alastor knew exactly what you elicited from him physically. It was the mental interest that had him hooked. Flings before, they had been just that. One night, minimal talking, a simple physical transaction.
He found himself quite at odds with the way your voice alone lit him aflame. He thought perhaps it was because he didn’t know what you hid beneath your mourning clothes that set him alight. But after tonight he realized all too quickly, knowing, only heightened his level of want.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Before he saw the light dim and the door open. His breath hitched.
Clad in a towel, hair dripping down your back, skin glistening with water droplets in the dim lamp light from your cleansing. Holy shit. You were very nearly naked. Shoulders bare, the thin cloth across your chest hugged tight enough he could see the outline of your breasts. How he longed to unwrap you like a present made just for him.
He hoped, no…prayed, that you would shed it in front of the window and it seemed just this once God answered a sinner’s prayer. Because after using a dry smaller towel to dab at your neck and arms he got the delicious view of seeing you shed the fabric.
He had to bite his cheek not to audibly moan and risk exposing his voyeurism. Totally alone you hadn’t a care in the work. Standing bare as the day you were born dragging the cloth over yourself to ensure every inch of exposed skin was dried off.
Alastor stood with baited breath, one hand palming the stiff tent of his trousers, the other clenched over his mouth. God you were perfect. He wanted nothing more than to use his tongue to lap up every residual drop of water from your bath. His cock jumped beneath his palm at the thought. He would gladly take the place of the towel in ensuring your comfort.
Oh you were even more stunning like this, and the fact you had no clue he was there? Oh that just added to the level of debauched hunger he felt.
You moved with the pace of a woman who had nowhere to be, thank God. Taking a moment to wring out your wet hair before taking it up in the towel and moving about the room to gather your nightly things. Nightgown, a hair comb for when your hair was a little more dry.
Alastor made quick work of his sinful act, not even caring to take the time to unfasten his trousers. He rutted against his heavy palm like an animal. He memorized the curve of your hips, the shape of your breasts…how would it feel were he to hold them bare in his own hands? Stifling moans and whimpers as you ensured you were adequately dry before slipping on your nightgown. He focused then on the pertness of your nipples beneath your thin cotton fabric. How he wanted nothing more than to lay you down and taste you at your core. How sweet would you sound laid out before him? To feast on you would surely be sweeter than any choice cut from a hunt.
That is the thought he clung to, imagining how your slick would feel dripping down his chin, he’d make sure you reach your orgasm first… only then would he stand to position himself between your perfect thighs… you’d be so wet and ready to receive what he had to offer. What would it feel like to breach your weeping entrance?
Would you moan into his shoulder? Would you nip at his neck? He wanted you to moan his name, he wanted to make you come undone again with his cock alone. God he wanted nothing more than to feel you squeeze his cock with your velvety walls.
He wanted, you. Desperately. But not just to fuck. For once he wanted to please. That was the realization he came to as he finished within his own trousers like some inexperienced fiend. Eyes screwed shut and the image of your naked body overtaking his mind.
Taking one last look at your now settled figure, snuggled safely in bed, tucked away from desperate perverts such as himself. He hoped you would sleep well tonight. How he wished he could press a kiss against your temple and settle down next to you in bed…
Brushing that thought away he sighed, already dreading the walk back to his own house. It was bound to be one of the more humiliating strolls of his life. Sticky trousers clinging to his softening length as evidence of his desire.
The most eligible bachelor in New Orleans had, against all reason and good judgment, managed to fall head over heels for the one woman who was effectively off the market. Proper society expected a widow to remain in mourning for two years, regardless of how long the marriage had lasted.
