Rated: Adult
TW: Explorations of seuxal consent, sex work, sexual assault, Possessive and obsessive behaviors, Power dynamics, Adam being an ass, kidnapping, implied sexual assault and harassment, miscarriage and death.
Summary: Isabel died young, leaving behind her husband to pick up the pieces. Finding herself in Heaven, she waits for her husband to join her. And waits. And waits. Years and decades pass as she faces the realization that Alastor may not be joining her in Heaven, leaving her largely alone in a realm of double standards and fake smiles.
She must decide if she is going to move on from her marriage or do whatever it takes to reunite with her husband. Would he even still want her? Would she survive the dangers to find him? Would the cost be worth what could be gained?
Is Heaven really Heaven if the one you love isn't there with you?
Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
A taste of Sugar
TW: blood kink, bondage, reader with trauma from food insecurity, sexual content
Summary: As you work through the trauma of your life and starving to death, you dismantle your stash of snacks for what you hope will be the final time. Snack cakes, cookies and crackers are given to everyone around you, except one resident in the hotel whom you knew wouldn't enjoy or consume the treats. Then, as the flow of treats tricked to a stop, stash dismantled, small brown boxes containing treats began to appear at your door. Simple, delicious and seemingly homemade treats without so much as a note.
He watched and he waited, each week for your offer. Each week, no offer came and again he left his gift at your door. Why would you not think of him? Why would you not see him? What did he have to do for you to consider him?
Chapters: 1, 2
Wild Flowers
TW: Sex pollen trope and related questionable consent due to intoxication, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, knotting, praise, dancing that shouldn't be that sexy, biting, a touch of blood drinking, female masterbation, some possessiveness, Alastor being a bit of an ass
Summary: You had always loved flowers, so when you found a patch of pretty purple wildflowers growing in the small forest behind the hotel, you didn't think twice about picking a small handful to bring back to your room. While they smelled lovely, you were wholly unprepared for the side effects of exposure or the repercussions of offering the terrifyingly handsome Radio Demon a smell on your way to your room.
With your body burning from the inside out with an overwhelming need and a displeased Radio Demon pushing his way into your room, you have no idea what you're in for.
All you wanted was to pick some flowers but you got so much more.
Steamy Situations
CW: Smut. It's shower smut. Female bodied reader. Careful with your shower sex.
Summary: You're hot and bored and your husband is busy working. If only there was a way you could distract him, get some of his attention and cool off.
Read Me To Sleep
CW: None
Summary: After a long, shitty day out and about you drag yourself home to the hotel to seek shelter and comfort in the one place you knew you could find it.
Antler Play (Doe!Reader)
CW: Lightly used incorrect deer facts, ruts and seasons, insertion of an item 100% not safe or intended for insertion, light fem receiving oral, female masterbation
Summary: Alastor, having just rode out his rut alone is faced with the startling realization that you, a fellow deer demon in the hotel, have not just come into season but your first season since your death. Alastor is left unable to mate you due to the poor timing but finds other ways to see to your needs and trick your body into thinking the deed has been done.
Mine (Doe!reader)
CW: Smut, blood, knots, ruts
Summary: Alastor and his Doe have weathered the passing of the seasons, though he has failed to define their relationship and she's been too afraid to ask. Now, Alastor's Rut is upon him and it's time for her to return the favor. *Follow up to Antler Play*
Curiosity
CW: Sensory deprivation, established situationship, smut, porn with way too many feelings, love confessions.
Summary: Alastor overhears Angel Dust telling you about Val's latest thing- sensory deprivation. Curiosity wins out over sensibility.
Not afraid Of A Little Blood (Human Alastor)
CW: Public sex, period sex, vaginal fingering, licking fingers clean
Summary: Out at Mimzy's Speakeasy for a night on the town, Alastor finds himself feeling rather amorous and isn't swayed by your monthly condition or the public nature of the location. You find your will crumbles as he shows he's simply not a man who's afraid of a little blood.
I Own You
CW: Suicidal thoughts, suicidal actions, Anxiety, depression, shitty fuckin mental health, Pissed off Alastor, possessive Alastor, Branding, blood as lube, Toxic ass relationships, self doubt, smut, mirror sex
Summary: After getting a bunch of comments telling you you're not good enough for Alastor, old demons come back to life in your mind sending you to embrace the coping mechanism that sent you to hell in the first place. Alastor stops your plans in their tracks and is rather displeased by your actions.
A Pirate, A wench and Whisky
CW: Closet sex, drunk sex thus murky consent, clothed sex, p n v sex, cream pies, thigh riding, biting, blood drinking
Summary: Charlie decided hosting a costume party would be the best way for the residents to celebrate the season and for the hotel to get some grand publicity. Dressing up wasn't optional. Though you were proud of your bar wench costume- not too skimpy but just skimpy enough, not everyone announced their plans.
The result was a bar wench that did everything you could to avoid the red pirate, drowning your anxiety in shot after shot of whiskey only to find yourself cornered by the very man you could hardly look at when you made an attempt to retire for the night.
Incomplete Summonings (Demon Alastor/Alastor shadow x Human reader)
CW: Creampie, temperature play, demon summoning, virginity, light blood, Sex with Alastor's shadow, Sex with Alastor, human Vox cameo
Summary: You summoned a demon to remove your romantic competition from the equation. When your sacrifice was far too little, earning you only the shadow of the demon you had called, you had to find something else to sacrifice to pay the price.
Stuff You like a What?!
CW: Tentacles, gags, edging, orgasm denial, established relationship, suspension, cream pies
Summary: As your lover is just about to reach his finish, you complete a dare issued by Angel Dust. The unexpecting words leaving your mouth leaves Alastor's finish in ruins and he is a man that feels an eye for an eye is far too merciful...
Knife's Edge (Human!Alastor)
CW: Knifeplay, stranger sex, smut, creampies, dub con
Summary: Stepping away from the party, you tried to get some are. It's a chance encounter with a dangerous stranger that leaves your dress ruffled, your panties missing and you facing some new facts about yourself.
To the Beat of the Music (Human!Alastor)
CW: Smut, sexual harassment, 3rd person, pussy slapping. semi public sex, smut, creampie. It's fucking.
Summary: When a flapper won't take the hint that Alastor isn't interested in her, he has no choice but to shut her up and make a point. Sometimes, punishment can be pleasure.
A Monstrous Broadcast (Monster!Alastor)
CW: Post Stayed Gone Monster Al, Size kink go brr, Blood, DubCon, belly bulge, broadcasting sex, cream pies, cum painting...
Summary: You were sent to Alastor's Broadcasting tower to tell him something just in time to catch the tail end of Stayed Gone. Alastor is in a rather unique mood and in terrifying form as he decides the best way to work his excess energy off is with you.
Birthday Cake
A short birthday fluff with a splash of angst
Joint Broadcast (Alastor x reader x Vox)
CW: Cheating, Dubcon, brat taming, Anal, double penetration, caught cheating, nonconsensual broadcast
Summary: You thought you could have your cake and eat it, too. In this case, your cakes were Alastor and Vox in romantic and sexual relationships. Sure, you didn't disclose your entanglements with the other but what were the odds they would find out? When the unexpected comes to reality, you're left alone with two angry men who could end your existence. They intend to punish you but in the last way you expect…
Hate Mail part 1 and Part 2 (Human!Alastor)
CW: Rough oral, Dub con, rough sex
Summary: Alastor has been on the receiving end of some nasty letters at the station. With the help of some rather unique penmanship and a stroke of luck, the culprit finds herself in his crosshairs. What sort of lesson will Alastor teach his little hate fan and how will that change when he uncovers the reason why she is sending him the letters?
Snowball Fight (Alastor x Lucifer X FReader)
CW: smut, Luci being a sad sack of shit, threesome, two dicks in one hole, oral
Summary: On a rare snow day in hell, the residents of the hotel indulge in a snowball fight that has a rather enlightening ending, revealing unlikely teammates and what you would have considered even less likely feelings. The solution to the frosty mess? Even more surprising.
Story Time
CW: Oral sex, voice kink, dry humping, Alastor has hooves, rough sex
Summary: You and Alastor never had the same taste in books but that was alright. You prefered romance of the reather spicy kind. It was never a difference in taste that impacted your days or nights... until you walk into the shared bedroom to find Alastor sitting with your book in his hand and orders ready on his tongue.
Caught In The Act (Lucifer x Vox x Adam x Alastor x FReader)
CW: dub con, group sex, multiple orgasms, noncon recording, anal, rough oral, BDSM, restraint, DP, f receiving oral, cheating
Summary: You get caught with Adam by your other lovers, sending your carefully constructed house of cards tumbling down. While your lovers are all angry, they're have a surprising way they wish to handle the situation
Break From Routine
CW: time period appropriate lack of comfort with sexy fun times. And Smut- but it's smutmas, that's a given.
Summary: After a few years of marriage, your husband's musical abilities never failed to make your heart warm. You wanted your husband as much now as you did the day you met him. That desire drove you to be rather forward in your attempts to earn your husband's attention, even if it broke routine.
Poolside
Summary: You're beyond floored when Alastor asked you to allow him the honor of courting you. You were far from sure as to what that entailed however, with a powerful overlord asking for your time and another lurking in the distance, her thumbs up and smile wide- your back was against a wall. Though you had no idea what to expect from courtship with Alastor, what came with your first outing left you eager to come back for more.
CW: Semi public sex, pool sex, sex on the first date, multiple orgasms, female receiving oral, p in v sex
In The Rafters (Pre MisD) Young MisD Human Alastor
Summary: New to town, a handsome young man caught your eyes. After working up the bravery to introduce yourself to him, you find yourself in a rather precarious position as he gives you a reason to keep his secrets.
CW: It's smutmas, there's smut. P in V smut, semi public smut, questionable consent due to naivety of the reader, virgin reader, church sex
Dreamy Kisses
Summary: It's been three years since Alastor left you in the middle of the night with nothing to remember him by except a single bowtie, forgotten in his haste. You missed him more with every passing day and every year, you hoped he would attend the one party you never missed. Perhaps this year your dream would come true.
Bloodlines: When Monsters Sing
Cw: dubcon, OctoAl, tentacles, hinted mind manipulation
Summary: When you take a late night walk on the beach after your engagement ceremony, you find yourself following in your mother's footsteps in ways you couldn't even guess. In the distance, a monster wearing the mask of a man lurks, waiting to see what it is about humanity that makes them so damned special.
Just A Dance Human Alastor
Cw: Virginity, sex, love
Summary: When you caught sight of the handsome man across the bar, your heart was his within seconds. Within days, you were sure it was fate and you were ready to give him everything.
Another Day in Paradise (Oh Hiatus)
Pairing: Eventually Alastor x OFC, later- light Alastor x ofc x Lucifer
Rated: Adult for eventual smut
Content warnings: It's Hazbin Hotel- this feels redundant. Sex, eventual smut, referenced implied suicide to be discussed in more detail later, drugs, drinking, poor coping, toxic behavior, controlling behavior, cannibalism, idk, it's fucking Hazbin Hotel, if it's worth a content warning it's probably going to come up at some point? Religious trauma. reader has a name/is a oc.
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4 (slated for rewrite)
Content Warning - mentions of drug and alcohol use, suggested sexual assault, sexism, racism, murder, description of blood, talk of addiction, descriptions of substance withdrawal
Authors Note - took a bit longer than anticipated but shes chonk so eat up loves!!!
As always, I'm still open to tagging folks!! :)
Tag List - @cha0tic-auth0r @bagofrice :D
Previous < Chapter 18 > Next
SONG: Sleep by My Chemical Romance
Lazy evenings for Y/n and Angel were becoming a rarity these days. With Valentino upping their hours as punishment, and Charlie scheduling her lessons around their time off, they were being stretched thin.
But it was seeming tonight they would be getting a bit of a reprieve.
After a light evening of morality exercises, Charlie finally waved the group off with a proud smile and an excited squeal. Then Vaggie swept the Princess out the front door while they cheered excitedly about their date.
Angel snagged Y/n's arm and yanked her eagerly toward the bar.
“Double shots? No, no- triple?!” he challenged, bouncing on his feet in an excited little dance. “Let’s see how fucked up we can get you for your shoot tomorrow?”
Angel led the doe into a playful twirl. Then he took both her hands and shimmied with her until their butts were planted firmly in the bar stools.
Y/n belly giggled as she sat, before she leaned contentedly into the spider's side.
After a minute she sat up straight again, tapping her hands decisively on the bartop.
“I wish,” she sighed. “But, I thiiink I’ll just have some tea tonight.”
Y/n could feel the commotion of the room screech to a halt. And suddenly all eyes were on her. Not uncommon, but still– quite unsettling when unprepared.
She looked around, mirroring the looks of confusion she was receiving.
“What?” she scoffed. “Am I not allowed to switch things up?”
A hand found her shoulder, turning her toward its owner. Angel's face was stern, almost disappointed.
“Oh god,” he hesitated. “Are you… pregnant?
Two cups and a mug were sat before them on the bartop.
“Or worse-- she's sobering up,” suggested Husk as he poured hot water into the mug. He topped it off with a random packet of tea he found abandoned on the very back of the underbar, then pushed it her way.
“Well,” She took the hot cup gingerly, thinking through the borderline accusations being cast her way. “Actually…” She began slowly, hesitant to admit out loud to them -let alone herself- that she was actually considering sobering up for the first time in decades.
Apparently, it wasn't even a thought in Angel's mind.
“Oh my god, you are pregnant, aren't you??” His hands on Y/n’s shoulders turned her to him fully now, mild concern in his eyes. “Who would have thought that was still possible? I didn't think it was!”
He pulled her into him once more, nuzzling into the top of her head as he smothered her into his chest. She sputtered through the fluff.
“Aw, congrats, Y/n! Who's the papa? Oh, why do I even ask? Big Voodoo Daddy has had the hots for you since he got here. I wouldn't be surprised if he knocked you up just by looking at you, what with the way he stares-”
“Stop, jesus!” Y/n pried Angel off of her.
She forced herself to laugh, uncomfortable as it sounded.
The thought of bringing a baby into this world, into this life? The thought of people like the Vee’s having access to something as innocent as a child– a child that never even had a chance at living life in the mortal realm, yet still dictated by sin? It was an idea that could make Y/n heave.
“No,” she barked. “No, I'm not pregnant. I'm just taking a break is all,” she finished stiffly, and with a small shrug.
“Oh, what the fuck? You're actually sobering up?”
“I wouldn't necessarily call it that. It's just, Alastor says-”
“‘Alastor says! Alastor says!’ Wow, I didn't realize his dick was permanently lodged that far up your ass, Y/n.”
“Relax, Angel. I'm just testing a theory right now,” she shrugged. “Besides we've been here for a month, eventually we're going to have to at least look like we're trying… for Charlie's sake.”
Angel didn't look at her as he sipped his cocktail. But Y/n could see that he was taking in her words, even if it was with indignant reluctance. So she left it at that.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Y/n mostly sat back and watched Angel make pass after pass at Husk whilst she physically restrained herself from stealing a sip of his drink.
She was quickly realizing that going cold turkey was a shit idea. But her pride made her stand ten toes down, refusing to turn back now. Even as her fingers twitched towards Angel’s partially abandoned drink on the bartop, she only turned away and berated herself with a sigh.
Eventually, she’d had enough of the self inflicted torture, and rewarded herself with a smoke instead.
Angel trailed behind her as she trudged outside, uncharacteristically quiet for a change.
Y/n fumbled a joint out of her pocket and hastily lit it before passing it to the spider. He didn't look at her as he swiped it from her outstretched fingers.
“I thought you were sobering up,” he grumbled, hardly containing his malcontent as he inspected the joint.
“I am,” she confirmed. “Except for weed… and I'll probably have a drink every once in a while. I just think it's good if I try to find a little restraint again, y’know?
“Restraint doesn't sound like any fun.”
“Neither does redemption,” she countered. “But, Angel, honey… we might actually have the chance to get out of here. To get away, maybe even be free again. We just gotta behave and tough it out.”
It was quiet for a moment as he took a long drag.
“Yeahhh, those withdrawals are gonna suck though," he exhaled lazily. "Like, a lot.”
Y/n let out a bitter sigh as she took the joint back from the spider.
“Y’know, I’m really trying not to think about that.”
------------
Alastor loathed sleeping. Loathed changing into satin clothing and settling in a downy bed with silk sheets. Loathed resting his head on a fluffy pillow and closing his eyes as his body submitted to its most vulnerable state. Loathed how his unconscious mind reeled with images of the haunting past, of the hypothetical present, and of the potential future. How, no matter what the scenario, he always felt helplessly out of control.
So he avoided it. For as long and as often as he could. He'd go weeks without a wink of shut eye, constantly moving from one task to another without a second thought.
But every now and then, his body would catch up with and betray him, forcing him to shut down and rest.
Tonight was one of those nights.
He was hunched over a pile of papers –old contracts he was reviewing to ensure his souls still remained in his possession– and found his eyes shutting on their own accord. His head lulled and nearly slammed on the stained wood of his desk. An embarrassing moment of revelation for the buck. He was glad there was no one around to have seen it.
Ten minutes… he compromised with himself as he stood slowly from the desk chair. Ten minutes of shut eye, and then back to work…
He sneered at the bed as he approached. Grumbled to himself as he sank into the plush of the mattress. Sighed with exasperation as he closed his eyes and tried to shut his brain off.
Sleep came quick enough. And regretfully so.
-----------
Y/n tried to convince Angel to accompany her in retiring upstairs for the night. Every gentle coax was met with subtle dismissal, every sleepy tug of his arm was countered with a patient pat on the head. It seemed the spider was not-so delicately weaving a web in an attempt to ensnare the bartender's affections. By the looks and sounds of it, it wasn't going so well.
Eventually the doe gave up and retreated on her own.
Sleep weighed heavily on her bones and made her feet drag all the way to her room. Made her joints creak as she shed her sweater and dimmed the lights. Made her muscles ache as she curled up under the covers of her bed.
Y/n stared at the lights that hung above her head- a dainty string of decorative bulbs she bought on Extermination Day not too long ago. She watched them for a bit as she waited for sleep to claim her. Then after a while, she closed her eyes, intent on speeding up the process.
Through her eyelids she could still see the pale light of her decorations. She mentally patted herself on the back, having finally done something about her minor fear of sleeping in complete darkness.
She used to sleep in the dark, way back when she still lived in her own apartment. But after she moved into V Tower, her sense of safety changed.
Years ago, Valentino had wandered into her room late one night. The doe, in a drunken haze, had mistaken him for Angel and had taken him into her bed. The friend's relationship was in the early stages of rekindling and she wanted nothing more than to hold him in her arms again. But she was over eager, and intoxicated, and Valentino had taken advantage of that.
She gave up sleeping in the dark soon after.
But the soft glow reassured her enough to allow her consciousness to begin to surrender.
Minutes ticked by. Y/n could have sworn it had actually been hours. And when sleep did finally come, it was frustratingly light...
The light flickered and, even in her half-sleep state, she blearily opened her eyes.
The bulbs blinked lazily above her. She stared for a moment, happy to watch them dance. Until she realized that Charlie had supposedly fixed the electrical issue weeks ago.
Another moment went by and the lights winked at her again, once, twice, then a third time before they went completely dark altogether. Y/n sat up in bed, slow and hesitant, waiting for them to turn back on. They never did.
The doe peeled back the blankets and shuffled out of bed. She took her time in slipping on her robe, in case the lights decided to turn back on. No such luck.
The hallway was dark as she tiptoed toward the stairwell. And when she turned the corner, she immediately noticed two things: the sound of Angel's drunken laughter coming from downstairs, as well as warm yellow light illuminating the mouth of the hallway.
So the lights are on downstairs… Y/n pondered. And Angel doesn't sound alarmed or anything… what the fuck is going on?
Y/n tugged the robe tighter over her shoulders with a twitch of her tail. Then she pushed on towards the lit up stairs.
A dark shadow darted out before her. Its clawed hands shot up between them and stopped the doe in her tracks. It surged forward a foot or two, nearly startling her off her feet.
The shadow faltered and slowed, its large toothy smile straining as it was forced to change its approach.
With ears pinned back, the shadow reached a hand out in offering. Although, if looked in on by the wrong person, one could interpret the gesture as desperation, not patience.
Y/n stared for a moment, doubtful of its intentions. But Vaggie and Charlie were out for a date night, so going to them was out of the question at the moment. And something told Y/n that going to Husk or Nifty for help would be a moot point. And Sir Pentious’ aircraft was on the upper floors and Y/n did not feel like trekking all the way up there. Not to mention Pentious was, well… Pentious. Despite his general sense of insecurity, the snake was aloof and haughty, so Y/n kept her distance.
Alastor was the last resort anyway. So she tentatively took the hand of the cold shadowy figure, let it turn her around and lead her up the hall.
The hallway seemed to pulse with shadows, shrouding the walls in pitch black. The air was thick, almost suffocating with a muted static that stuck to her skin and made it hard to breathe. But it was silent, save for the sound of her feet dragging lazily along the carpet. Eerily silent.
She could barely see Alastor's shadow before her. But she felt its hand in hers, gently tugging her along. She padded slowly to his room, braving the cold quiet dark.
His room was the epicenter of the darkness. It sucked all light in and had Y/n nearly smacking face first into the door. Her knuckles hit first, knocking softly against the wood. The shadow let go of her hand and disappeared underneath to the other side. The doe stood there for a second, hand pressed flat against the door, biding her time before she disturbed Alastor with something so trivial.
Then she raised her fist, ready to strike.
The door swung open, swift and silent. The shadow stood on the other side, barely visible in front of the delicate lightning bugs dancing further back in the room. It took her hand again –still poised to knock–, and drew her past the threshold.
The door closed softly behind her.
She was led deeper into the room, deeper than she had been before. They passed the fireplace and the desk. Passed the mossy clearing where she had sprawled just a few days prior. Passed the towering oak and pine trees that stood like guardians in the night. Not that Alastor needed the protection; he was quite capable of fending for himself.
Eventually, the trees parted into another clearing. Bigger this time, with even more moss and lighting bugs. The branches above gave way to a clear sky instead of a ceiling, twinkling with countless stars. And in the very center of it all, nestled in the roots of a great cypress tree, was a bed.
A grand and regal bed. With a dark stained wooden frame, ruby red sheets and thick downy pillows, this bed was the picture of luxury and sophistication. And laying on top of it, was Alastor himself.
He was sprawled diagonally across the length of the mattress, his face buried in a pillow, fully dressed. His coat, his dress pants, even his boots were all still on his body.
Y/n took a pause, letting his shadow slip out of her hand once more as it bounded to its owner's side. It fluttered around the dozing buck, conveying a strange overall sense of anxiety. Its hands reached out towards the buck, but didn't touch him. Only gestured to him vigorously.
Right… Y/n chided to herself, taking a hesitant step back to leave. Now is obviously not the time. Best to just let him sleep-...
His shadow bolted back to her side and tugged insistently at her elbow, as ever persistent as its owner. She was at Alastor's side before she could object— not that she really actually wanted to. It wasn't so often Y/n saw even Val sleeping like this anymore.
Besides that, Alastor’s shadow insisted she stay, and his shadow was him. Or, part of him, at least. And if The Radio Demon wanted her to stay, who was she to deny an overlords request?
The sheets were soft to the touch. She ran the flat of her hand over the duvet, slowly, reluctantly melting onto the mattress as she felt the fabric against her skin. Careful not to disturb him, she inched closer to the sleeping figure, close enough to be perilous, considering the reputation that seemed to follow him. But she pushed on, now determined to see how close this fleeting moment of vulnerability would allow her.
As she scooted closer, she couldn't help but notice how the seams of his pinstripe suit bulged awkwardly here, and pulled taut there, like the buck had been fussing in his clothing while he slept, attempting to half consciously undress for the night. And his bow tie was all out of sorts, loose and askew around his neck. If she had to make a comparison, she imagined the effect was somehow similar to when one of her garters slips down her thigh in a scene at work. She supposed now she understood the customers that are keen on tearing the flimsy fabric away so heatedly.
She rested her head on the pillow next to his, content to just observe for a moment.
She noticed his grin first. Though, for once, his massive smile looked more like a subtle tug at his lips. The smallest of satisfied smirks; barely perceptible.
His hair swept over the swell of his sharp cheek and down his jaw, held back by his monocle that was still stubbornly in place at his eye. The lock of hair fluttered gently against his lips as he breathed deep and heavy.
And his ears. With small, erratic movements, they flicked and twitched atop his head. It was… charming. Cute, even. She stared for a moment, smiling at the candidness of the movement, never having seen them move so much.
That was, until she finally noticed his brow. How it furrowed frantically, and cringed wildly, as if facing horrors unseen to the doe.
Oh… She realized. Oh, no. Not on my watch…
Alastor’s hand rested between them. He clutched the pillow, his claws slitting small holes in the cover fabric. Despite the fierce show of force, his wrist trembled like a leaf, betraying the cool front he put on even in his sleep.
She slid as close as she dared, placing her head perilously close to his. And then, with all the tenderness – and bravery– she could muster, she slipped her hand fully into his.
Alastor didn't stir. Didn't freak out or flinch. His breathing hardly even changed to indicate he had felt anything at all.
But his hand? His hand shifted ever so slightly to hold hers.
His claws unhooked from the fabric and clung to her instead. Rather than nails digging into her skin, it was clammy fingers squeezing hers right back. Tightly. Desperately.
With her free hand she carefully removed his monocle and rested it on the bed next to him. Then she brushed the stray strand of hair away from his face, letting her get a full look at him.
Lightning bugs drifted lazily in the distance behind him, creating a blurry backdrop of glowing color. Yellows, greens, blues. The rare red and pink. Their light illuminated nearby surfaces, colors mixing in lazy beauty as the doe finally found her peace.
The last thing she noticed before she succumbed to sleep, was his smell. Strong, woody, intoxicating. It emanated from him; clung to the bedsheets, the pillows, his clothing. Her. It came from all around her, unavoidable as she lay in the very center of it.
The world around her drifted pleasantly away with Alastor's warm hand in hers.
-_-_-_-_-_-
The air was brisk as Y/n strode through the damp forest.
The frigid misty air left her skin and hair feeling damp. These woods were unfamiliar to her; dark and cold compared to what she was anticipating. Not quite like the warm atmosphere that she had experienced in Alastor's room.
There was a light in the distance that grew bigger as she approached, until the fog cleared enough for her to tell it was a house. A small wooden cabin in fact, on the brink of being overgrown. Ivy crept over the window, making it hard to see into the home without getting close.
So that's exactly what Y/n did.
The window pane was cold to the touch, but it didn't bother Y/n. Not here. Not in the dream realm. Everything was exactly as she dictated, and here? She was never cold.
The sight from the outside looking in was dismal. A small shabby table with three small shabby chairs in the middle of the room. An unlit fireplace. A singular full size bed, sheets worn through with holes.
There was a small kitchen of sorts. If you could even call it that. Cluttered in one of the corners near the unlit hearth was a cluttered wooden counter. There were various dishes scattered about; flour dusted bowls, food encrusted plates, vegetable laden cutting boards. Hanging on the wall above it all was a small assortment of copper pots and pans, dented and seared with years of use. A very modest cooking arrangement.
There was a singular gas lamp lit on the center table, illuminating tiny piles of food plopped unappealingly on plates. A meal freshly served, yet untouched.
A boy sat at the table. He looked no older than fourteen. His elbows propped him up over his plate as he prodded at his slop with a spindly fork. His eyes were cast in shadows, but Y/n could see the wire frame of the glasses he wore, peeking out from under a full set of curls; thick, dark curls that lightly frizzed in the humid air.
Y/n blinked, and she found herself inside the dwelling, stepping eagerly toward the boy.
His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. With a great big sigh, he sat back in his chair, readjusted his glasses, and just about tossed the utensil onto the plate. It clattered onto the table noisily, cutting through the tense silence.
Y/n stopped in her tracks, stunned by his outburst, minor as it was. It felt like a precursor to something bigger– something… worse.
The doe didn't have time to ponder it. A booming voice dominated the room, springing Y/n's ears and tail to attention.
“You got something to say, boy?”
A man appeared in the doorway, a burly brown bottle in his hand. He took a swig as he closed the door behind him with a heavy handed swing. It slammed jarringly against the frame and made dust rattled from the old wooden ceiling. It rained down on the food, adding to its unappeal.
The boy only glared tensely at the man.
“If you don't like it, you can eat your own hand and be done with it.” The man took a drink of the bottle, teetering slowly to the center table.
“My hand would be much more appetizing than this slop,” muttered the boy.
Heavy hands came down on the table top.
“What the hell did you just say to me?” The man grabbed the back of the boys chair, sliding him out from behind the table to face him. “I work hard to put food on this table while your mother has been lazing around for the past week-”
“She's been ill,” interrupted the boy. “She needs rest. You know that.”
The man caught the boy's face with stiff fingers.
“She's being selfish,” he seethed, rattling the boy's chin. “She has a family to tend to, household responsibilities that have been put off for too long. If you don't like how I pick up her slack, you can do it instead.” He flung the boy back, nearly throwing him off the chair.
He took another long swig from the bottle, nearly emptying it.
“Cooking and cleaning,” he scoffed. “Fucking woman's job. Honey, you hear this?”
Another sip as he spun on his heel toward the bed.
Y/n finally noticed the figure there, tucked under the sheets. She had curls tighter than the boys, which clung to her head neatly despite her prolonged bedrest. Her face was ashy and sunken with fatigue, and her chest hardly moved with each shallow breath she took. Only her hand twitched in acknowledgement of being addressed.
“Alastor here is gonna take care of us,” the wretched man continued, unbuttoning his shirt with fumbling hands. “He's gonna clean the dishes and wash the laundry and cook our food from now on. Here, boy.” His shirt came off and flew in the boy's direction, nearly hitting him in the face.
The boy –Alastor– flung the shirt onto the floor, his fists balled tight.
Having finally left his bottle on the table, the man turned toward the bed, hands fiddling with the belt of his pants.
Y/n was all too familiar with the motion. She felt her throat tighten as the buckle came undone.
“Best go start a load of laundry right now, boy. Since your mother wants to spend all her time in bed on her back, she can at least perform her wifely duty.”
Y/n stepped forward without a second thought, intent on fending off the woman's assaulter before he got anywhere. She only made it a step before there was a sudden explosion of glass. Brown shards burst in all directions, the sight of them clinking to the floor looking like glimmering rain in the light of a street lamp. Deceptively beautiful.
There was a brief splatter of liquid, a stunned grunt, and then the man was staggering to his knees.
The neck of the bottle was held firmly in the boy's small shaking hands, and Alastor's young face was sullen as he stood over the man, who was struggling to get back on his feet.
Alastor poised to strike, hesitating only once the broken bottle was raised above his head. It looked for a second as if he was doubting himself, maybe even reconsidering the whole thing.
But then a string of curses left the old man's mouth -derogatory, and vulgar. Things a father should never say about their child. Things no one should say about anyone, ever.
The bottle came down swift and merciless, over and over again.
The man sprawled out flat, his curses turning to senseless babbling, then to gurgling, then silence.
Blood splattered crazily, coating the floor, the man, the boy.
Y/n watched, barely able to process everything happening.
When her senses caught up to her, she surged forward and caught Alastor's wrist. She could feel the force– the pure power behind the swing. She hated stopping him, knowing the man probably deserved it. But no one should have to relive a memory like this.
“Stop, Alastor,” she urged softly. “It's okay now, you can stop.”
He slowed enough to let her step between him and the body. She expected to see rage, malice, maybe even demented joy. But his face was strangely neutral. Calm almost, like this was just another daily task for him. A necessary inconvenience.
He tried to brush her off while he raised the broken bottle again, but she persisted.
“It's over Alastor, you can let go-”
“It isn't over till I say it is.”
“You don't have to-”
“Move, Y/n,” he growled, not even sparing her a wild glance. “Or you're next,” he warned.
Hearing her name here threw her for a loop. Even Angel struggles to recognize her presence in the dream realm, especially when she first started. It took him months to figure out who she was, even if she was holding his hand and telling him directly. Something about how the subconscious processed things differently when sleeping that made it hard for him to fully grasp her presence, she supposed.
But not Alastor. She wondered how long it took for him to realize she was there. Something told her not very long at all.
Y/n took a small step back, watching as his chest heaved.
She took another step back.
Then the bottle came down, slashing through flesh until the body before them was unrecognizable.
…
When it was done, the bottle was left lodged in the man's neck. Alastor straightened, calmly wiping his brow. After a tense moment, he took the man's limp wrists and gave a couple tugs, testing the weight of the corpse before he pulled with all his might.
He didn't get far, just a foot or two before he was stopping and readjusting his grip.
Y/n stepped forward again, gently placing her hands over his surprisingly cold ones.
Alastor stilled, still not sparing her his eyes.
“I’ve got it. I'll take care of the body,” she promised. “Go be with your mother.”
He recoiled from her touch, and let go of the wrists.
They smacked to the ground with a meaty thud.
Alastor's shoulders sagged.
“She recovers from this,” he insisted, sounding more boyish than ever. “This wasn't the last time I saw her.”
“Maybe not… But, how often do you get to see your mother anymore?” Y/n nudged. “Go to her.”
He didn't argue after that. Just ducked his head and stepped over the body toward the bed.
Y/n disposed of the corpse, dragging it halfway out the doorway before spelling it away. It burst into a cloud of dainty fireflies, dispersing off into the surrounding bayou. A better fate than the man deserved, truly.
Y/n waited on the porch of the home. The deck was crumbling under her foot, and the railing splintered in her hand. Still, she leaned against the rotting wood and watched the moon as she waited.
Alastor doesn't talk about his mother all that often, but when he does happen to make an offhanded comment about her, it's nothing but praise. Y/n refused to rush this for him, or impede on it at all.
He emerged a few minutes later. The change in his demeanor was subtle; his shoulders lost some of their tension, and his head was held a bit higher. He turned to her slowly, and finally –for the first time that night– let his eyes meet hers.
They shone in the moonlight. Not with warmth, but with resignation– something that bordered on jaded appreciation. Blood was smeared over his face; a failed attempt at wiping himself of it. And his cheeks were dumbfoundingly neutral. No stunning smile, no cunning grin, no mischievous smirk. Just the face of a child, forced to adapt to the cruelties of the world.
“You can take your time,” Y/n said to him, soft and reassuring. “I’m in no rush.”
He stared emptily at her for a moment.
“You shouldn't be here,” he finally muttered.
Y/n blinked. “Oh...Your shadow-”
“You were meant to wake me up, not-” The sound of a radio screeched somewhere in the near distance. He took an accusatory step toward her and scanned her up and down. “How are you here?”
“Actually,” Y/n breathed awkwardly, subtly trying to side step him. “On second thought, maybe I should be going.”
She didn't get far. Alastor plucked her hand from her side and –with little effort– tugged her toward him in a soft twirl. She yelped in surprise, landing firmly with her hands on his chest. Her fingers instinctually found the lapel of his red coat.
In the blink of an eye, the boy before her turned back into the cervidae demon she had come to know. His curls vanished, replaced with tufts of red hair. A monocle in place of wire frame glasses. A regal crown of ears and antlers atop his head.
“No sense in hiding Y/n.” His fangs flashed behind his signature smile. “Eventually all your secrets will come to light.” The words were a warning– a threat. Or maybe a promise. Either way, Y/n was too relieved by seeing his smile again to care.
“Well, it seems I'm not the only one hiding things, Alastor.”
She swayed lazily on her feet, naturally falling into a slow casual dance. Alastor followed easily.
One of his arms circled her waist, the other took her hand from his lapel and held it out to their side; a proper dancing posture.
“I have no secrets,” he insisted, his smile growing.
“Right,” she chuckled, knowing better than to believe him. “Well, then, neither do I.”
_-_-_-_-_-
Y/n was only semi relieved to wake up in her own bed. She figured it spared her some of the embarrassment from having to face Alastor. Though she was curious as to how she ended up back in her room.
She dragged herself out from under the covers, taking pause before she reached for her stash. Not that she would find anything; she'd used up the last of it yesterday.
She felt surprisingly decent, all things considered. Tired as always. Maybe a little hungry. But fine overall.
That only lasted so long.
The walk to the tower absolutely tanked her mood. Every bright light had her flinching. And her ears flicked left and right, tracking every little sound. Every honking car, every rotting smell, every flashing light. It all made her skin crawl.
The tower was surprisingly peaceful compared to the outside. At least, the hallways were anyway.
The second she burst through the studio door, her sense of peace ended for good that day.
Valentino was yelling at her immediately. For what, she couldn't tell. It was his ‘I'm screaming to hear my own voice’ type of yelling, not the ‘I'm screaming cause I'm actually angry’ type. She only rolled her eyes and made for the green room.
The hours passed by, position after position, partner after partner until finally her shift ended.
Everything itched. Her muscles spasmed and ached, and she felt like her skin was on fire.
She changed quickly, eager to escape the building. Luck was not on her side.
Val stood waiting, his cigarette burning lazily as he chatted with a production assistant, no doubt calling for impossible demand after impossible demand. He shooed away the assistant when he saw her and turned to the doe fully.
“Ay, mami,” He berated. “You look like shit.”
“Only for you, Val,” She bit sarcastically as she strode past him.
His hand caught her arm and forcefully spun her toward him.
“What's that supposed to mean?” He seethed.
He didn't bother leaving her time to respond before he was leaning in close and growling low.
“Clean your act up now, Y/n. Or I'll be forced to clean it for you.”
Her skin shimmered bright with illusions as she left the building.
-----------
Alastor stood before his vanity. His hair was tied out of the way, allowing him full view of his face. He sneered back at himself through the mirror, his haunches raised. Contempt burned hot in his veins. Or maybe it was resentment.
No.
No, this was starting to feel more like denial. Pesky, desperate denial. And it crept in slowly, and rooted itself deep in his chest. It mingled with the heat; a pervading warmth left over from Y/n's hand in his.
It had been a while since he had been affronted by this particular feeling. He was generally quite good at placing, naming, and expelling his emotions before they settled anywhere in his body.
He couldn't fully shake this feeling though.
This wasn’t like the others, where elimination was swift and merciless— an inconvenience at best. No, unfortunately Y/n had sentimental value to the princess. And Alastor supposed it would be a disservice to rid Hell of one of it's only decent performers.
The buck straightened, his hands balling to fists at his sides.
He would have to adapt, and overcome. Regain his sense of control, as he always did.
Affection was as addictive a drug as any, Alastor was begrudged to admit that. Maybe he could bait and abuse her that way, luring her in with a false sense of protection, of safety. Taunt those who taunt him in return. Fight fire with fire.
It would have to do.
He would dominate this situation, just as he had countless times before. He'd play whatever game was at hand, and play it well. No one would ever shake the crown from his head. Especially not this pathetically endearing doe.
-----------
A vending machine was Y/n's first stop on the way home. And then a coffee shop immediately after; a last ditch effort to convince herself she didn't need the baggie of drugs she just dropped a half of her paycheck on.
Her triple shot latte tied her over for now. But the baggie weighed heavy in her pocket as she finally trudged home.
The lobby was full of commotion upon her entrance. Nifty was atop the bar, interrogating Pentious on one of his newest inventions. Husk stood nearby looking positively bored.
Alastor was nowhere to be seen.
Angel was lounging on an armchair, only sort of listening to Vaggie and Charlie as they attempted to speak to him. Though, the women were no match for the popsicle in the spider's hand.
The two women looked excited, hopeful even. Their eyes sparkled as their hands waved happily through the air. Whatever it was they talked about, Y/n was not in the mood.
She tried to skirt passed unnoticed, but Charlie had other plans.
“...it's not finished yet, but but I think you guys- OH! Y/n!!”
The Princess rushed over with a spring in her step. She took the doe's hands and bounced with them excitedly.
“You're finally back! I hope your shift went well! We have a surprise for you and the other guests!”
“That's great Charlie, thank you. But I really need to just-”
“Here, c'mon! It'll just take a minute!”
Y/n and the rest of the guests were being pulled upstairs before she could object. All the way to the upper floors, down the main hallway, and through a crimson archway. They landed in a dark unfamiliar foyer.
Off to the side was a pearly white door, right next to a reception desk of sorts. Charlie scrambled to stand behind the counter, leaning against it with pride.
“Oh, great,” Angel deflated. “They're putting us to work. Knew it wouldn't last.”
“No no! Look,” Charlie clarified. “I realized that the citizens of hell might not have easy access to health and wellness services. So….”
Charlie gestured further into the room, prompting them to look around.
The back wall of the foyer was open, leading to a big, long room. Small rectangular windows lined the upper walls, illuminating the space with soft natural light. A couple of measly cots lined the walls, old and dusty looking. Y/n doubted they'd hold much weight. Still, she supposed she had to appreciate the thought and effort.
“So this is, what? An infirmary?” The doe asked.
“Oooh, yes; infirmary! I like that word! Vaggie, write that down!”
“Yes ma'am.”
“I was just going to call it the ‘doctors office’, but yeah, the ‘infirmary’ is way better,” gushed Charlie. “Now you guys have direct access to basic health care! Yay!! It helps to have connections to the head of Hell's Medical Department…”
No one said anything, just stared down the infirmary hallway with a mix of doubtful emotions displayed on their face.
“And that's not all!” Cheered the Princess. “Here, have a look.”
Charlie hopped over to the pearly door and knocked lightly before eagerly swinging it open. Y/n and Angel were ushered through the doorway first.
The space was modest, no bigger than Y/n's own personal room downstairs. But instead of a comfy bed with fluffy sheets, was an all too familiar medical chair. Instead of a dresser was a counter, lined with drawers and cabinets. Instead of a closet, there was a mini-fridge tucked away in the corner. And instead of generous open windows, were solid papered walls, caging them in from the outside.
A rather standard examination room.
Y/n's stomach dropped through the floor.
A baphomet demon sat at a small table against a far wall. They stood up when the hotel guests entered the room.
Y/n thought her heart might jump out of her chest.
“Angel, Y/n— I know your job calls for exposure to certain… infections, illnesses– groinal specific injuries, if you catch my drift,” Charlie blushed. “Soooo, I also had this room prepared for more specialized and private care. All for you!” She finished with a dazzling innocent smile.
Y/n took a dizzying step backwards, nearly colliding with Angel's chest.
“Private?” Y/n asked, her lungs feeling like lead. "F-for me?"
“That's right! Everyone, this is Dr. Dominus.”
“Hey, wassup," greeted the baphomet demon. "Dom is fine.”
“They have volunteered to be our in-house physician and are here under my Aunt Belphegor…”
Charlie prattled on excitedly, but Y/n couldn't bring herself to listen, let alone partake in such joy. She couldn't seem to feel anything other than dread at the current moment.
This room? That chair? How long until they were rolling in an IV stand? Asking her to sit for a minute, then locking the door behind her for hours on end. How long before they stick her with a needle and-
Angel leaned in close.
“Think they'll be keeping any drugs in here?” He asked, disguising his question as a joke.
“Drugs, right,” Y/n breathed, thumbing the pouch in her pocket. “I gotta go. Excuse me.”
----------
Y/n's feet dragged toward her room. The hallway felt like it stretched further and further the longer she walked. She took a pause at the table that lined the hallway, nearly knocking the decorative flowers over as she bumped into it. She steadied them –and herself– with a shaky breath.
Her pocket burned, weighing her down like a stone in water. All she wanted to do was surface but her lungs felt full, making it impossible.
She reached for the baggie and stared at it, unable to think of anything else but the relief it would grant her.
Of the shame it would seed in her.
Of the pleasure that would flood her body.
Of the regret that would poison her mind.
She turned on her heel with a growl and leaned against the console table. The baggie nearly ripped in her hand as her fingers clutched it tightly. And she almost let it, half convinced that if the bag opened by its own volition that it wouldn't technically be her fault that she indulged.
It was a weak excuse. And she knew it.
In a fit of rage, Y/n chucked the baggie across the hallway. It hit the wall in front of her and fell to the floor with a soft, hollow thunk.
It taunted her from the ground.
“Fuck,” she cursed herself, fingers lacing through her hair and giving a stern tug. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Her chest stilled, and her lungs stubbornly refused to expand as she stared for another second. And then another.
And then she was lunging for it.
Her knees hit the floor, burning as they scraped against the carpet. But Y/n couldn't bring herself to care. The only thing she could feel was how badly she needed this.
She reached for it.
Her finger tips barely brushed the seam of the bag. A flurry of shadows claimed it before she could.
“Hey!” Y/n shouted indignantly as she pulled back in surprise.
“If only you brought that sort of vim to our lessons.”
The doe's head whipped toward the voice and found herself being disarmed all too easily.
Alastor stood a few feet away, leaning casually on his staff. Y/n sat back on her knees, fighting back a grimace with a glare.
How long had he been there, watching her unravel like that? Why hadn't he stopped her sooner? Why was he stopping her at all? What did he care?
She brushed her knees off as she stood and stepped toward the buck with an outstretched hand.
“Give that back and I just might be able to, Alastor.”
He quirked his brow as shadows manifested the little bag directly into his clawed hand. He held it up for her to see, teasing her lightly as he inspected the crystalline powder closely.
“Is that really what you want me to do?” He quizzed. “You want me to give this back to you?”
Y/n's hand faltered and twitched in the air between them. But she didn't give an answer.
“Yes or no?” He prompted, sounding more patient than he was.
The doe's hand fell to her side in a fist.
“It's not that simple,” she tried.
“Of course it is, dearie,” Alastor tsked. “Temporary relief, or long term gratification? Your choice.”
Words played on her tongue. Excuse after excuse tried to jump out at Alastor but they never got past Y/n's lips. He watched as she stuttered and stumbled over what to say. Watched as her face fell further and further into disgruntled defeat. Until finally, all that came out was-
“Take it away.”
“What was that?”
“I said get rid of it!” She snapped.
They stared at eachother for a moment.
Alastor's smiled grew. Then his hand erupted in flames— green and hot. The baggie and its contents was incinerated instantaneously.
Y/n inhaled sharply. “No, WAIT!”
“Oopsie-daisy.”
“FUCK,” Y/n roared. “Fuck my fucking-”
She turned and kicked the hallway table. Her toes collided with the spindly legs and sent a shock of pain through her foot.
“MotherFUCKer, son of a BITCH-”
“Come on now, Y/n-”
“DON'T. DON'T fucking start with me Alastor, I swear to fucking-”
“I only meant for you to follow me," he gritted. "Believe it or not, I wasn't starting anything. Now, come. Before you have all of the hotel asking questions about your little tantrum.”
And what was Y/n meant to do? Say no? Reject and, what? Go to her room where she'd stew in her impulsive desire and self hatred? Go running right back to it?
Her feet dragged as she trailed behind Alastor.
The fire was already stoked and roaring when they arrived at Alastor's room.
Y/n wasted no time in stationing herself right in front of the hearth. Though she didn't sit; she couldn't possibly, despite how exhausted she felt. She leaned over it instead and let it warm her face, her chest, her stomach.
She tried to let it be enough, tried to replace the senseless aching need in her bones with singeing heat on her skin.
It only did so much. And like the drugs she craved, the more she used it to cope, the more she would take and take.
From his desk, Alastor watched the doe's fingers tap, and her ears twitch. With every irate swish of her fluffed tail, she leaned closer and closer to the roaring flames. He stayed quiet, wanting to see how close she let herself get. When she began cringing at the heat, Alastor finally broke the silence.
“Any closer and you'll burn the fur off your ears,” He warned. “Which, now that I say it aloud, sounds rather amusing. But I don't need that spindly friend of yours pestering me, for any reason.”
"Anything to distract me," Y/n murmured, leaning closer still. “As long as it works.”
“Well, if it's a distraction you're looking for…”
The sound of ivory keys being plucked nearly eluded Y/n. She was so disconnected from her senses that she thought a radio had been turned on. It sounded fuzzy and distant at first. But then a dazzling cascade of notes was played, and her skin prickled in anticipation.
She turned around slowly, hesitant to stray from the fire. Her attention was sufficiently piqued.
In place of the desk with stacks of papers and carved bone pens, was a grand piano. It was dark, and elegant, and reverberating with sound. Alastor sat at the keys, playing with an expertise Y/n hasn't seen in a long, long while.
She finally pulled away from the fire, and slowly padded toward the buck as he continued playing.
Alastor shifted seamlessly between themes and melodies. Every key and tempo change came naturally. He would change on a dime, and kept Y/n on her toes as he navigated each musical phrase.
The bucks eyes closed softly as he settled into a stanza.
Y/n watched his fingers dance over the keyboard, jumping and flying with ease. After a while, she couldn't help her eyes trailing up to his face. His smile was steady and proud while he listened to himself play. His brows creased with fervent concentration and his lashes fluttered closed in a deceptive display of innocence— possibly even surrender, if Y/n was willing to go so far.
The notes slowed and quieted, until one final key was struck and his hands lifted away from the instrument, letting it resonate gently in the room.
Everything was still for a moment. Y/n didn't dare breathe, let alone move. She just watched the master in front of her and awaited his next move.
Alastor's eyes opened and found hers looking back at him. His hands fell into his lap with a small satisfied plop. His smile fell slightly, though he didn't seem any less pleased. In fact, the softness in his face made him look more youthful —more genuine.
The heat of the fireplace must've finally caught up to Y/n. At least, that's what she told herself as a warm flush settle over her cheeks.
"Better?" Alastor asked.
"It's a good start," Y/n nodded back.
~~~~~~~
Y/n bounced lightly to the jazzy rhythm being plucked out. Her feet didn't quite move but her hips swayed back and forth, and her head bobbed along to the downbeat, landing with a stern nod as Alastor tacked a button onto the end of the song.
Her tail fluttered happily as she laughed at their synchrony.
"I had no idea I was in the company of such talent," Y/n teased, though she meant every word. "You'd better watch yourself, mister."
"And why, do tell, might I need to 'watch myself'?" He asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Because I might steal you away and make you my private one-man band."
"Oh-ho! Is that a threat or a promise, dearie?"
She thought for a second, before humming in reconsideration.
"On second thought— as much as I love the piano, I think I'd eventually get bored of it. Need me some more variety."
Alastor stood sharply, if only to make his point.
"The thought of anyone being bored in my company is not an idea I take to fondly, I'll have you know," he said with an indignant upward tilt of his chin. Then he came out from behind the piano and offered a cheeky hand to the doe. "Lucky for both of us, I am a demon of many talents."
Alastor pulled her to the center of the room and stood beside her as they faced the piano.
The fire felt nice on her back. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting it ease her muscles. If it weren't for Alastor nudging her shoulder, she would have missed the piano sinking into the floorboards.
It disappeared into a shadowy abyss below. And from above, a wooden frame was lowered, carrying a row of cases, each one uniquely shaped.
From what Y/n could tell, there were five total instruments; a trombone, saxophone, french horn, a trumpet and a clarinet.
"Woah," Y/n breathed. "You play all of these?"
Alastor nodded as he beckoned her forward, giving her permission to browse.
Her hands brushed over the vintage looking cases and noted their texture; worn leather over hard wood. Y/n retracted her hand, struck with the thought of how Alastor might've acquired this leather; what kind of hide it was— or more importantly, whose?
Still, she pointed eagerly to one of the cases and turned back to Alastor with a plea on her face.
Alastor's smile was cool and even, but Y/n would recognize the subtle tension in those ears anywhere. She's seen it in herself countless times.
"You don't have to, of course. I just thought-"
“Take a seat, and don't judge too harshly," he said. "This isn't an instrument I play too often anymore.”
Alastor fiddled with the brass horn for a minute or two, finding his embouchure and recalling the fundamentals. After a moment, he poised the trumpet to his lips, and blew three long notes, each one rising up above the next. Then, in a burst of confidence, he bumbled through the chromatic scale— up, down, then back up again.
Y/n perked up in delighted surprise.
He played on for a moment, barely making any perceptible mistakes to the doe. Her smile grew and grew with every little lick and trick he pulled. He finished a phrase and Y/n wasted no time singing her praise.
“You sound amazing!" She cheered on the edge of her seat, resisting the urge to clap ecstatically. Instead, she ran a nervous hand up her arm and over her shoulder, holding herself in a half embrace. "Why don't you play anymore?" She asked, her head tilting innocently.
Alastor was quiet as he lowered the trumpet. It hung limply at his side for a moment before he looked at it, long and earnest. He breathed deep as he did.
“This was the instrument my father taught me.”
Y/n breath stilled, figuring now was the time to acknowledge what had happened the night before.
“That man," she sighed softly. "What he did in your dream, in your memory-”
“Oh, that wasn't my father.”
Y/n blinked. “I assumed-”
“The man in my dream," Alastor gritted. "Was a blip. A shameful blemish of my youth. He taught me exactly how not to be a man."
Y/n let his words ring out in the room as Alastor placed the trumpet in its velvet lined case. His hands betrayed a delicacy that Y/n wasn't sure she had seen in him before. Such gentleness from the buck was a strange sight, but the doe welcomed it all the same.
“Was that the start of it all?” She finally asked, pushing through her hesitation.
“Of what, dearie; of my ego? Of my sedition? Of my devotion to the macabre?”
“Of your self-fulfillment?”
The lock of the case clicked shut. Alastor straightened slowly.
"Self-fulfillment…" He tasted the words on his tongue. “I guess you could say that.”
Y/n settled further into her seat.
"One man taught me self-fulfillment," Alastor continued. "And the other taught me self-restraint. A strange juxtaposition, some say. "
"You make it work," Y/n assured.
"You think I make that work, wait till you hear me play the clarinet."
"And who taught you that one?"
Alastor's grin deepened.
"You always know just the right question to ask, dearie." His finger tapped on the smallest case on the shelf. "My mother did, in fact. She was an excellent reed player, though she didn't often show it. I guess she played vicariously through me."
"Did you play for her often?"
"Yes. Mostly when she wasn't feeling well. A lot towards the end, especially."
"Do you think she'd be proud?"
The buck thought to himself for a moment before letting out a half laugh, not sounding convinced at the idea.
"I'm not too sure about that.," he finally said. "My mother was the neighborhood Saint. People looked to her for her compassion and kindness. She didn't tolerate mistreatment from anyone. Except when it came to that man." Alastor paused. "I never understood why-…."
Why he was the exception… he pondered furiously to himself. That unsavory, wretched man, of all people….
"In any case," Alastor continued aloud, reining in his ire. "She never knew of my, extra curriculars let's call them. I can only imagine how she would have reacted. The earful I would have gotten."
"So, she never knew about what you did that night?"
"She never knew about any of it."
There was a moment of silent understanding as Y/n registered just how much this woman meant to Alastor. The fact that he was unwilling to share his twisted pleasures with her, why? To spare himself from her scorn? Her disappointment? Maybe her fear?
Whatever it was, it was evident that he did it out of care for her.
"I'm sorry for barging in last night," Y/n said, realizing in retrospect just how personal a moment it was. "I shouldn't have intruded the way I did."
"No. No you shouldn't have," Alastor sighed. "But it was either that or I tear the hotel apart in my sleep."
Y/n bit her cheek in thought.
"I can help," she said barely above a whisper, testing the water.
"With what, dearie?"
"Help you sleep. And not tear the hotel apart while you're at it, I guess," she shrugged. "Angel used to have a hard time sleeping through the night. I've gotten really good at maneuvering the dream realm."
Alastors brow quirked in amusement.
"Nearly one hundred years I have gone without a full nights sleep," he said, looking for a moment as if he might concede to her offer. But he only turned his chin up at her, stubborn as ever. "I see no need to start now. Besides you should be using that energy to practice the spells I've given you."
"I am! I just-" She scowled at him. "The dream world is easy-peasy to navigate. I'm just in a bit of a tricky spot right now, y'know? Sobering up is no easy feat. Not after fifty fucking years." The doe settled back in her seat with a sigh. Her hand covered her eyes sleepily. "I wish coffee did the trick like it used to."
The couch beside her sank under Alastor's weight as he took a seat.
"I miss having energy…. I miss my drugs." She turned to him insistently, impatiently. Her ear twitched in brimming frustration. "I want my fucking drugs, Alastor. I want-"
The buck was silent as he held his hand out to her. In his open palm was a piece of tree branch- no, a bone?
It took Y/n picking it up and feeling it between her fingers for her to realize that this was a piece of antler. And no ordinary one at that. This one weighed heavy, and was sharp as daggers. And warm to the touch, too.
She looked briefly at the crown atop Alastor's head —still perfectly symmetrical— before her gaze shifted back to the piece in her hand.
"Is this… yours?" She asked.
"Yes."
"…I dont know if that makes me feel better or not…"
"It's yours now."
"Ohhh-kay…. thank you, Alastor. Erm… What-" Y/n coughed, unsure. She turned it over in her hand. "What is it for, exactly?"
"Well, it's no coffee, and it certainly isn't snuff. But if you're in need of a quick 'fix', this should help tie you over, so to say."
She openly stared at him for a second.
"This is a gift," she started slowly, unsurety giving way to tease. "You're giving me something out of the kindness of your heart, you realize that, right?"
"Kindness is not a word I'd perscribe to any of my actions, dearie, you would do well to remember that. Besides this isn't the first gift I've given you, if you recall. Are you going to set this aside and forget it like you did the radio?"
Y/n ears perked. "The radio?"
It dawned on her, slowly but surely. The sight of the intricate wooden framed radio perched indelicatly atop her shelf flashed into her minds eye. And when it did, her gut sank with that pesky chruning doubt all over again.
"Oh." She swallowed. "Oh, shit. I didn't realize-" Her breath escaped her nervously. "I'm sorry, I really didn't meant to-" Suddenly she was standing, smoothing out her clothes in thinly concealed panic. "I-I'll go get it and, uhm, just wait, I'll fix-"
Alastor's hand caught her wrist as she passed him. Her skin was cold to the touch, but damp with budding anxiety. He used every inch of restraint, every ounce of gentleness he could muster. Even so, she went still as stone, save for the tremble that shuddered down her spine.
She tried to resist the wag of her fluffed tail, but it betrayed her and twitched nervously in Alastors face.
He let her go just as quick as he had grabbed her.
"You fluster easily for someone in your line of business," he noted.
"I thought you were-" The doe shuffled on her feet now, hands twidling with the antler behind her back. Embarrassment bloomed rosy red over her cheeks. For what, she wasn't entirely sure. "I'm sorry, I-"
"What does it matter what I think? I'm not your pimp, and I'm definitely not your customer. Now sit down, before you work yourself into hysterics. I don't need another unconscious doe on my hands."
Alastor hated to give credit where credit was due, but Valentino had this one well trained— or rather well tormented, he supposed. Alastor wondered if there would even be any damage left for him to do. From the looks of it, he might have to get real creative.
Y/n sat silently, trying to recompose herself. But she couldn't boot the sense of impending doom. A stiffness settled in her joints, compelling her to stay still— to not take up any more space than necessary. It was now she realized how heavy her body felt. How foreign and fuzzy, and oh-so very far away, her limbs, torso, and head felt. If she weren't careful, Alastor would indeed have another fainted demon to deal with.
Despite her refusal to spare him her eyes, Alastor watched her like a hawk from his seat. He stared long and hard, wondering for a moment if she was actually sitting as still as it looked, or if it was an illusion cast in her place. Alastor didn't want to believe she was that skilled yet. But he was learning not to doubt her. Not that he'd ever admit that aloud.
Her hands clutched her thighs, the antler sandwiched between, digging into her skin. Her tail swished slowly, agitated. Her ears tried their best to stay upright but failed, making her hair fall into her face. Alastor thought he might string the stray strands back, grasp her by the ears and shake some sense into her. He didn't think it would necessarily help, but it might make him feel better.
He liked seeing her frazzled and shaken, of course he did. But he much preferred when it was intentionally instigated. That way he could mold, taunt and coax her where he liked. He wanted to feel like an actor on a stage with her again, wanted to direct her into a new scene…
"Remember your breath, dearie."
He reached out slowly, and let his fingers nudge hers. She snapped to look at him but didnt pull away, though he could tell she wanted to.
"Breathe through the trouble," he murmured, before calmly taking hold of her hand that clutched the antler, and raising it between them. "And let this do the rest."
She shook her head in stiff resistance, her unsure eyes flicking between him and their hands.
"Distraction on your feet, then," he said, swiftly tugging her to stand. He didn't give her a chance to object as he assumed a dancing position.
Alastor threw her hand over his shoulder to settle on his upper back. Then he took her other occupied hand into his own, cradling the antler between them both.
She didn't refuse him. She only shuffled awkwardly in front of the buck as they swayed to the gentle music floating from the radio sat on a nearby shelf.
"Come on now, don't hold out on me." His claws scratched softly down her back, encouraging her to ease into it. "I know you can dance much better than that, dearie"
A shudder ran up her spine as his fingers curled. She could feel his nails tracing small circles into her skin. It was strange, being touched like this by someone other than Angel, without further expectations.
She wanted to enjoy this; his hands on her, the warmth radiating off of him. She desperatley tried to force her brain off, to make her thoughts quiet. The harder she tried, the louder it got.
Relax. He already told you once to relax.
A nervous swallow.
You'll piss him off if you don't listen. You already pissed him off because of the radio.
A twitch of her ear.
Keep moving, though. He wants you to dance like you used to. Smooth and sexy.
A stumble in her step.
Shit.
"I can feel you thinking," Alastor crooned.
She snapped to look up at him. His smile was big but soft, seemingly more curious than anything. His eyes were cast elsewhere, just over her head, drawing her in with baited detachment.
"What are you not saying?" He nudged airily.
"I-I should probably go find Angel," Y/n suggested, though she didn't pull away to leave.
Neither did Alastor. He only stopped his rocking and met her eyes evenly. His hands stayed firmly where they were; one on her back and the other holding her hand.
"If you insist," he nodded. "Just know, he's still talking with the doctor."
Y/n's ears flattened atop her head as she quickly changed her mind.
She was pinned under his gaze now, stunned into stillness by the weight of his attention on her. And yet somehow, in all her uncertainty and panic, the weight felt comforting, and grounding— like a rock anchoring her to the earth.
"I'm sorry about the radio," she insisted quietly, hoping it was the acknowledgement he was looking for. "I should have used it, or at least thanked you for-"
"Enough, please," Alastor sighed, looking down at her. "No more of this fawning, dearie. If anything, you are one smart cookie for not immediately trusting a gift from a powerful overlord like myself," he added with a wolfish grin.
Y/n let his compliment land with a small, shy twitch of her lips.
"But the radio was just that: a gift," Alastor carried on, swaying with her gently. "I gave it free of charge, conditions, or caveats. It's up to you whether you use it or not. I only thought you'd apprecite the piece of technology as much as I do, is all," he finished with a shrug. "Same goes for the antler."
"What do you recommend I do with it?" She asked. "The antler, that is. I'd hate for it to just sit on my shelf."
"Oh, it's best if it doesn't. You wouldn't reap the best of it's benefits that way," he agreed. "You could wear it as a necklace, or bind it in leather and wear it as a belt. Or I could have it fashioned into a knife for you, if you'd like." He seemed particualrly tickled by that idea.
"A necklace sounds nice," Y/n decided.
Alastor nodded, his smile deepening slightly. He let go and pulled back to raise the antler between them.
Y/n didn't relinquish her grasp on him though. She clung tight, her fists balling steadfast in the warmth of his coat and clinging to him before he could pull away completely. He scanned her up and down, contemplating shoving her off of him entirely.
He decided against it.
Alastor held the antler up, before it fell from his hand and bounced from a thin chain. Sturdy and silver, it shone even in the dim fire light of his room.
The buck draped it over Y/n's head, placing it between her collar bones with prideful mirth.
The doe shivered as his fingers grazed her skin.
The shudder quickly turned to a buzzing warmth. Spreading from her chest outward, it ate away at her; consumed her slowly but surely. Even still, her mind was hard to tame. She could feel the heat working it's way into her skull. But it couldn't quite penetrate the fear in her brain.
They resumed position and continued swaying to the distant music.
The deer both embraced the quiet that settled over them as they rocked side to side; her mind reeling, and his hands steadying her. It felt like they stood there for hours, in their own little world, avoiding their problems.
Y/n's mind eventually worked itself through enough anxious loops before it decided to finally turn off.
She swayed on her feet— not because of her commitment to the dance, but because her knees locked in a sleepy attempt at staying upright. Her head lulled lightly, and she caught it stubbornly before it could completly land— but not before it went unnoticed by the buck.
Alastor watched her inch closer and closer to sleep. His hold on her tightened with every teeter and tilt, until finally her head hit his chest with unfettered exhaustion. Her knees gave out soon after.
The buck scooped her off her feet without hindrance. Y/n bareley even flinched as his hand slithered further round her waist and hoisted her like she was nothing but a babe. He cradled her in his arms with a certian delicacy he was glad she wasn't awake to see.
A sleeping doe is better than a panicked one… I could wake her here and now if I really wanted, he reasoned with himself. But she needs this rest if she is to progress in our lessons…
So he let her sleep soundly and safely in his arms.
Until he could get her back in her own room —and in her own bed—, of course.
------------
Y/n woke sometime later with a start, her subconscious picking up where she left off. She looked around for the buck, but found her own room instead, the antler still round her neck, the radio still looming on the shelf nearby.
Her head pounded, and her mouth was dry as dust. Not to mention the scorching heat in her veins, which strangley contradicted her freezing cold skin.
She sat up slowly in her bed, reaching for her phone. The screen taunted her, its screen glowing bright in her dark room. She shielded her stinging eyes as she lowered the brightness and sighed to herself.
Barely midnight. And no chance sleep would be finding her again. At least, not as easily.
The smell of brassy liquor and earthy moss lingered in Y/n nose, mixing splendidly with that singularly unique scent that belonged only to a certain buck. It clung to her clothes and flooded her senses— the only thing bringing Y/n a sense of comfort at the moemnt.
She reached for the antler around her neck. It's base was rugged and rough, and she traced it with her thumb, following the ridges down the length of the antler until it smoothed out and softened. The pads of her fingers sculpted the curve of the tines until she found the pointed tips. She counted three in total, each as dangerously sharp as the next. She could do some serious damage with this if she wanted to.
She released the antler before she could linger too long on that thought.
Y/n wanted to sleep. Wanted nothing more than to curl up again and surrender to nothingness. Then she wouldn't have to deal with the immense pressure behind her eyes, anchoring in her throat like a boulder.
The doe's ears perked as a gentle knock sounded on her door.
The doe flung the blanket off and tossed her legs over the side of the bed. She tugged on a sweater before a shiver could escape her, and made her way to the door.
Angel's lazy smile greeted her on the other side. Fat Nuggs squirmed in his lower set of arms, excited to be let loose in Y/n's room.
She cracked the door open further, letting the spider slip in without a word.
"I've been lookin for ya," he said softly, setting the piglet down. "Where did ya run off to?"
"I just needed to lie down. I wasn't feeling well."
"Yeah, you dont look it either," he teased. It fell short with the the tired doe. "When was the last time you took the edge off?"
"Yesterday morning," Y/n sighed, sitting down on her bed.
Fat Nuggets hopped up onto the bed and wasted no time crawling into her lap.
"Anything I can do to help?"
Hand over your stash… she almost said. No questions asked…
That obnoxious pressure stung at her eyes again as frustration churned in her stomach. Her lips trembled, and her throat closed up as she tried to speak.
"Just hold me for a bit," she whispered. "Please?"
And that's exactly what Angel did.
The bed had more than enough space for the both of them. Even Fat Nuggs claimed the lower half of the mattress, sprawling out luxuriously between Angel's legs.
And even then, for as much space as there was for them all, Y/n slotted snuggly into the curve of Angel's slender body. The spider's arms wrapped around her and held her close to his chest.
"The new infermary is pretty intense, huh?" His fingers ran through her hair as he spoke, trying to keep her calm while he figured out where her head was. "I get why you ran out like that."
Y/n curled in on herself, her knees tucked up to her chest. She took a deep breath, trying to force some of the anxiety out of her lungs.
"Is Charlie mad?" She asked quietly.
"No," Angel soothed. "Just a little confused."
The silence was defning. For as gentle as Angel was being with her now, she knew he must feel some type of way about the fact that the Princess still has yet to know. Or at the very least, that he still has to keep Y/n's secret.
"I'll tell her soon. I will," the doe swore weakly. "Once I figure out what to say to her."
Angel didn't respond-- just found her shoulders and took to running his hands over them, pressing into and kneading her aching muscles in the way he knows she likes.
Y/n slowly released the breath she'd been holding.
The metal chain of her necklace shifted under Angel's fingers as he moved. The piece of jewelry was unfamiliar and warm in the spiders hand as he lifted it from her skin to inspect.
"This is new," he noted casually, pulling it around to see the pendant he assumed adorned the chain. "Where did you-?" He was sorely surprised by the accute lack of crystals or gems. Aside from the necklace being more… rustic than anticipated, Angel knew damn well that Y/n doesn't possess antlers of her own.
"Hold the fuck on," he lifted the antler suspiciously as he propped himself up on an elbow. "Is this what I think it is? Is this whose I think it is?? How did you get your hands on this?"
She curled up more, already tired of this conversation.
"He gave it to me," Y/n shrugged.
"Sure, but at what cost?" Panic gripped at Angel's chest. "What did you trade him, Y/n?"
"Nothing," said the doe, taking back the antler weakly. "I didn't trade with him, or make a deal of any sort," she assured, holding the spiders hand to her chest. "He said it could help with my withdrawals, or something like that."
Angel was almost jealous of how she had such a way with reeling in some of the most prolific entities in Hell. However, not so much of the negative attitude it garnered her from their boss. That was a type of attention the spider was glad to avoid.
"How did you get The Radio Demon to hand over a piece of himself?" Angel asked in disbelief.
"You make it sound like it's some kind of declaration of devotion or something."
"Well... Isn't it?"
"No!" She finally turned to the spider with subtle indignation. "Why would you even think-"
"Oh, come ON, Y/n. Do I havta remind you what happened last time you got a gift from a high status hottie? You've definitely got a type, thats for sure."
"N-no," Y/n hesitated. "It's not like that..."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," she decided. "Yes, I am. There's-" A tremor shot through her core, a bout of unease churning her stomach over. "There's nothing going on between us…."
Angel noticed the tremble in her hand as she reached for another one of his. She shook like a leaf, but her skin was burning hot. Nothing quite like Angel had seen with her before. Her hand was clammy and slick with sweat. He pulled his hand out of hers and pressed his palm to her forehead, also moist with perspiration.
"You're burning up, sugar."
The doe didn't respond, just buried her head in his chest with a shiver.
Her breath came out in rugged breaths and deep sighs now, and Angel could feel every tremor that shook her body. Each time her muscles spasmed, the spider thanked God it wasn't him going through this.
She was in the thick of it now. And there was no telling how long the withdrawals would last. Getting clean wasn't something that happened often in Pride. At least, not in the circles they ran.
If he had to guess, this was going to get very messy. Especially when she has to go into work tomorrow and Val inevitably finds out. Angel only hoped she talked to Charlie before then.
___________
Previous < Chapter 18 > Next
A/N- MY Alastor has insomnia!!! make that man afraid, i say!!!
Content: Mentions of blood, slightly descriptive scene of stitching a wound, P in V, fingering, smut with a PLOT.
Summary: Alastor owns the readers soul, yet he never takes advantage of it. She comes to the hotel to speak to him, only to find him in his room stitching his own wound with shaky hands.
Word count: 10,213 words 58,635 characters
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In her previous life, Y/N was a WWI nurse who grew tired of the relentless, unwelcome jests from the soldiers under her care. Eventually, her patience finally snapped. She began "treating" her most inappropriate patients with lethal injections of carbolic acid. The resulting wave of agonizing organ failure went unnoticed in the chaos of war for a time, but her grim work eventually caught up with her, securing her a permanent station in Hell.
When she descended into the flickering, red depths of the Pit, she didn't recoil in horror. Instead, she found herself captivated by her new reflection, a demonic form that felt far more honest than her human image. Without a hint of fear, she stepped into her new life, finding an immediate job at Rosie’s Emporium. In the heart of Cannibal Town, her steady hands and lack of a moral compass made her a perfect fit for the brutality of the neighborhood.
It was within the polished walls of the Emporium that she caught the eye of Alastor. The Radio Demon was instantly captivated by her, and within weeks, he held the leash to her soul. Yet, to the surprise of many, he never used his power with cruelty. Instead, he treated her soul like a rare, precious heirloom, preferring her willing company to forced servitude.
He could treat her exactly like Husk if he wanted, but he chose not to. Instead, he only asked her to visit him for the occasional favor, yet even then, she always had the right to say no it.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
It was a typical Thursday, and following their routine, Y/N arrived at the Hazbin Hotel to visit Alastor. She passed by the chaos of the hotel lobby, moving with the practiced grace of a nurse through a hospital. When she entered his room, she found him slumped in his armchair, his shadow hovering anxiously nearby. Even the fearsome Radio Demon looked human in that moment, his fingers fumbling with a needle as he attempted to stitch a jagged wound across his chest. It was a rare sight of vulnerability that he quickly tried to mask with a strained grin.
Alastor’s head snapped toward the door, his wide, permanent grin tightening as the jazz filtering from his bedside radio gave a sharp, melodic stutter.
"Ah! Y/N, my dear! I’m afraid you haven’t picked the best moment for a social call," he chirped, his voice crackling with a layer of static that betrayed his strain. Despite his bravado, his composure was clearly fraying.
He turned back to the jagged tear in his chest, but his long, dark claws lacked their usual steadiness. The needle slipped from his grasp, clinking sharply against the floorboards. A small testament to a rare moment of weakness.
"Oh, it's quite alright, Al. Would you like some help?" she asked, her voice dipping into the calm, clinical tone of her past life. She tilted her head, watching his shadow flicker with agitation as she stepped into his personal space without a hint of fear. Kneeling with practiced ease, she plucked the fallen needle from the floorboards.
She didn't wait for an invitation, she knew the pride of the Radio Demon was a fragile thing, but her hands were those of a woman who had stitched thousands of men back together amidst falling mortar shells. She looked up at him, the silver needle held between her fingers, silently daring him to refuse her expertise.
"Hm… well, I suppose I could use a bit of assistance," he hummed, his voice crackling with a static-heavy sigh. It was a rare, low admission for the Radio Demon, and he finally leaned back into the red velvet of his armchair, his hands dropping to his sides in a gesture of surrender.
As she moved closer, the air around him smelled of copper and whiskey. He watched her with curious intensity, his permanent grin softening in her gaze. For a man who owned her soul, he seemed remarkably content to let her take the lead, his shadow settling into a watchful, protective stillness behind them.
Eventually, she dragged a stool from beside his dresser, the legs scraping against the floorboards as she positioned herself directly in front of him. Sitting down, she leaned in close, her eyes narrowing with professional scrutiny as she assessed the damage. The wound was jagged, pulsing with a faint heat that would have intimidated anyone else.
"Did you even attempt to clean it?" she asked, her voice dry with the unimpressed tone of a seasoned field nurse.
Alastor let out a sharp, crackling bark of a laugh, the sound distorted by the static of his radio-like voice. "Why, of course I didn't, my dear! What do I look like? A man with nothing better to do than fret over a bit of spilled ink?" He leaned back, his grin widening as he watched her, seemingly more amused by her bedside manner than concerned by the hole in his chest.
She rolled her eyes with the practiced patience of her past. "Washcloth, please?" she requested, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Alastor let out a sharp sigh, clearly unaccustomed to taking orders in his own quarters, but he snapped his fingers with a crisp crack. In an instant, a clean cloth materialized in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured, already reaching for the open bottle of whiskey on his dresser. She doused the rag, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the heavy smell of copper.
As she pressed the soaked cloth against the jagged edges of the wound, Alastor’s grin flickered, his radio violently stuttering in the corner.
Alastor remained still as she worked, his eyes tracking the rhythmic movement of her hands with a predatory yet fascinated focus. The usual static hum of his presence settled into a low, purring vibration.
Despite the sting of the whiskey, he didn't offer a single protest. Instead, he seemed to lean into the pain, savoring the rare sensation of being cared for, or perhaps just the idea of someone being so unafraid of his broken edges.
"You're… better at this than I thought you'd be," he finally remarked, the sharp edges of his voice softening into something almost genuine. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he spoke again, "Perhaps I should hire you as my personal nurse. It certainly beats the alternative of rotting away in this hotel, doesn't it?"
She hummed thoughtfully, the sound a low in the quiet room. "Well, I was a nurse in my mortal life, you know," she remarked, her voice carrying a weight that didn't match the carnage of Hell.
Alastor’s eyebrows shot up, a crackle of static flickering through the air like a short-circuit. He was rarely caught off guard, but the image of her in a crisp white uniform, tending to the dying, seemed to fascinate him. His head tilted at a sharp, inquisitive angle, his eyes gleaming with a new curiosity.
"A nurse, you say? Now that is a twist I never saw coming!" Alastor leaned forward, the static in the air crackling. "Tell me, dear, how did such a noble profession land you in the fiery pits? Surely they don't damn you for simply changing bloody bandages."
She didn't look up from her work, her hands steady as she prepared the next stitch. "Just because I was a nurse doesn't mean I was innocent," she murmured. "Those soldiers… they used to speak so dirty to me. They thought because I was there to heal them, I belonged to them."
She paused, the memory of the sterile hospital smell and the crude words flickering in her mind. "Eventually, I simply had enough. I stopped healing the ones who couldn't keep their tongues behind their teeth."
Alastor’s eyes widened, the radio dials in his pupils spinning with delight. "Oh? And how exactly did you… retire them?"
"I injected carbolic acid into their wounds," she hummed, the detachment in her voice making the words all the more chilling.
Alastor let out a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrated through the radio, a sound of genuine professional appreciation. "Oh, how deliciously vindictive of you!" he purred.
The praise was cut short by a sharp hiss as she sunk the needle back into his skin to pull the first stitch tight. Behind him, his shadow lashed out, coiling like a territorial viper against the wallpaper in response to the pain.
He didn't pull away, though. His crimson eyes were now fixed on her with a newfound respect. "To use the very tools of healing to deliver such a rhythmic, internal ruin… you really are a woman of remarkable taste, my dear."
He placed his hand against her leg. The warmth of his hand against her calf was an unexpected contrast to his usually cold presence. It was a grounding weight, possessive and steady, even as his fingers tensed against her skin with every pull of the thread.
"Hold still…" she murmured, her focus never wavering from the jagged tear.
Alastor chuckled again, a low, rhythmic sound that sent a burst of static through the quiet room. "I must say… that story was quite the surprise," he admitted, his voice dropping into a smoother, more intimate frequency. He gave another sharp hiss as the needle pierced a particularly sensitive spot, and his grip on her leg tightened instinctively, pulling her slightly closer to his chair.
"To think, a little doll like you was hiding such a sharp past," he continued, his eyes glowing with a dark, appreciative light. "It makes our little arrangement all the more… satisfying, don't you think?"
She finished the final stitch with a sharp, clean knot and reached for a pair of scissors on the dresser. "I suppose it does," she replied as she snipped the thread, glancing up at him. "There you go.." She said, placing the scissors back on the dresser.
"Perfect, my darling. I appreciate it," he said, the static in his voice smoothing out into a satisfied purr. He didn't pull his hand away from her leg, instead he let his thumb brush against the fabric of her dress for a lingering moment before he finally sat up straight.
He tilted his head at a sharp angle, his eyes pulsing with a soft crimson glow. "I don't believe I have anything else on the agenda for you today… so, how about a change of scenery? We could pay a visit to the local Sinners' café for a cup of tea? My treat, of course!"
The invitation was phrased as a suggestion, but the way his shadow danced excitedly against the wall suggested he was already expecting her "yes." It was a rare offer of public companionship from the Radio Demon, one that moved their relationship beyond the walls of the hotel and into the chaotic streets of Pentagram City..
"Sounds delightful," she hummed, standing from the stool. As she stood, the loss of his hand's weight on her leg felt cold, but Alastor was quick to fill the space, rising behind her like his shadow did to him. He offered his arm, his grin widening until it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Despite her slight hesitation, she looped her arm through his. "Lead the way," she said, and he did, stepping out of the hotel with the confidence of a man who ran the world.
The walk to the café was an exercise in theatricality. Sinners scrambled out of their path, sensing the Radio Demon’s presence before they even saw him. Alastor, for his part, seemed delighted by the attention, all while keeping Y/N tucked firmly at his side.
When they finally reached the café, a charmingly macabre establishment with wrought-iron chairs and blood-red awnings, he pulled out a chair for her with practiced, old-world charm.
"Thanks," she hummed, smoothing her dress as she settled into the metal chair.
"My pleasure, dear," Alastor replied, his voice a smooth, melodic crackle. He sat across from her, leaning back casually, though his eyes never once drifted from her face. He rested his chin on the back of his hand, observing her with a thoughtful stillness that made the air around them hum.
The silence was broken by the arrival of a scrawny, multi-eyed waiter. The poor soul was a mess of nerves, his knees knocked together in sheer terror at the sight of the Radio Demon, yet he couldn't stop stealing flustered glances at her. He fumbled with his notepad, his hands shaking so violently the pen nearly slipped.
"W-welcome… what can I… may I get for you… Sir? And for the… the lovely lady?" he stuttered, his face flushing a deep pink.
Alastor’s grin sharpened, a low hum vibrating from his chest as he noticed the waiter’s lingering gaze on her. "A pot of your finest Earl Grey for the lady," Alastor chimed, his voice dripping with a polite, yet terrifying edge. "And for me… well, surprise me. But do try to be quick, friend. We wouldn't want your shaking to spoil the tea, would we?"
The waiter didn’t need to be told twice. He vanished in a blur of panicked motion. Alastor let out a rhythmic hum, the sound vibrating through the table. "My, my… these sinners certainly are a jumpy lot at my presence, aren't they?" he mused, his tone dripping with innocence.
Within seconds, the waiter scurried back, his hands trembling as he set the tea service down with a frantic clatter before bolting once more. Y/N didn't even flinch. She simply reached for her cup, the porcelain steady in her grip as she took a calm, measured sip. "They absolutely are," she agreed, her voice as cool as the morning mist over the trenches of war.
Alastor chuckled, a deep, crackling sound that seemed to resonate from the very air around them. He watched her over the rim of his own cup, clearly captivated by her. In a realm where his mere presence caused most to stumble over their own feet, her casual indifference to the chaos he radiated was intriguing.
"You don't seem particularly intimidated, my dear," he noted, leaning forward. His gaze searched her face as if trying to solve a mystery. "Most would be trembling in their boots at the mere sight of me. Yet here you sit, as calm as if we were having Sunday brunch in the local park! Tell me, what is it that makes you so remarkably… unfazed?"
"Well, dear… you might look all tall, dark, and creepy," she mused, setting her teacup down with a delicate click as she crossed her legs with effortlessness. She met his glowing gaze with calmness. "But beneath all that static and shadow, you really are just a gentleman."
Alastor’s grin froze for a split second, a sharp, loud pop of static echoing through the air as his eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. It was a rare thing to see the Radio Demon caught off guard, his usual persona momentarily flickering.
"A gentleman!" he repeated, a distorted chuckle bubbling up from his chest. The shadows behind him danced with an amused energy. "My, my, what a delightfully dangerous thing to say! Most here would call me a monster, a tyrant, or even a nightmare incarnate… yet you see a man of etiquette? How peculiar."
She simply hummed, offering a small shrug that signaled her mind was made up. To her, the terrifying Overlord was a man of manners, and she wasn't easily swayed by his theatrics. They spent the next hour in a rare, easy rhythm, the clink of porcelain and the low hum of conversation filling the air.
Finally, Alastor stood, smoothing the front of his coat with the snap of his wrists. "Well, dear, I suppose we should be on our separate ways, shall we?" he asked, though he lingered by the table, his shadow swaying expectantly. He paused, his head tilting with a flicker of genuine interest. "Unless… you’d like to come provide a bit more company for me this evening?"
It was a rare invitation into his private world, but she remained as professional as ever. "Unfortunately, I have business to attend to," she hummed, standing to face him.
Alastor’s grin twitched, a momentary flash of disappointment. He wasn't used to being told "no," yet the rejection seemed to only improve his fascination with her. "Business? How mysterious!" he chirped as he took her hand and pressed a lingering, charming kiss to her knuckles. "Very well! I shall count the minutes until our next Thursday visit, my talented little nurse."
⪻────𖤓────⪼
True to their arrangement, the following Thursday found Y/N strolling through the hotel lobby, softly humming a jaunty jazz tune Alastor had played during their tea the previous week. She made her way to his room, her movements possessed with calm efficiency.
When she stepped inside, Alastor was there, lounging in his armchair with one leg draped lazily over the other. He swirled a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. The moment she crossed the threshold, his head snapped toward her with that signature, bone-chilling sharpness.
"You're back," he stated, his voice a low, crackling frequency. He didn't move a muscle, merely watching her over the rim of his glass with the calculating gaze of a cat weighing its options.
"Like you said I'd be," she hummed in return, showing no more fear of the Radio Demon than she had the week before. She sank into the armchair opposite him, meeting his intense stare with a look that was part-caregiver, part-equal. "I assume you haven't been picking at your stitches, Al?"
"Why, of course not! I’ve been a model patient," he hummed, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested he’d at least been tempted.
"Good!" she chirped, standing up and closing the distance between them. She didn't hesitate, perching herself right on the velvet armrest of his chair. From this height, her proximity forced a rare moment of stillness from him. "Mind if I take a look?" she asked, her hands already reaching out with authority.
Alastor’s grin tightened as his shadow stretched out across the floor, mimicking his inward tension. He leaned back, tilting his chin up to give her better access, his eyes fixed on her face as she invaded his personal space. "By all means, my dear," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, static-laced purr. "The stage is yours."
She hummed softly, her fingers nimble as she unbuttoned his dress shirt to reveal the scarred skin beneath. She leaned in close, her cool fingertips tracing the line of the stitches with professional care. The wound had closed significantly, the jagged edges now held together by her steady handiwork. "Looks alright…" she murmured, satisfied, before pulling away to give him back his space.
Alastor remained unnervingly still as she retreated, the fabric of his shirt hanging open. He didn't immediately move to button it back up. Instead, he watched her with a look of intense, quiet fascination. "Just alright?" he echoed, his voice a low crackle. "I was hoping for 'spontaneous,' considering the talent of the woman who tended to it."
She hummed, a soft but firm dismissal of his flattery. "Hush now. You know exactly what I was intendenting."
She stood up, smoothing her dress out and preparing to leave despite having spent barely ten minutes in the room. "I'm afraid I must leave early today," she added, her tone shifting to one of professional necessity.
Alastor’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, his shadow flickering with a sharp edge of disappointment. "Leaving so soon? Our hour is barely begun!"
"Rosie has me working double shifts," she explained, already heading for the door. With the tensions between Heaven and Hell escalating, the demand for "processed inventory" at the Emporium was skyrocketing, and Rosie needed her most efficient hands on deck. The chaos of the coming conflict meant more business, more bodies, and far less time for leisurely whiskey and conversations.
"I'll be back next Thursday, as always," she called out over her shoulder, the door clicking shut behind her.
But "as always" was quickly swallowed by the frantic hunger of Cannibal Town. She didn't show up for a whole three weeks. Rosie was a demanding mentor, and as the conflict with Heaven loomed, the shop was crowded with panicked sinners and regulars. By the time the third Thursday rolled around, she was so exhausted that she collapsed into her own bed at the Emporium, the scheduled visit to the hotel completely slipping from her mind.
Alastor was many things. A monster, a tyrant, a creature of chaos, but above all, he was a man of pride. The silence of those three missing Thursdays echoed through the hotel corridors like a deafening static. He spent those evenings pacing his room, his shadow lashing out at the furniture in a silent, jagged tantrum. He was furious that he had been forgotten, yet, for the first time in his afterlife, he didn't retaliate.
He had watched her from the shadows of Cannibal Town, seeing the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of Rosie’s demands and the darkening circles beneath her eyes. He could have manifested her into his room, demanded her presence, or reminded her that he quite literally owned her soul, but he found himself hesitating. He actually cared for her well-being more than he’d ever care to admit to anyone, especially himself.
Due to her absence, Alastor hadn’t left his wing of the building in days. The usual jaunty jazz that echoed from his room had been replaced by a low, dissonant hum of white noise that set everyone on edge.
Then, to his surprise the lobby doors creaked open on the following Saturday.
Y/N didn't enter with her usual grace. She stumbled, her breath coming in ragged hitches as she navigated the stairs. She had spent the last three weeks buried in the labor of the Emporium, but her current state wasn't due to exhaustion. A deep, jagged gash ran down her arm, the edges of the wound glowing with a faint, flickering blue light, the unmistakable reminisce of a VoxTek electrified blade. Vox, desperate to strike at Alastor’s few remaining nerves, had sent an employee to attack her in the chaos of the shop.
She reached Alastor's door and didn't wait for an invitation before pushing it open. The sight inside stopped her cold. Alastor was slumped in his armchair, looking like a ghost himself. His hair was slightly disheveled, and dark, bruised bags hung beneath his eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept since she last walked out that door.
As the door swung wide, Alastor’s head snapped toward her. He had been prepared to deliver a scathing remark about her three-week disappearance, his ego bruised by her silence, but the moment his eyes landed on her blood-soaked sleeve, the resentment vanished, replaced by a violent, surging concern.
He was out of his chair before the door had even fully opened, manifesting in front of her in a blur of shadows. He didn't ask where she’d been, he didn't care about her excuses. He reached out, his claws hovering inches from the wound, his entire frame trembling with a suppressed rage.
"Who?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a distorted, demonic bass that made the hotel windows rattle in their frames. The radio dials in his eyes spun frantically, glowing a deep crimson. "Tell me which pathetic, short-sighted soul thought they could put their hands on you, Y/N."
“I… I don’t know exactly who,” she murmured, her voice tight as she clutched her arm. “I just know it was one of Vox’s employees…”
She felt a rare prickle of fear. While she usually treated Alastor with an almost teasing indifference, the raw energy radiating off him was heavy enough to make even the devil himself shiver. The room’s jazz had flatlined into a low, menacing drone, and his shadows were coiling around the furniture restlessly. Alastor’s grin remained, but it had turned into something sharp and brittle.
"Vox," he repeated, the name crackling with a heavy layer of anger. For a split second, it looked as though he might simply vanish into the shadows to fight back, his grip tightening on his microphone cane until the wood groaned. But then, he looked at her again, at the way she was swaying slightly, the blood still seeping through her fingers. The glow in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sharp, focused concern. He forced a rattling breath through his teeth, deliberately pulling his shadows back until they were nothing more than a smudge on the floor.
He let out a soft sigh, the static in the air finally settling into a low, rhythmic hum. "Sit," he directed, his tone leaving no room for argument. She complied, sinking into the velvet of his armchair as he immediately began to tend to the wound.
With surprising dexterity, Alastor mirrored the very techniques she had used on him, cleaning the gash with practiced care before starting on the stitches. He remained silent for a long moment, his focus entirely on the needle and thread, until the quiet was broken by the sharp crackle of his voice.
"You didn't visit like you were supposed to," he stated, his voice a low hum that lacked its usual theatrical flair. He finally looked up, his eyes locking onto hers with a look that was less about the broken promise and more about the three weeks of silence that had clearly gnawed at him. "I was beginning to think our little arrangement had lost its... charm for you."
"I'm sorry... I was just so busy. I got so tired that I forgot," she admitted, her voice carrying a rare, genuine softness that cut through the thick aid in the room. "It wasn't because of you, Alastor."
He let out a long sigh that seemed to deflate his rigid posture. "I haven't slept," he confessed, the admission sounding strange and vulnerable coming from one of the most feared entities in the Pentagram.
She looked at him and nodded slowly. Without hesitation, she reached out with her free hand, her thumb gently tracing the dark, heavy bags beneath his eyes. "I can tell..." she murmured, her instincts softening into something more intimate.
Alastor went still at the contact, his wide, permanent grin tightening as a soft crackle of static rippled through the air. For a man who usually recoiled from touch, he didn't pull away. Instead, he seemed to melt under the gentle pressure of her thumb. His eyes half-closed, the glowing in his eyes dimming to a soft, flickering red as he let out a jagged breath, finally allowing the heavy mask of the Overlord to slip in the quiet of his room.
"I'm sorry for leaving you for so long..." she whispered again, her voice thick with regret as she continued to stroke his cheek.
Alastor let out a distorted hum, the sound vibrating through her fingertips. He finally set the needle down, his work finished, and leaned his forehead against hers. "A rare apology from a woman who usually only offers orders," he murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, intimate frequency that lacked any of its usual theatrics. "Do try not to make a habit of it, my dear. The silence in this room is far too loud when you aren't here to fill it."
She nodded, and a heavy, lingering silence settled between them, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the radio.
"I have a question..." she started, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, my dear?" he asked, his head tilting with a flicker of genuine curiosity.
She took a breath, meeting his glowing gaze. "You have control over my soul... you could make me do anything. But you don't use that power to its fullest. Why is that?"
Alastor went still, the radio in the room softening into a smooth, velvet purr. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch, his expression unreadable.
"A soul is a delicate thing, my dear," he finally replied, his voice dropping to a frequency so low it felt like a caress. "Any Overlord can pull a string and make a puppet dance, but there is no fun in forced company. Where is the entertainment in a smile that isn't earned, or a conversation that is merely a requirement of a contract?"
He reached up, his clawed fingers gently covering her hand where it still rested against his cheek. "I find you far more intriguing when you're allowed to roam free."
She hummed, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "So you do enjoy my company?" she asked, her eyes locking onto his with a gaze that seemed to peel back his layers.
"I suppose I do," he admitted, the tone in his voice softening into something almost melodic.
But her clinical instincts never stayed dormant for long. Her mind flickered back to her original purpose for her visits. "And how is your chest wound?" she asked, her tone shifting back to that of a concerned nurse.
At that, Alastor’s eyes widened. The room’s jazz gave a sudden, dissonant screech. During those long, empty weeks of her absence, he had grown restless, bored in a way that was dangerous for a demon of his temperament. He had downed whiskey like a man trying to drown out silence, and in those intoxicated, lonely hours, he and his shadows had mindlessly plucked at the very stitches she had so carefully placed... letting the jagged wound tear right back open.
Her face dropped, replaced by the stern, unmistakable look of a mother deeply disappointed in a child who knew better. The warmth was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused glare that seemed to cut right through his bravado.
"Let me see," she commanded, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone she used when a patient was being particularly difficult.
She didn't wait for permission. Standing up, she placed her hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him back down into the velvet cushions of his armchair. With the practiced efficiency of a seasoned nurse, she moved to straddle his lap, settling her weight firmly against him to get an unyielding view of the damage.
The sudden, intimate contact caught him completely off guard. As she sat, a sharp, involuntary bleat escaped his throat, a high-pitched, vocal slip that betrayed his intimidating nature. Alastor froze, his permanent grin twitching as his face flushed a deeper crimson, the shadow in the room moving into a embarrassed scrambled.
His long, clawed fingers hovered near her waist, unsure whether to reclaim his personal space or pull her closer, as she began to unbutton his shirt. He was the most feared Overlord in Hell, yet here he was, reduced to a flustered, bleating mess under the gaze of a woman who wasn't afraid to treat him like a disobedient schoolboy.
As she moved his clothing out of the way, her eyes were met with a bloody mess. The stitches were shredded, and the wound was gaping open, raw and angry once again. She let out a long, weary sigh.
"Did you do that?" she asked, her voice flat and clearly irritated.
Alastor shifted under her weight, his gaze darting momentarily to the corner of the room where his shadow was trying to look small and inconspicuous. The usual clever remark died in his throat. "It... may have been a result of a rather restless evening," he murmured, his voice crackling with a sheepish, low-frequency hum.
"Alastor... you fucking idiot," she sighed, the irritation in her voice giving way to a tired maternal exasperation.
Alastor suddenly felt remarkably small beneath her. As she sat on his lap, ignoring his terrifying aura to focus on his foolishness, a strange, long-buried sensation stirred within him. It was a grounded, firm sort of discipline he hadn't felt in decades. One that reminded him vividly of his mother’s stern but loving hand back in New Orleans, long before she had died.
He went still, his wide grin softening into something almost bashful as he leaned back into the chair. He didn't try to claw back his dignity, instead, he watched her with a quiet, submissive fascination, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"I suppose I've been a rather... troublesome patient in your absence," he murmured, his voice dropping to a soft crackle. He looked up at her, the shadows at his feet settling into a patient, waiting silence. "I don't suppose the nurse has it in her heart to forgive a bit of... intoxicated restlessness?"
She grumbled, a low sound of lingering annoyance that finally dissolved into another sigh. "It's... it's fine," she muttered, though her tone suggested he was lucky she was so patient. She reached for the bottle of whiskey and the rag, noting they hadn't moved an inch from their spot since her last visit.
Alastor watched her with a quiet intensity. The scene felt strangely domestic. She sat firmly on his lap, her movements practiced and sure as she dabbed the rag with the alcohol. When she pressed it against his raw skin, he let out a sharp hiss, his hands instinctively gripping the velvet armrests, but he didn't pull away.
There was a peculiar peace in the way she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration as she focused on mending him once more. To anyone else, he was a monster to be feared, but to her, he was simply a stubborn man who couldn't be trusted to look after himself. He leaned his head back, his eyes half-lidded as he savored the sting of the antiseptic and the grounding weight of her presence, feeling more at home in this moment than he had in weeks.
Five minutes later, she pulled the final knot tight, the efficiency of her past life once again bringing order to the mess he’d made. "Please, Alastor... don't do that again. You're going to scar yourself beyond repair, and I can't keep fixing what you choose to break," she said, her voice dropping to a weary, soft warning as her irritation finally bled out into exhaustion and concern.
She moved to stand, but before she could even shift her weight, his hands snapped to her waist like a trap.
His grip was sudden, his claws digging slightly into the fabric of her dress with a possessive force. The radio in the room didn't just crackle, it surged into a heavy, suffocating roar that made the shadows on the walls lash out. He didn't look up, his head remaining bowed, but the air around them began to vibrate with a terrifying, low-frequency hum.
"Don't," he rasped. The word wasn't a request. It was a command that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. He finally looked up, his eyes no longer glowing with charm, but burning like two dying stars, hungry, hollow, and dangerously intense. "You’ve been gone for twenty two days, Y/N. Twenty two days of that wretched, hollow silence."
He pulled her inches closer, his face tilting up toward hers, his grin now wide and serrated. "You don't get to simply mend me and vanish again. I won't allow it."
Her breath hitched as she met his gaze, the air thinning under the heavy, suffocating scent of him. She didn't struggle. Instead, she settled back into the cradle of his lap, her hands shaking slightly as she blindly set the medical supplies back onto the dresser. She remained pinned there, trapped by the sudden, overwhelming gravity of his presence.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic thrumming deep within Alastor’s chest. He didn't just hold her, he enveloped her. One hand stayed crushed against the small of her back, while the other slid upward, his long, dark claws tracing the pulse point at her throat before tangling firmly into her hair. He pulled her flush against him, forcing her to feel the jagged heat radiating from his newly stitched skin.
"Sorry..." she finally whispered. Her voice was small, cracked, and carried a trace of a tremor she couldn't hide. It was the first time she had ever sounded truly frightened of him.
At the sound of her fear, the room smoothed into a low, possessive purr. Alastor leaned in, his face inches from hers, his nose brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was half-caress, half-claim.
"Do you have any idea how much I loathe being ignored, my darling?" he murmured, his voice a smooth, velvet frequency that vibrated against her skin. He tilted her head back, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip with a slow, agonizing pressure. "Three weeks is a very long time to be left alone with one's own thoughts. I found them... remarkably disturbing without your voice to drown them out."
He pulled her even closer, his grip shifting until his fingers were tangled deeper in her hair, forcing her to look into the flickering crimson of his eyes. "Don't ever assume your 'business' is more important than your presence here. Am I understood?"
The fear that had initially gripped her began to melt, replaced by a sudden thrum of eagerness. She could feel the heat of his breath against her lips, the scent of bitter scent of whiskey drenching her senses. "Yes, sir..." she breathed, the submissive title slipping out as she leaned into his touch, her eyes wide and searching for the next move.
Alastor’s grin didn't widen, instead, it softened into something far more predatory. The "sir" seemed to send a fresh surge of static through him, the shadows on the walls dancing in a frantic, jagged celebration. He let his hand slide from her hair to cup her jaw, his thumb dragging across her bottom lip once more.
"How perfect," he whispered, his voice descending into a low, guttural growl that resonated in her very marrow. He shifted her on his lap, pulling her body so tightly against his that she could feel the jagged rhythm of his demonic heart. "I believe I've been far too patient with you, my dear. You’ve spent three weeks tending to the needs of common sinners, but tonight... tonight you will learn exactly what it means to belong to me."
She nodded, her chest heaving as her breathing grew far heavier than when she had first entered the room. The scent of him was dizzying, and the heat radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the cold life she had left behind. His lips were a mere whisper away, ghosting against hers with every shallow breath she took, yet he remained perfectly still, teasing her with a proximity that was both a promise and a torment.
Alastor was a master of suspense, and he seemed to be savoring the way her heartbeat thundered against his own. He didn't close the gap. He simply watched her, his eyes wide and glowing with a predatory delight. He was waiting for her to break, to finally reach for what he had been waiting for during those long, lonely weeks of silence.
The silence stretched between them, thick enough to touch, as she fought the urge to close the final inch. Her heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that he seemed to savor with every shallow breath.
"Alastor..." she finally whispered. The name was a fragile plea, soft and weighted with a hesitation he hadn't seen from her before. Even now, with her blood still staining her sleeves and her body draped over his lap, she remained perfectly still. She was the nurse who followed rules, the soul who understood the weight of her contract. She wouldn't dare cross that gap without his instruction.
His head tilted. He loved this, the tension, the absolute control, and the way she looked at him with an eagerness that mirrored his own hidden hunger. He didn't kiss her. Instead, he let his hand slide from her waist to the back of her neck, his claws grazing her skin as he tilted her head back just a fraction more.
"Yes, my darling?" he hummed, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against her lips, teasing the very surface of her skin. "You have my absolute, undivided attention. What is it that you're so carefully waiting for?"
"Please... don't act like you don't know," she breathed, the words breaking as a desperate plea. She was done with the games, done with the distance. She just wanted him to finally cross that agonizingly small gap and kiss her.
Alastor let out a low, crackling chuckle, a sound that was pure dark satisfaction. "How could I possibly resist such a heartfelt request?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, velvety frequency that vibrated against her lips.
He didn't make her wait another second. His hand behind her head tightened, pulling her forward as he finally crashed his lips against hers. It wasn't a charming kiss. It was hungry, possessive, and thick with the weight of his power. The shadows in the room surged, the radio in the corner exploding into a jubilant, frantic swing tune as he finally claimed the nurse who had spent so long mending his broken edges.
The moment their lips met, the room exploded into static. Not the usual chaotic crackle of Alastor’s power, but something deeper, hungrier. His grip on her tightened, claws pressing just enough to leave indents in her skin as he dragged her hips down against his with a single, deliberate motion. The friction between them was immediate, electric, pulling a ragged gasp from her throat that he swallowed greedily.
His tongue slid against hers, tasting the sharp remnants of whiskey and something darker, something distinctly him. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, devouring, the kind of kiss that left bruises and blurred the line between pleasure and pain. She arched into him, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as he ground her against the now hard line of his arousal, the movement rough enough to make her whimper.
Alastor broke the kiss only to trail his teeth along her jaw, his breath hot and staticky against her skin. "You feel that, darling?" he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he rolled his hips up again, dragging another broken sound from her lips. "That’s what three weeks of silence gets you."
The shadows in the room writhed, twisting into sinuous shapes that mirrored the way his hands moved over her, possessive, demanding. One claw traced the line of her throat, down to the collar of her dress, before hooking into the fabric and pulling. The tear of cloth was obscenely loud in the sudden hush of the room, the cool air hitting her exposed skin a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth as he latched onto the curve of her shoulder, biting just hard enough to walk the edge of pain.
She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he dragged her hips down again, the friction maddening. "Alastor-"
"Ah-ah," he tsked, his grin sharp against her skin as he nipped at her collarbone. "No interruptions, my dear. Not when I’ve been so patient." His hands slid down to grip her thighs, squeezing just shy of bruising as he lifted her slightly, just enough to reposition her, to press her harder against the growing bulge in his slacks.
His laugh was a low, crackling sound, vibrating through her ribs as he leaned back to watch her face. "Oh, you like that, don’t you?" he murmured, his voice thick with static. "My perfect little nurse, so composed, so professional," He punctuated each word with a roll of his hips, the movement calculated, relentless. "reduced to this. A pathetic little mess."
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t think beyond the heat pooling low in her stomach, the way his claws pricked at her skin through the fabric of her dress. Every movement was deliberate, designed to unravel her. The slow grind of his hips, the way his breath hitched against her ear, the way his shadow coiled around her wrist like a shackle, holding her in place as he worked her closer and closer to the edge.
She bit her lip, her fingers tightening in his hair, something she never would’ve dared do before, but he only groaned, low and approving, his grin widening until it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Oh, yes, my darling," he purred, his voice dropping into that smooth, velvety frequency that made her knees weak. "That’s it. Show me how much you’ve missed me."
And she had. God, she had. Three weeks without his voice, his touch, his laughter. She leaned into him, pressing closer, her breath coming in ragged gasps as his hands roamed, possessive and demanding. His claws caught on the torn edges of her dress, ripping it further with a sharp, deliberate tug, exposing the curve of her breast to the cool air.
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth was on her skin in an instant, hot and hungry, his teeth grazing her nipple just hard enough to make her gasp again. The sound was swallowed by the sudden, discordant burst of jazz from the radio in the corner, the notes twisting and warping under the weight of his pleasure, his need.
Alastor’s fingers tightened around her waist as she arched into his mouth, a ragged moan escaping her lips. The radio’s music pulsed in time with the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. His tongue flicked over her skin, sending shivers down her spine, before he pulled back just enough to watch her face again.
The moment Alastor pulled back to study her face, his grin widened, sharp, predatory at the sight of her flushed cheeks and parted lips. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her throat, a rhythm he traced with the tip of one claw, savoring the way she shuddered beneath his touch.
"Oh, how delicious you look unraveling," he murmured, his voice a crackling purr that vibrated against her skin. His fingers slid from her throat to the ruined fabric of her dress, tugging it further until the garment hung in tatters, barely clinging to her shoulders. "Tell me, darling... did you dream of this while you were away? Of me tearing you apart like this?"
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not when his hand slipped between them, his claws ghosting over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her breath hitched, sharp and audible, and Alastor laughed, low and delighted.
"Speechless?" He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, lingering just long enough to feel her tremble. "How very unlike you." His fingers curled, dragging the hem of her dress up inch by agonizing inch. "Let’s fix that."
His claws traced the delicate lace of her underwear, the fabric damp beneath his fingertips. A sharp hum vibrated in his chest as he pressed his palm flush against her, the heat radiating through the thin material. "My, my," he murmured against her pulse point, his grin widening at the way her hips jerked involuntarily. "You're dripping, darling. All for little old me?"
She dug her nails into his back, her breath coming in ragged bursts as his fingers flexed, applying just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble. The radio screeched into a frenzied big band number, horns blaring in time with the desperate roll of her hips.
His laugh was a distorted melody against her skin as he finally hooked a claw into the lace and ripped the fabric tearing with a sound that sent a shudder down her spine. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, but before she could even gasp, his fingers were on her. They weren't teasing, weren't coaxing, just taking, his touch as relentless as the static humming through the room.
Alastor didn’t tease. His fingers slid into her with a sharp, practiced precision that stole the breath from her lungs. The stretch burned, his claws careful but unyielding, curling just to drag a broken cry from her throat. The radio’s music stuttered into a discordant wail, snapping under the weight of her pleasure.
"There we are, darling," he purred, his voice thick, his grin pressed against the fluttering pulse in her neck. His fingers moved with a rhythm that was anything but gentle. They were deep, relentless strokes that left her clawing at his shoulders, her hips jerking against his hand. "Look at you, dear. Falling apart on my fingers like some common sinner."
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t do anything but gasp as his thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, punishing circles that had her seeing stars. The room spun, the shadows on the walls writhing in time with the frantic roll of her hips. His laugh vibrated through her ribs, dark and delighted, as her thighs trembled around his wrist.
She arched against him, her breath ragged, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw thin lines of blood from his skin. The sensation of his fingers inside her was electric, maddening, but it wasn’t enough. Not when she could feel the hard press of him against her thigh, not when the heat of his body absorbed through the ruined fabric of her dress. She wanted him.
"Alastor-' she gasped, her voice breaking around his name. Her hips jerked against his fingers, but she fought the rising tide of pleasure, refusing to let it rise. "I don't- I don't want to-"
Alastor's grin didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened, the dials in his pupils spinning with amusement as his fingers curled deeper, dragging another choked sound from her throat. "Don't want to what, darling?" he hummed, static licking at each syllable. "Don't want to finish? Or don't want to admit how badly you need me buried inside you?"
The words sent a shudder through her. She shook her head, nails scraping down his chest where she'd ripped his buttons loose earlier. His chuckle vibrated against her skin, fingers stilling just enough to make her hips jerk forward in protest.
"Ah-ah," he tsked, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the frantic flutter of her pulse. "You'll have to say it properly, my pretty little nurse. Use those words I know you've got tucked away."
The sob that escaped her was half-frustration, half-surrender. "Fuck your- your stupid games," she gasped, arching against him as his thumb circled her clit again, too light now, just shy of what she needed. "Just- please.."
Alastor's grin twisted into something wicked, his fingers stilling inside her again. "Oh? Please what, darling?" he cooed, his voice dripping with mock innocence. His thumb circled her clit lazily, the touch deliberately not enough, and she whimpered, her nails biting into his shoulders. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want."
She swallowed hard, her breath coming in ragged bursts as his fingers flexed, pressing deeper for one torturous second before withdrawing completely. The sudden emptiness wrenched a broken noise from her throat, her hips chasing his touch instinctively.
"Fuck- Alastor," she gasped, her voice raw. His claws traced her inner thigh, teasingly close but never touching where she needed him most. Pride shattered under the weight of her need, her head falling forward as she finally surrendered. "Please- I want you to fuck me. Properly."
He let out a low, crackling hum of approval, his pupils dilating until the dials in his eyes spun wildly. "Now that," he murmured, dragging his free hand down to grip her hips, "was definitely worth the wait."
With a sharp jerk, he yanked her forward, pressing her flush against the hard line of his arousal. The friction drew a gasp from her lips, her thighs trembling as his claws dug into her skin. His grin widened at her reaction, his free hand snapping to tear open the buttons of his trousers with a single, impatient motion.
The moment Alastor freed himself, her breath hitched, not at the sight of him, though he was certainly impressive, but at the way his claws flexed against her hips, pressing just shy of breaking skin. His grip was possessive, holding her still as he dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing without mercy.
The first press of him inside her was electric. A slow, deliberate stretch that burned in the best way. Alastor didn't rush, didn't ease her into it. He simply held her gaze, his grin sharpening as she gasped, her nails digging into his skin.
"There we are," he purred, his voice thick with lust as he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers. The sensation of being so utterly filled stole her breath, her thighs trembling around him as she adjusted. His claws tightened on her hips, the sharp points pressing just enough to remind her who was in control.
Then he moved.
No gentle rocking, no tentative thrusts. Alastor pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back into her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the sudden screech of violins from the radio, the music warping under the weight of the scene.
"Perfect," he groaned, his head falling back as he set a brutal pace, each thrust punching a ragged noise from her throat. His grip on her hips was like iron, fingers bruising as he dragged her down to meet every snap of his hips. The room blurred around them, the shadows twisting into frenzied shapes that mirrored the way his body moved against hers, possessive, relentless.
The radio's melody fractured into jagged bursts of static as Alastor's thrusts grew erratic. His breath hitched against her collarbone, claws flexing against her skin as he dragged her impossibly closer. "Look at me," he demanded, voice crackling with a barely restrained tone. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back until their eyes met. Hers blown wide, his dials spinning wildly.
She obeyed, her vision swimming with the sight of him. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up her spine, her nails carving crescent moons into his shoulders as she fought to keep her focus. "You- ah- you're fucking insufferable," she gasped, the words dissolving into a moan as he angled his hips just so, hitting that spot that made her see stars.
His laugh was a reckless, unhinged sound. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "And yet," he purred, his teeth grazing her pulse, "here you are, begging for more." His hips snapped forward, punctuating the taunt with a thrust so deep she arched off the chair with a choked cry.
She gasped, her thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips, the friction of fabric and skin and the unrelenting press of him inside her leaving her dizzy. Every movement was calculated. The way his claws skimmed her ribs just shy of drawing blood, the static-laced growl vibrating against her throat when she dug her nails into his back. He wanted the marks, the proof of her desperation etched into his skin as indelibly as his name on her soul.
"Alastor-" His name tore from her lips as he twisted a hand into her hair, yanking her head back again to expose the column of her throat. His tongue traced the fluttering pulse there, savoring the way her breath hitched before his teeth sank down, not enough to break skin, but enough to wring a ragged moan from her chest. The sound seemed to unravel him. His rhythm faltered for the first time, his hips stuttering as he pressed his forehead against her collarbone with a shuddering exhale.
The pause lasted only a heartbeat before his grin returned, sharper than ever. "Oh, darling," he crooned, dragging his lips along her jaw until their mouths brushed, sharing the same ragged breath. "Did you really think I'd let you finish that easily?" His thumb found her clit again, rubbing slow, torturous circles as he withdrew almost completely, leaving her clenching around nothing, desperate and gasping.
Her thighs clenched around empty air, a ragged whimper escaping her as he hovered just barely inside her. The bastard had the audacity to chuckle. Dark, staticky, and unbearably pleased as his thumb continued its lazy circles, never quite pressing hard enough.
Her nails raked down his chest, drawing thin ribbons of shadow that curled into the air like smoke. "I hate you." she hissed, her hips jerking forward in a futile attempt to chase the friction he'd denied her.
Alastor's grin was a razor's edge. "And yet you're still here," he murmured, his free hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, his thumb pressing against her bottom lip. The static in his voice thickened, pulsing in time with the erratic sound spilling from the radio. "Tell me, darling.. what's the magic word?"
Her vision blurred with frustration, her thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. The teasing press of his thumb against her clit, the emptiness where she needed him most. It was unbearable. Every instinct screamed to claw at him, to force him to give her what she wanted, but the shadows pinning her wrists held firm.
"Please," she gasped, the word ragged with surrender. "Alastor- please, just-"
His pupils dilated, dials spinning wildly as his grin stretched impossibly wider. "Just what, darling?" His voice was a trap, fingers flexing against her jaw. "Be specific."
"Let me cum… please," she gasped, the words fracturing against his lips as his thumb pressed harder against her, still teasing, yet still denying. The plea hung between them, raw and desperate, her thighs shaking.
Alastor's grin sharpened, a crackling hum vibrating from his chest as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "There it is," he purred, the static in his voice thickening until it buzzed against her skin. His free hand slid down to grip her hip, claws pricking just enough to make her jerk. "But ask properly, darling. Tell me exactly what you want."
Her nails dug into him, her body arching uselessly against his restraint. The shadows coiled tighter around her wrists, pinning her in place as effectively as his taunts. "Fuck me," she choked out, though the effect was ruined by the way her hips twitched toward him, begging for friction.
Alastor laughed. A burst of distortion that made the radio screech in harmony. "Oh, I intend to," he murmured, dragging the head of his cock through her slickness again, slowly. "But not until you say it." His teeth grazed her pulse, his tongue soothing the sting as his thumb circled her with infuriating precision. "Who do you want, darling?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Her pride hung with the ache between her thighs, but the latter won, crushing her resistance as effectively as his shadowy restraints. "You," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I want- you, Alastor. Please."
"Such a good girl," Alastor purred, the words dripping with satisfaction as her plea finally dissolved the last of her resistance. His grin stretched impossibly wider, shadows writhing in delight as he rewarded her broken admission with a single, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. The radio screeched in time with her gasp, the sound warping into a distorted melody of pleasure and surrender.
Alastor’s hips stuttered against hers, his rhythm fracturing into erratic thrusts as her walls clenched around him, tight, desperate, perfect. The radio’s melody warped into a screeching crescendo, drowning out her keening cry as his teeth sank into the junction of her neck and shoulder, marking her in time with his release. Heat flooded her, spilling over with each pulse of his cock, the excess dripping down her thighs as he ground himself deep, milking every last drop into her.
"Yeah, there's my good girl," he rasped, the words distorted by breathlessness, his grin wild against her skin. His claws dug into her hips, holding her flush against him as he rocked lazily, prolonging the after math of both their releases. The shadow binding her wrists finally loosened, slithering away like smoke as she collapsed against his chest, her fingers trembling against his collarbone.
Alastor exhaled. A ragged sound that fluttered the loose strands of her hair as she lay boneless against him. His claws trailed idle patterns down her spine, possessive even in the aftermath. The radio's screech had faded to a low, satisfied hum, its dials spinning lazily like the slow blink of a sated predator.
After a long pause of silence...
"Stay," Alastor murmured against her temple, the word crackling with softness, his claws stilling against her back.
She let out a breathless chuckle, her fingers curling weakly against his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, Al," she murmured, her voice still shaky.
His shadow pulsed, a ripple of dark satisfaction, before settling like a living blanket of protection under them both.
Alastor hummed, the sound vibrating through her bones where they were pressed together. "Good," he purred, his claws resuming their idle path along her spine. "Because I wasn't asking."
⪻────𖤓────⪼
A/N: I've been working on this detailing for dayssssss, and I'm honestly surprised I made it this.. I really tried to add more detailing than I did in my last two. I hope you like ittt! Please tell me if I made ANY mistakes anywhere. Feel free to give me more ideas in my asks darlings 🤍
Summary: Alastor is saved by a curious creature while out burying his latest kill. Naturally, he brings it home. AKA The supernatural pet distribution system goes terribly wrong and now he has to deal with feelings.
Relationships: Alastor/Original Female Character
A03: Ch.1
Tumblr: Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4
Tags: Pet Distribution System Gone Wrong, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Language, Vague Supernatural Knowledge, future smut, OC is a Creature but Yadda Yadda Magical Transormation, no beta we die like sir pentious, If I Changed Tenses Shut Up, Descriptions of murder, descriptions of torture, Masturbation, Skullfucking, but imaginary skullfucking, Alastor goes to Hell for a reason, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Mildly Dubious Consent, Canonical Character Death, Alastor has to go at some time right?
A/N: A Nightmare is a demon that sits on your chest at night, suffocating you and feeding on your dreams! I love them! In fact, some form of them always shows up in every single OC I've made since before I even knew what a fandom was. Idk what my obsession is with a vaguely horse like creature that can rend the flesh from your bones and sometimes has powers over shadows depending on the fandom.
Anyways, this is how Alastor discovers the supernatural creature distribution system. He could have just gotten a cat.
Alastor’s head pops out from the shallow grave, eyes squinting behind dirty glasses as his eyes adjust to the darkness beyond the dulled light of the little lantern at his feet. His head tilts to the left as the sound of splashing finally reaches him. He nods grimly and tightens his grip on his shovel; whatever gator that could cause that much ruckus was a biggin’ and he was in no mood to deal with that tonight. Not after his latest prey got a cheap shot at his side and cracked his ribs. Again.
He can’t help the pained grunts as he tosses each shovelful of dirt to the side, his ribs positively aching at the further abuse he’s placing upon them. And if he gave this woman-beating mother fucker a few extra kicks and pressed his thumbs so deep into its eye sockets that Alastor was fairly certain he touched brain well….That’s that, isn’t it? He chuckles to himself, rolling the body into the grave with his foot before mumbling a soft, “See you in Hell, chum!”
Behind him a screech rends the air, a high pitched and awful thing that sends dread trickling down his spine. More sounds of water splashing and screeching as he drops his shovel, shaking hand reaching for the pistol holstered against his chest. He cocks it as he begins to see movement in the trees, growling and screeching reaching his ears as whatever creatures these are come steadily closer.
Coyotes? No, too big.
A wandering cougar? No, there hasn’t been one sighted in these parts for years.
Bear? Certainly big enough but they don’t screech and growl like that.
Supernatural then? Surely not--
Alastor’s thoughts are interrupted as two creatures barrel through his clearing and land not 50 feet away. It’s too dark to tell what they are but the snarling one has the screeching thing pinned, a sickening crack and squeal piercing the air as it scrambles in its captor’s grip. The larger creature steps into the small circle of Alastor’s light and he can’t help the gasp of fear that escapes him.
The head is distinctly wolf-like, yellow eyes intelligent as they focus on the willowy man before it. The body…Alastor gulps and raises his gun higher to where he hopes the heart of a 7 foot tall man-beast would be. The rougarou (Because it has to be doesn’t it? It has to be!) drops its prey and turns to fully face him. It sniffs the air, tongue lolling as it steps forward, each footfall thuds through the soft dirt of the Louisiana bayou and Alastor swears that each step is purposefully matching the thunderous beating of his heart as the creature gallops towards him on all fours with mouth gaping and teeth flashing and oh dear God it reeks and it’s going to eat him it’s going to eat him and his momma will never know what happened to her son and how will she take care of herself with how bad her hip has gotten and frankly, it’s not fucking fair that this is how he goes, when he just got his radio show moved to prime time just for some fucking rougarou to off him that’s not fair it’s not fair it’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT--
BANG
Alastor flails at the recoil, once, twice, before tumbling backward into the shallow grave he had unwittingly been backing towards. Above him an angry howl lets him know he hit his mark but it’s not enough. Of course it isn’t. He looks up at the creature, at the blood trickling from the downright laughable hold in its thick hide. Barely a trickle really. If only he had carried silver bullets haha…
A flash of movement behind him and suddenly the rougarou is scrambling backwards, frantically clutching at the black creature firmly attached to its throat. There’s snarling and screeching and there’s the sound of claws tearing through hide before the little creature is ripped off, the meat of the rougarou’s throat clenched in its teeth. Alastor watches with wide-eyed fascination as the little horse-like thing wobbles before collapsing in a crumpled heap, its sides heaving with the effort to breathe, pained little whines accompanying the movement as it struggles to maintain consciousness.
Alastor feels unfamiliar pity for the thing as it lays there, completely unaware as he pulls himself out of the grave for the second time tonight. It’s gravely injured and will likely die out here on its own, won’t it? Slowly, his hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out a half used syringe. Whatever creature this is can surely handle a human sized dose of sedative. Yes. Either it will and Alastor will bring it home and nurse it to health, or it will die. It’s only fair that he takes care of the little creature that saved his life. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s never seen a creature like this before and wants to keep it. To study it. To tame it.
Yes. Nothing to do with that at all Alastor tells himself as he plunges the needle into the neck of the strange creature. There’s only a small whimper of pain before it relaxes, the heaving ribs slowing so suddenly that he’s hit with the disappointment of accidentally killing the creature before he realizes it’s still breathing. His hands are shaking again as he quickly pockets the syringe. He pats the creature once, confirming that it is indeed a real and tangible thing before standing quickly. He needs to finish the grave.
He works quickly, barely registering that the rougarou is no longer a 7 foot tall wolfman but is now a dainty, barely 5 foot naked woman. He only notes how much easier it is to dispose of as he tosses it into the grave onto the night’s earlier victim. It takes longer than he’d like to bury them. He can’t help stopping every few minutes to make sure his little creature is still alive and unconscious, fingers skittering nervously over its pulse before returning to pile a few more shovelfuls of dirt on the bodies and then resuming the whole process again.
And then there was the whole dilemma of transporting the creature. His car wasn’t too far away, just hidden half a mile from the dirt road. If he could carry a grown man that far surely he could carry this creature. He lifts the lantern over it, taking in four limbs that end in sharp claws, a pair of leathery wings, and very large, protruding canines.
It’d be dangerous if it woke up while on his back. He sighs and eyes the tarp he had brought his victim in. It would have to do. He spreads the tarp out next to the creature and squats down low along its back, one arm sliding under its graceful neck and the other near its hip. Secure in his grip, Alastor uses all his strength to stand and nearly loses balance again due to the fact that this creature is incredibly light for its size. Dazed, he quickly spins around and places it in the center of the tarp. It looks broken lying there, a wing bent at an unnatural angle and its legs curled up under it like a dead bug, the body thin and emaciated as the skin stretched taut across its ribs with each deep breath.
“What a strange thing you are,” he mumbles as he squats down next to it. His fingers graze along its decidedly horse-like head, tracing along a twitching ear and warm cheek. Curious, he runs a finger down one exposed canine, soft skin splitting from the finely serrated edge. He looks at his bleeding finger in awe, chuckling maniacally to himself before placing the finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding. “Devilish little mare you are. Let's get you home,” he chirps after the bleeding has stopped, hand grasping a corner of the tarp and beginning the small trek to his car.
The Laveau household is a thing of simple beauty: a modest two story cream house with a wrap-around porch surrounded by a bountiful garden and tall hedges. The porch swing Alastor grew up reading in swayed idly in the midnight wind as leaf litter curled around the legs of the wicker chairs and table opposite it. The windows were closed tonight but often the soft sounds of jazz would waft through them as his mama crocheted in her favorite rocking chair, humming words of protection and safety into her project as her deft fingers moved with practiced ease.
Yes. It was quaint. But a more practiced eye would catch the thirteen pieces of silver around the door frame, the soft blue of the porch roof, small charms and trinkets spaced here and there in the windows and corners to ward off unwanted spirits, of the herbs in the garden and their uses outside the kitchen or even the small vévé Alastor himself carved into the bottoms of the porch balusters when he was thirteen.
Subtle. But efficient.
And private.
Once inside the boundaries of the garden it seemed the shadows themselves clung to Alastor and his prize, muffling the sounds of the tarp scraping against the overgrown cobbled walkway and his cursing as he knocked the creature’s head against the side of the gate. Again.
He huffed once through his nose, toeing the creature’s rear end once before bending down to pick it up. It whimpered once in pain as the motion caused the broken wing to unfold and dangle forward, threatening to trip Alastor with every other step as he slowly moved up the porch. Warning chimes stirred as he stepped fully up and he quickly ‘shushed’ them before his mama could hear. Claudette Laveau may be mostly deaf now but somehow, some way, she could always catch their soft warning chime and Alastor truly did not need nor want to explain what he was doing with a probable demon in his arms.
Slowly, he placed his creature on the porch to open the door. He huffed again as it swung open easily. He really needed to speak to his mother again about leaving the damn thing unlocked. Didn’t she know there was a serial killer around?
And then he tilted his head to the left. Then the right. Then down at the creature. He lifted his arms to approximately where they were when he had it in them. He looked at the door again and turned his body sideways. He dropped his arms.
The damn thing was too narrow for him to carry his creature in!
He raised a hand and pinched his brow, moaning once in frustration before dropping it, head tilting back in resignation. He tilted his head towards the creature, eyes falling to its subtly moving ribs. It was breathing faster now, almost at a normal cadence. He wouldn’t have long to get it into his study.
He carefully grabbed its ankles, one in each hand as he shuffled through the door ass-first, teeth grinding with each step as he dragged the creature. It should be hilarious, the sight of this middle-aged skinny man dragging a lifeless demon creature through his doorway, its wings catching on the screen door and causing it to full-body twitch so hard Alastor quickly dropped to the floor and scrambled backwards on all floors until his head hit the piano with a sharp thud. It should be titillating when he quickly slaps his own hands around his mouth to muffle his cursing as he kicks his feet at the pain, rolling on his side until it fades. But all Alastor can do is let his arms flop to the side with a mirthless chuckle before he gets up again.
Frayed nerves have him acting a damn fool.
He runs his hands down his thighs, wiping the sweat off them before carefully tiptoeing around the creature. His hands are clammy as he maneuvers the wings off the screen door. He can’t pull the creature through on its side without them catching again. He wiggles his fingers in an old nervous habit before he grabs the end of its mane near the shoulder and wraps his other hand around its ribs, caging the wings between his arms as he pulls it to lay on its stomach. A shuddering breath beneath his ribs stills him and Alastor waits there, embracing the creature for a few seconds before satisfied it wasn’t going to eat him.
He eases off of it and braces the good wing against the door, mouth opening in awe as he extends the delicate membranes and fine bone. Satisfied that it will stay for the moment, he carefully folds the broken one against the creature’s body, one large hand holding it there as he shifts downwards towards its ankles again. He grabs them both in the other hand and gently pulls the creature in, keeping a careful eye on the extended wing as it scrapes along the door, wincing when it immediately snaps into a folded position at the creature’s side once it has cleared it.
It’s a simple matter to pick the creature up again once Alastor closes the front door and places the locks. The staircase railing is low enough that he can carry the creature in his arms, the broken wing braced between their bodies and the other drooping, but still steadfastly held in what must be its natural position along its side. Ironically, the door to his study is larger than the front door and he only needs to shimmy in sideways to enter, reaching behind with a foot to ease the door shut before placing his creature down once more.
Alastor reaches out towards the old gas lamp by the door, turning it on just enough to see by just in case the full glow wakes his little creature. His study is large. Once his mother’s room, Alastor took it over five years ago when her hip had deteriorated enough that she could no longer go up the stairs without him. He had transformed it into a large, private space in which to write his radio-plays, listen to music, tap dance, read, and practice his magic.
The wall with the window was lined with shelves filled with classic literature, science books, mystery novels and a modest collection of journals related to his family’s craft. The wall to the right was taken up by the altar started by his mother and he quickly walked over to light the candles and check his offerings. His mother would give him an earful if he didn’t change them soon. Oops.
The next wall contained his writing desk and his hunting trophies. Newspaper clippings about the Bayou Butcher were spaced out between the grand antlers, warming his little black heart when he glanced up at them between work.
The final wall was his vast record collection, started when he received his first at sixteen. Music fascinated him and from the moment he got his first job at the docks, he spent a small portion of his meager pay at the local record store. A known regular now, the sweet old man who ran it often picked out and set aside the hottest ones for Alastor to peruse at discount with the promise that he would continue promoting the store on his show. He resisted the urge now to start his gramophone. His mother wouldn’t hear it but the creature laying at the base of its table would wake soon.
All of this though, paled to the heart of the room: the large magic circle Alastor and his mother carved into the wood however many years ago when he began his own spirit work. It was a thing made with not only Claudette’s years of experience, passed down woman to woman for generations, but of Alastor’s own wild and experimental use of his own magic. Symbols he borrowed from other practices littered with those of his own creation lined the outer rings, surrounding the pentagram in the center. It was simple. Used for protection during his early castings but now often unused as his confidence grew. He couldn’t even remember the last time he actually used it.
He grabbed his antler knife from the altar, pressing the point into the same finger cut by the creature’s fang, twisting the point in thought as he walked around the inside of the circle. He let his mind clear with the pain, thoughts stilling as he focused on it, his hearing fading out until he could hear the subtle whispering of his spirits. He tilted his head to them, letting them in, channeling their will as he suddenly slammed to his knees to the floor, the knife quickly drawing out new symbols with a guided hand.
Alastor felt frenzied as he worked, his mind moving as fast as he could carve around the inner ring of the circle. He vaguely recognized elements of what he was carving as symbols of containment, maybe even sealing, but they were crossed with elements he had never seen before. He wants to ask what they are, to understand what it is he’s carving but any pause causes an itch to go down his spine and the whispers he hears grow louder until all he can do is accept the power running through him.
He finishes with flourish and tosses the knife to the side, breathing heavily as he struggles to stay on all fours, whole body shaking as sweat drips off the end of his long, pointed nose. Beneath him the circle glows green, pulsing once before fading so much that the glow can only be seen if one doesn’t look directly at it. He can feel the power radiating beneath him and Alastor nearly groans as the circle pulses again, lighting up his body with power as he moves to his feet. He adjusts himself in his pants, grimacing at the light stiffness he finds there. The power of his potent magic coursing through him was always exciting but he could do without that little side effect. Ah well. Beggars can’t be choosers as his mother would say.
Excitement courses through Alastor as he grabs the creature’s ankles for the final time and drags it into the circle. He quickly hops out as it lights up again, flaring so bright that he has to shield his eyes before it dulls down back to that barely there glow. Blinking the lights from his eyes he stumbles back towards his desk chair, blindly settling into it for a moment as his eyes readjust. He gazes at the creature, his creature, but can only make out the black mass of it. So dark is its coat that it blends into the shadows parading around the edge of the circle.
Suddenly, an idea occurs to him and he quickly shoots up to grab his journal and the discarded charcoal stick from a previous endeavor in drawing. He was a fair hand at sketching and in case he lost this creature and thought this night a fever dream, he wanted physical proof that he had a supernatural creature under his care. He turned on the two other gas lamps in the office until it was nearly as bright as day, humming a jaunty tune as he flicked the curtains closed and returned to his chair, eyes widening with wonder as he finally got a real look at the creature.
He was correct in his original assumption that it was horse-like in nature. What lay on his office floor very much looked like an extremely emaciated, inky black horse with a stringy mane. But the more he looked the more obvious it wasn’t. All four legs ended in claws, the front two remarkably human-like with elbows that bent backwards instead of forward like a horse’s knees and the back ended in claws resembling those of a bird of prey. The head was unremarkable save for the large serrated canines he had cut himself on earlier. Alastor had the vague feeling that that mouth was filled with teeth made for ripping and tearing flesh. The wings were bat-like, fleshy things that extended twice the length of the creature’s body. The broken one flopped at an odd angle across the floor rather than at the side, allowing Alastor a good view of the thin membrane. He’d never be able to copy the mesmerizing pattern of the blood vessels flowing through it but he wanted to try. He’d finally spied a lion-like tail tangled among those back legs, it was a thin thing and curled up between the creature’s legs and trying to wrap around its thin waist. He was surprised though to see that the creature didn’t have genitalia that he could see.
“Well,” he hummed as he finished sketching the back legs, “Can’t say I’m not pleased at the idea of not cleaning up horse shit ha!” He tapped the charcoal against his lips and walked around to the front of the creature. He racked his brain on what to call this little creature; this little mare…
…mare…
Startled, Alastor glanced at his altar and back at the creature. Was it seriously that simple? The creature was a Mare? Like a form of the Nightmare? Wasn’t that a European beastie? What was one doing here? His eyes slipped closed as a feeling of warmth cascaded down his arms at the spirits’ acknowledgment.. “A Mare,” he said aloud to the creature, “My. Mare.”
“Doesn’t matter how you got here, you are here now.” Alastor squatted down beside its head, careful to place no part of him inside the circle despite the urge to pet its downy muzzle. He had never been fond of animals. Cats were self-sufficient and had a knack for minor spellwork of their own but were too haughty, dogs were noisy and boisterous without an ounce of elegance and the vermin were simply that: vermin. He had never liked horses either; foul-tempered things that would bite at children who simply wandered to close. Not that he would know.
He sniffed once at the bitter memory and stood up, twitching once at the uncomfortable twinge in his ribs making itself known as the last of the night’s adrenaline faded. With a last longing glance at his Mare, Alastor turned his back to it to rummage through his desk for the often used gauze he kept there. It wasn’t the first time he had to nurse fractured ribs and it certainly won’t be the last. His long and lean frame meant he was whip fast and hard to hit but there was no meat on his bones when his prey actually got a good hit on him.
He had only just placed the gauze on the top of his desk and pulled his shirttails out of his pants when he heard it. Like leather being folded or the sound of paper sliding against paper. Alastor stilled, heart pounding in his chest once again as he felt overwhelming dread pass over him. It coiled in his gut, spreading up his chest to lodge in his throat as the urge to choke threatened to overcome him; one shaking hand clutched at his adam's apple, the other at his chest as he struggled to breathe. Sweat was positively running down his temples and his back as he struggled to turn, his body an unwilling marionette as he twitched with each strangled breath, his mouth curling into a nervous and strained smile (an odd habit of his from childhood that often left others off-kilter) as he faced what was behind him.
The Mare was awake and standing, head hung low between its front claws so that it looked up at him through stringy forelocks. Red eyes pierced through that inky black mess, lit with hellfire within and the fury at being captured. Alastor didn’t know so much as felt that it would kill him at the first chance it got. She (it had to be a she didn’t it? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that?) swayed to and fro before him, like a snake poised to strike as she glared, lips curled up to reveal very real and very sharp teeth made for the rending of soft flesh.
And yet, she called to him; the overwhelming sense of dread and cacophony of spirits chiming in Alastor’s head did nothing to quell the pull . One staggering step after another he struggled forward, gasping for breath he could not catch and his head pounding in pain with each throb of his heart. She would stop it. She would stop this pain and quiet his heart. He’d only need to touch her, to feel the soft fur of her muzzle, to run his fingers through that matted mane and pull the knots free, to surrender his flesh, to feel the ease with which her teeth would--
Alastor gasped and flung himself backwards with a cry and his mare screeched in anger as her mouth clenched around nothing. Tears ran down his face unbidden as he gasped lungfuls of air. Whatever spell the Mare had placed on him was broken and Alastor could only giggle and cry to himself as he watched it pace around the circle, poking and prodding with claw and nose, looking for a weakness she could exploit.
Unsatisfied with what she found the Mare snorted, coming around to the point in the circle where Alastor's fingers had breeched it. She glared at it and then him, ears pinned back as she took in his pathetic form still trembling in the sprawled state he landed in. The intelligence he saw there was astonishing. This was no simple beastie, no haint or spirit. This was an intelligent creature. A predator with complex thoughts and needs and desires. And humour apparently because the knicker that accompanied that head toss sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Alastor fumed at the flush of embarrassment that ran through him as she knickered again. He stood quickly and got as far as pointing an accusing finger at the Mare before his mother's voice drifted from the first floor.
“Al? That you baby?”
Panic rushed through him as he rushed to the door. “Don't you make another noise,” he hissed at the Mare before popping his head out the door.
“Yes Mama,” he sang down, “Sorry for waking you.”
“Mhm,” came an answering reply, “Get yourself to bed now. I need my beauty sleep and so do you!”
“Yes Mama!” Alastor clicked the door shut and rested his head against it with a hefty sigh. He rolled over to rest his back against door instead. The red eyes of the Mare's met his, ears that were pricked forward in curiosity immediately flicked back before she turned away to pace again.
“You're injured,” Alastor's stunned voice broke the silence. The Mare whipped her head around with a look that distinctly said ‘You are just realizing this now?”
Alastor huffed and stepped forward, gesturing towards her front leg. “Not just the wing. Your leg. I didn't notice before. You aren't putting weight on it.” The Mare curled the affected claw, resting its knuckles against the floor. Another snort and she settled awkwardly on the floor, clearly pained as she curled on the hardwood with her back to him.
His fingers wiggled in that old nervous habit as he walked around to the creature's face. “I intend to keep you safe while you heal.” Did this thing even understand English? “I will return you where I found you once we're done. Be a good girl and stay quiet till then. Mama will strip my hide if she found out I brought a demon into our home.” A soft knicker was the only reply.
⍉ = sexual themes/ smut/ suggestive content (18+, MDNI! Mature Content!) | warning = this series flips back and forth between past and present time. the photos in each chapter will indicate which timeline you’ll be reading!
⍉ = sexual themes/ smut/ suggestive content (18+, MDNI! Mature Content!) | warning = this series flips back and forth between past and present time. the photos in each chapter will indicate which timeline you’ll be reading!
Some Reminders:
❀ The following works from this Hazbin Hotel masterlist all belong to Vivziepop. I have no legal claim over the story. Just the silly little fics that I write.
❀Be kind! I work on fics on my own free time.
❀ RED TEXT = 18+
Partners in Death...and Life
Summary :After a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping . . . *checks notes* . . . the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason.
Season 1: Completed
|Part 1: Radio's Not Deadl
|Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn't Explain Himself|
|Part 3: Not Everything You Hear From The Radio Should be Trusted|
|Part 4: The Radio Stars’ Co-host Just Wants To Do The Dishes|
|Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: Part I|
|Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: Part II|
|Part 6: Radio’s Last Broadcast|
|Part 7: Me and You in Eternity|
|Part 8: The Calm Before the Fall|
|Part 9: The Vow That Binds Me| [Finale]|
|Part 10: After The Glimpse [Bonus]|
|Part 11: Before the Last [Bonus]|
Season 2: Incomplete
|Part 12: All This Time (I Have Been Yours)|
|Part 13: Looking For Answers|
|Part 14: Secrets Turned Into Regrets|
|Part 15: "A Knock Sounds on the Door"|
|Part 16: To The Warmth We Had Before|
The Competitors
|The Wrong Competitor|
TLDR: The Hazbin Hotel decides to hold a masquerade party. Despite his better judgment, Alastor sends an invitation to his wife even if he’s aware of Vox’s attendance, who’s keen on competing with Alastor for his wife’s attention….If only Alastor knew how much you and Vox would gag at the idea of him flirting with you. It’s not his wife’s attention that Vox competes for. It’s not even Alastor who he’s competing with. Actually… Alastor isn’t part of the competition.
|The Actual Competitor|
TLDR: Why is Alastor competing with his wife for his best friend’s affection? Actually, why is he competing with his wife? What’s even weirder is that…it seems Alastor will also have to compete with his best friend for his wife’s affection. + A fluffy lazy morning because I say so.
For Your Heart
(Completed)
Harana – a traditional form of courtship done during the night where men will go to someone’s window with an instrument, usually a guitar, along with some of his friends to sing.
TLDR: Sometimes all you need is a guitar and a song to catch hearts…and well, Alastor has a guitar and a voice perfect for singing. The beginning, the middle, the end, and the new beginning with a guitar and a song (feat. Ben&Ben)
|Part 1: The Beginning|
|Part 2: The Middle|
|Part 3: The End|
|Part 4: The New Beginning|
Just For A Day
TLDR: When Charlie experiments with a book full of spells, it accidentally turns Angel Dust into a child. It's quite a good thing that Alastor and Reader come to the rescue . . . even at the cost of their date.
|Our Little Angel|
|Our Little Lady|
|Our Little Princess|
ﮩ٨ـAlastorﮩ٨ـ
|Smell of Rain Through The Window Pane|
TLDR: Acid rain stings, and destroys everything it touches. Still, Alastor decides that it’s a good day for a walk because fate made him your husband. So, surely fate would find a way for him to hand you this umbrella because you always seem to forget to bring one. Alastor will find a way to hand you an umbrella, even with the deal preventing you from seeing him.
|The Second Time Around|
TLDR: Alastor prides himself in being a gentleman, yet here he is now, living with his not-really wife but still his wife without rings around your fingers. It’s time he changed that.
|Darling, I'm an Overlord|
TLDR: Alastor's worried you'll be late for dinner, but he promised to be patient, and such control deserves an award [Suggestive]
|Smoke and Shadows|
TLDR: Someone is bothering you. Alastor intervenes.
|The Tell|
TLDR: It's been seven years since you've last seen Alastor, and here he is pretending he doesn't have a tail that tells you how happy he is to see you
|Smoky Game| |Smoky Game²|
Summary: A simple smoke break ends with you sharing a cigar and some light fun with Alastor. There's a game both of you are determined to win . . . yet afraid to play.
|Not Your Enemy|
TLDR: Food isn't your enemy. Alastor will remind you that it isn't
|Unconsciously, You Taught My Heart How to Love|
TLDR: There's a certain type of confidence in your steps that never fades, and Alastor find acceptance in your own.
|Crawling Back To You|
TLDR: With the death of his wife, Alastor turns to spells and summoning. One of his calls gets answered, but not in the way he thinks
|The Only Temptation| |My Sweet Temptation|
TLDR: Alastor's rut is being drawn out by a doe who is definitely not you, but weirdly enough or not so weirdly enough, he only seems to crave you.
|Mistletoe Deal|TLDR: After seven years, Alastor finally decides to show himself to you. He can't stay for very long, but maybe a deal underneath the mistletoe could buy you a night with him, and him alone
|A little Healing|Summary: Alastor's injury hasn't healed yet. So, after exhausting other options, he finally turns to you in hopes that you could heal him. Dead Dove Do Not Eat: Wound Stimulation— Fingering + Oral
𓆩𓆪 Adam 𓆩𓆪
|Brining The Rain To You|
TLDR: It doesn't rain in Heaven, but sometimes all you need is that one, special person, and maybe, fake rain isn't so bad after all.
|Sweet Sinner O' Mine|
TLDR: Adam finds you with a guitar, and some bonding ensues. Also, size difference.
𓆙Lucifer Morningstar𓆙
|Forked Tongue|
TLDR: Lucifer has a mouth. Lucifer uses that mouth. Good times occur
|Unanswered Call (Finally Answered)|
TLDR: As the caretaker of the Hazbin Hotel, you make it your business to care for everything and everyone. You weren't always a caretaker, but any roads that lead to Lucifer, are still roads that lead to him. Featuring, two amazing idiots who knows the feelings of the others, but hey, eternity is a long time. There's no rush.
Vox
|Sweetheart|
TLDR: Vox calls you all kinds of lovely nicknames, and maybe he finds himself enjoying your reaction a bit too much
|Company of The Wicked|
TLDR: Vox x Vincent <3
|A Foul Reconciliation|
TLDR: Vox is being racist towards you
|Mother of Mine|
TLDR: After Alastor's death, you find a young child. Cold and frightened, maybe you'll find a family together.
|Little Things|
TLDR: There are days when Alastor just doesn't want to be touched, and you totally understand that. You're on your best behavior to not touch Alastor. Surely, with such an attentive partner, no misunderstanding will occur.
|You, Me. and These Idiots|
TLDR: It’s cold, and Alastor has blankets to spare.
|Our Little Adventure|
TLDR: Car ride to destination unknown
|A Moment to Worship|
TLDR: Alastor received a pretty, new scar from his battle. As someone intimately familiar with every single expanse of his skin, you'll just have to introduce yourself.
|Soul owner! Alastor|
TLDR: Alastor owns your soul
|Away from you|
TLDR: You're gone for a week, and Alastor copes nicely (Hint: He does not)
|Big Four Edition (❤️💙💚💛/ ❤️🦅🏹🐯) + One Extra|
TLDR: Click to find out :D
Hello! How are you? I hope you are doing well so far! I was wondering if it's possible for a part 2 for Alastor x reader: The princess and the frog? If not, that's okie, don't worry! I love your work, especially from Alastor!! Don't ever stop doing what you love !! It's perfect! Thank you for giving us a perfection of your writing! Thank you very much!! Have a wonderful day!!!
Oh Yes. I'll do.
This took me nearly 2 weeks. Maybe you saw that I didin't uploded much. I really put everything here.
I made thos super long version, it feelt right. I hope everybody is happy with it.
I let some things open for maybe a part 3.
As the princess of his heart I Alastor x Reader I Princess and the Frog AU Part 2
Word Count: ~k
Part 1 I Part 2
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
The Wedding – The Most Beautiful Day
The garden of the La Bouff estate had been transformed into a dream.
It was June 15, 1929, a perfect Saturday, with the sun shining warmly from the sky and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and roses through the air.
White roses climbed around the pillars of the pergola, where Alastor Hartfelt waited — the man who had never believed he would live to see this day.
Friends. Family. People from every walk of life in New Orleans — from the richest to the poorest — because N/N had insisted that everyone who loved her and Alastor was welcome.
Tiana stood ready as a bridesmaid in a beautiful peach-colored dress, her eyes already moist with emotion.
Alastor stood beneath the pergola in his finest suit — tailor-made, a gift from Big Daddy, who had said, “My son-in-law will look perfect on the most beautiful day of his life.”
His hands trembled with anticipation.
Beside him stood his best man — an older colleague from the radio.
The music began — a gentle string quartet playing a melody Alastor himself had composed. For her. Only for her. He had worked on it for weeks.
And then he saw her.
N/N appeared at the end of the aisle, on Big Daddy’s arm, and Alastor’s world ceased to exist.
Her dress was made of cream-colored lace and silk, flowing and elegant, but not overdone. The skirt fell in soft waves to the ground, the lace embroidered with tiny pearls that sparkled in the sunlight like captured stars. The neckline was modest but beautiful, showing the curve of her neck.
Her hair was pinned up in an intricate style — but of course, a few strands had already escaped and fell in soft waves over her shoulders. A veil of delicate tulle covered her face, but Alastor could see her.
But what truly took Alastor’s breath away was her face.
She shone like the sun itself. Her cheeks were rosy, her gold-flecked eyes gleamed with happiness. Tears were already running down her cheeks, but her smile was so wide, so genuine, so completely N/N.
She walked slowly down the aisle in time with the music, Big Daddy at her side. The large man tried bravely to smile, his head held high, but his eyes were damp.
That was his bride.
His N/N.
The love of his life.
When they reached him, Big Daddy stopped.
He looked at his daughter and lifted her veil. His hands trembled slightly.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Just like your mama.”
N/N sobbed softly. “Daddy…”
He kissed her forehead as if he were seeing her for the last time as his little girl.
“You are my greatest pride,” his voice broke. “Be happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
“I am, Daddy,” N/N whispered back, her voice shaking. “With him, I’m the happiest girl in the world.”
Big Daddy turned to Alastor.
His eyes — usually so warm and friendly — became serious. Assessing.
“Alastor Hartfelt,” he spoke loudly enough for the front rows to hear, “I am entrusting you with the most precious thing I have ever had. My daughter.”
He stepped closer, his voice only for Alastor:
“Protect her. Love her. Honor her. Every day. Every moment. Make her happy, or you will answer to me.”
The words were half joking, half serious.
“With every breath,” Alastor promised, his voice firm despite the tears. “Until my last day. And beyond. She is my everything, sir. She always will be.”
Big Daddy studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded slowly, satisfied.
And placed N/N’s hand into Alastor’s.
The moment their fingers intertwined felt like coming home.
Big Daddy stepped back and sat down next to Tiana, who handed him a handkerchief. Both were crying.
The priest smiled warmly.
“My dear friends,” he began, his voice clear and strong, “we are gathered here today to unite two people in holy matrimony. Alastor Hartfelt and N/N La Bouff have chosen to share their lives, in good times and in bad, in wealth and in poverty, in health and in sickness.”
Alastor barely listened.
He saw only her.
Her eyes, which never left his. Her smile, growing softer, more tender, more loving with every spoken word. The way her fingers held onto his.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” the priest continued. “It binds not only two people, but two souls. It is a promise that must be renewed every day. With patience. With forgiveness. With love.”
He turned to Alastor.
“Alastor Hartfelt, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and honor her, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
Alastor took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
The word came without hesitation, loud enough for everyone to hear.
As if it were the simplest truth he had ever spoken.
“And N/N La Bouff,” the priest smiled warmly, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and honor him, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“Yes!”
Her voice was bright, full of joy, and she laughed through her tears.
“The rings, please.”
The best man handed Alastor a small silver ring — simple, but beautiful.
Alastor took N/N’s hand, trembling, and slid the ring onto her finger.
“With this ring, I pledge my devotion to you,” he whispered, loud enough for her, only for her. “My heart. My soul. Everything I am.”
N/N sobbed softly with happiness and then took his ring.
She slid it onto his finger, her hands so gentle, so loving.
“With this ring, I pledge my devotion to you,” her voice trembled. “My heart. My soul. Everything I am and ever will be.”
The priest smiled, tears in his own eyes.
“Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
He paused and grinned:
“You may kiss the bride, Alastor.”
Alastor did not hesitate.
He pulled N/N close, his hands framing her face, wiping away her tears.
And kissed her.
It was not a dramatic kiss. Not a passionate, hungry kiss like the first time.
It was a promise.
Gentle. Tender. Deep.
The guests erupted into applause, cheers, whistles.
But Alastor and N/N heard none of it.
They were lost in this moment. In this kiss. In this love so vast it swallowed everything else.
When they finally parted, Alastor looked at her.
“Hello, Mrs. Hartfelt,” his heart so full it threatened to burst.
“Hello, Mr. Hartfelt,” N/N grinned back.
The Celebration – Dance and Joy
The wedding celebration took place in the garden, beneath pavilions of white fabric decorated with strings of lights.
Tables were overflowing with food. Tiana had insisted on coordinating the catering, and she had done it perfectly.
A jazz band played — lively, cheerful music that made people want to dance.
But first: the first dance.
Alastor led N/N onto the small dance floor.
The band began to play a slow, romantic melody.
Alastor placed his hand on N/N’s waist, holding her other hand firmly.
They fit together perfectly.
“Are you nervous?” N/N smiled.
“Always,” Alastor grinned. “You’ve made me nervous since the day you stormed into Tiana’s restaurant.”
“Good nervous?”
“The best kind of nervous.”
They danced slowly, turning, their gaze never leaving each other.
“I love you, Mrs. Hartfelt,” Alastor whispered.
“I love you, Mr. Hartfelt,” N/N whispered back.
The guests watched them, all touched by the obvious, overwhelming love between the two.
When the music ended, Alastor kissed N/N once more and the crowd cheered.
Then Big Daddy stepped onto the dance floor.
“May I have the next dance with my daughter?” His voice was rough.
“Of course, sir.” Alastor stepped back.
Big Daddy took N/N into his arms — this large, imposing man and his little daughter — and danced with her.
────୨ৎ────
The celebration lasted late into the night.
There was laughter, dancing, eating, drinking.
Alastor gave a speech — his radio voice perfect for the moment:
“Ladies and gentlemen, friends, family. N/N…”
He turned to her, his eyes full of love:
“You have changed my life. I was a man who did not believe he deserved love. That he deserved happiness. And then you came — like a whirlwind, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. You showed me what it means to live. To truly live. With a whole heart. You are my light in the darkness. My reason to smile. My everything. And I promise you here, in front of all these people — I will try every day to be the man you deserve.”
The crowd applauded, many in tears.
N/N stood up, walked to him, and kissed him in front of everyone.
“You already are the man I deserve,” she whispered. “Because you see my heart. And that’s all that matters.”
The First Night – Just the Two of Them
The small house they had rented — modest, but their own — was on a quiet street in the French Quarter.
Two bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen. Not much, but perfect for them.
Big Daddy had offered to buy them a larger house, but Alastor had refused.
“We’re starting our life together,” he had said. “In something we earned ourselves.”
N/N had squeezed his arm, proud of him.
The house was filled with candlelight and the scent of jasmine that N/N had placed everywhere.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Hartfelt,” Alastor said as he opened the door.
He lifted her up and carried her over the threshold.
“Tradition,” he explained as he gently set her down.
“I love your traditions,” she kissed him, soft and playful.
They stumbled through the house, laughing, kissing.
N/N tried to take off her shoes, stumbled, almost fell. Alastor caught her, and they laughed so hard that tears came to their eyes.
The night was magical.
Real.
────୨ৎ────
Later, when the candles had burned low and they lay together in bed — entwined, close, heart to heart — N/N whispered:
“Alastor?”
“Hmm?” His fingers lazily traced patterns on her shoulder.
“Will you promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“No matter what happens,” she lifted her head, looked at him, her eyes serious and so full of love it took his breath away, “no matter what darkness comes, what challenges, what struggles — never forget that I love you. That I will always love you. That you are worthy of being loved.”
Alastor’s heart tightened.
“N/N…”
“Promise me,” her voice broke. “Please. Whatever happens, wherever you go — remember that you are loved. That you are good. That you are worthy.”
“I promise,” he pulled her closer, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I will never forget. Never. You showed me who I can be. Who I am. And I will never forget that.”
The First Years – A New Life
The first two years of their marriage were beautifully chaotic.
Alastor worked long hours at the radio studio. His show grew more and more popular, his stories reached more people, his voice became a familiar sound in the homes of New Orleans.
But no matter how late it was — he always came home to N/N.
She waited for him, often with food she had cooked.
“I tried to make jambalaya,” she proudly presented a pot.
Alastor tasted it carefully.
“It is—”
“Terrible, I know,” N/N sighed. “Why can’t I cook like Tiana?”
“Practice,” Alastor smiled, pulling her into his arms. “And besides, I don’t love you for your cooking skills.”
“Then why?”
“Because you are you. Because you light up every room you walk into. Because your heart is so big that it overwhelms me sometimes.”
They kissed, the food forgotten.
N/N continued working at Tiana’s restaurant — not because she needed the money, but because she loved it.
She loved the people. The stories. The sense of community.
Alastor often stopped by for lunch, just to see her.
“There’s your husband,” Tiana grinned every time Alastor walked through the door.
N/N lit up, ran to him, kissed him — openly, without shame, in front of everyone.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
“I was only gone for three hours,” Alastor laughed.
“Three hours too long.”
They were in love — hopelessly, completely, absolutely.
People on the street knew them. The couple who walked hand in hand through the French Quarter. Who sat on their porch every evening watching the stars.
They visited Big Daddy every Friday night for dinner. Grand meals where Big Daddy told stories from his youth and N/N and Alastor laughed until their sides hurt.
“You two should start thinking about children,” Big Daddy said one evening.
N/N blushed. Alastor cleared his throat.
“We… are thinking about it,” N/N admitted.
“Good,” Big Daddy grinned. “I want grandchildren. Lots of them.”
And then, two years after their wedding, everything changed.
The First Miracle – 1931
Alastor came home — tired from a long day at the studio.
The house smelled like something burnt.
“N/N?” he called.
“In the kitchen!”
He found her standing at the stove, stirring a pot, tears running down her cheeks.
Alastor’s heart sank.
“Chère, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“I… tried to make soup, but…” She pointed at the burnt pot. “I can’t even make soup! How am I supposed to—”
She sobbed.
Alastor immediately pulled her into his arms.
“Hey, hey, it’s just soup. That’s not important.”
N/N looked up at him, her gold-flecked eyes full of tears, but also… something else.
“Alastor,” she took his hand and gently placed it on her stomach. “We’re having a baby.”
The world held its breath.
Alastor stared at her — disbelieving, overwhelmed, his thoughts racing.
“A… baby?”
“Our baby,” she laughed through her tears. “You’re going to be a father, Alastor. I’m pregnant.”
“But… when… how long…”
“Two months. I wasn’t sure, so I went to the doctor, and he confirmed it, and I wanted to tell you right away, but then I wanted to cook something special, but I ruined it, and—”
He kissed her.
Cut off her rush of words with a deep, passionate kiss that said everything words could not.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers.
“A baby,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. “We’re having a baby.”
“Are you happy?” N/N asked anxiously.
“Happy?” Alastor laughed — loud, free, overwhelmed. “Chère, I am more than happy. I… don’t have words. You…”
His voice broke.
N/N ran her fingers through his hair, crying quietly with happiness.
“We’re going to be good parents,” she whispered.
Alastor cupped her face in his hands.
“You will be an incredible mother. And I… will do my best. Every day. For you. For our child.”
They held each other for a long time, the burnt soup forgotten.
The Pregnancy – Nine Months of Change
N/N’s pregnancy was… a roller coaster.
The first three months were the worst.
Morning sickness — which really lasted all day.
Alastor often woke to find N/N in the bathroom, pale, vomiting.
“I hate this,” she groaned.
“I know, chère,” he held her hair back, gently rubbing her back. “But it will get better. The doctor said so.”
“The doctor is a liar.”
Alastor couldn’t help but laugh.
He brought her ginger tea, crackers, anything that might help.
He read her stories to distract her.
By the fourth month, it got better.
The nausea faded, and N/N’s belly began to grow.
Alastor was fascinated.
Every evening he placed his hands on her stomach, feeling for movement.
“When will the baby kick?” he asked.
“Soon,” N/N smiled. “Be patient.”
And then, one evening, as they sat together on the porch, it happened.
N/N gasped, grabbed Alastor’s hand, and placed it on her belly.
“There! Do you feel that?”
A small kick.
Alastor’s eyes widened.
“That’s our baby.”
Alastor broke into tears.
He cried openly, his hand pressed firmly to her stomach, feeling his child.
“Hello, little one,” he whispered.
N/N cried too, happy.
The months passed.
N/N’s belly grew — round and beautiful.
Alastor couldn’t stop touching it, kissing it, speaking to the baby.
“You’re spoiling the child,” N/N teased.
“I can’t help it,” Alastor kissed her belly. “Our baby deserves to be spoiled.”
He read stories to the baby — classic fairy tales, adventure stories, even newspaper articles.
“The baby must be well informed,” he explained seriously.
N/N laughed, loving him more than ever.
They prepared the nursery — the second bedroom, small but cozy.
They painted the walls a soft yellow.
Alastor built a cradle — with his own hands, painstakingly, over weeks.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was made with love.
Big Daddy bought enough baby clothes for twins.
“I couldn’t decide!” he defended himself.
The Birth – Marguerite Rose Hartfelt
It was May 3rd, 1932.
A warm spring morning.
Alastor was making breakfast when N/N walked into the kitchen, pale, her hand on her stomach.
“Alastor.”
Her voice was calm, but tense.
“The contractions have started.”
Alastor dropped the spatula.
“What? Now? But it’s too early! You still have two weeks!”
“Babies don’t follow schedules,” N/N smiled weakly. “We need to—”
A contraction tore through her. She gasped, gripping the table.
Alastor was at her side instantly.
“Okay, okay, we… we need to get the midwife. And Tiana. And your father. And—”
“Alastor.” N/N took his face in her hands. “Breathe. I need you calm.”
“I am calm!” His voice was three octaves higher than usual.
N/N laughed despite the pain.
“Liar.”
The next hours were chaos.
The midwife arrived — an older, experienced woman.
Tiana came and took command, constantly sending Alastor away to fetch things.
“More towels!”
“Hot water!”
“No, Alastor, you cannot go in there right now!”
Big Daddy arrived and sat with Alastor in the living room.
Both men listened to the sounds from the bedroom — N/N’s cries, the midwife’s instructions.
“She’ll make it,” Big Daddy placed a hand on Alastor’s shoulder. “She’s strong. Like her mother.”
Alastor couldn’t speak. He prayed — for the first time in years, he truly prayed.
Please, let her be okay. Let the baby be okay. Please.
Hours passed.
And then — a cry.
Not N/N.
A baby.
Alastor jumped to his feet.
Tiana came out of the bedroom, tears on her cheeks, a huge smile on her face.
“Congratulations, Alastor. You have a daughter.”
“A… daughter?” Alastor’s voice broke.
“A beautiful, healthy daughter. And N/N is fine. She’s tired, but she’s okay.”
Alastor rushed into the bedroom.
N/N lay in bed, exhausted, sweaty, her hair a mess.
But she was glowing.
In her arms, she held a small bundle wrapped in a white blanket.
“Alastor,” her voice was a whisper, tired but happy. “Come.”
Alastor approached slowly, as if he were dreaming.
N/N pulled back the blanket.
And Alastor saw his child.
Small, with a hint of dark hair on her head.
Her skin was a beautiful blend of Alastor’s darker tone and N/N’s lighter one.
And then she opened her eyes.
Gold-flecked.
Like her mother’s.
“Oh…” Alastor’s voice broke completely. Tears ran down his face. “Oh, she is…”
“Do you want to hold her?”
“I… what if I drop her? What if—”
“You won’t drop her.” N/N smiled and gently placed the baby into his arms.
Alastor held his daughter.
For the first time.
She was so light. So fragile. So unbelievably precious.
“Hello, little one,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.
The baby — his daughter — yawned and nestled into his arms.
“She likes you,” N/N smiled.
“How could she not?” Big Daddy stood in the doorway, tears in his eyes. “He’s her father.”
“We talked about names,” N/N said softly. “Remember?”
“Marguerite,” Alastor nodded, looking down at his daughter. “Marguerite Rose. After the heroine in my favorite story. And Rose, after your mother.”
“She’s perfect.” Alastor kissed his daughter’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, Marguerite.”
The First Years with Marguerite
Marguerite — or “Maggie,” as Alastor lovingly called her — changed their lives completely.
At three months, Marguerite began making sounds.
“Ba… ba… ba…”
“She’s saying Papa!” Alastor was convinced.
“She’s just making noises, Alastor.”
“No, no, she’s saying Papa. I know it.”
At six months, Marguerite learned to roll over.
Alastor celebrated as if she had won a marathon.
He wrote it down in the diary he kept about Marguerite:
“November 3rd, 1929 — Marguerite rolled over for the first time today. N/N and I applauded. She laughed. My heart could burst.”
At one year, Marguerite began to walk.
Wobbly, unsure, often falling.
But she always stood back up.
“That’s my girl,” Alastor clapped.
Marguerite laughed, ran toward him, and fell into his arms.
“Papa!”
Her first word.
Alastor cried.
“N/N! Did you hear that? She said Papa!”
“I heard it,” N/N smiled, rolling her eyes, but her heart was full of love.
Marguerite was a happy child.
Always laughing, always curious, always in motion.
She loved music — she danced, wiggled her little bottom, clapped her hands.
She loved stories — every evening she climbed into Alastor’s lap, her small hand on his chest, and whispered, “Story, Papa.”
And Alastor — who could never say no to his little princess — told her stories.
Marguerite usually fell asleep before the story ended, her thumb in her mouth, her head on Alastor’s shoulder.
And Alastor simply sat there, holding her.
The Second Miracle – Colette Marie Hartfelt
Marguerite was three years old when N/N shared the news with Alastor.
They were sitting at breakfast, Marguerite spreading jam on everything except her bread.
“Alastor,” N/N began carefully.
“Hmm?” He was reading the newspaper while simultaneously helping Marguerite drink her milk.
“I’m pregnant.”
Alastor choked on his coffee.
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Alastor stood up, walked around the table, and pulled N/N into his arms.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He kissed her — deep, passionate, happy.
“We’re having another baby,” he laughed. “Our family is growing.”
“Are you happy?”
“Am I happy?” Alastor repeated in disbelief. “Chère, I’m overjoyed. Marguerite is getting a sibling. We’re having another child. How could I not be happy?”
The pregnancy was easier than the first time.
N/N knew what to expect.
She had less nausea, more energy.
Marguerite was fascinated by her mama’s growing belly.
“Baby in there?” she asked, poking N/N’s stomach.
“Yes, sweetheart. Your little brother or little sister.”
“I want sister!”
And she got her wish.
On October 12th, 1935, after a shorter but more intense labor, Colette Marie Hartfelt was born.
She was smaller than Marguerite had been.
With lighter skin — closer to N/N’s tone — and the same hair.
“Colette,” N/N smiled tiredly. “Colette Marie. Marie after your mother.”
Alastor looked up, surprised, touched.
“You… want to name her after my mother?”
“Of course. She was important to you. She should be part of our family, even if she’s no longer here.”
Alastor kissed N/N, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you, chère.”
────୨ৎ────
Marguerite met her sister with wide, astonished eyes.
“Baby sister,” she whispered in awe.
“Yes,” Alastor crouched down so Marguerite could see. “This is Colette. Your little sister.”
“She so small!”
“You were that small once, too.”
“Can I hold?”
They helped Marguerite sit down and carefully placed Colette in her arms.
Marguerite was so serious, so careful.
“Hello, Colette,” she whispered.
Alastor and N/N exchanged a look — full of love, full of pride.
Their family was growing.
And it was beautiful.
Having two children was… different.
More chaotic.
Louder.
More wonderful.
Colette was a quieter baby than Marguerite.
She slept better, cried less, observed more.
“She’s a thinker,” N/N often said.
Marguerite loved her little sister immediately and completely.
She wanted to help — with everything.
“I help Mama!” she announced, trying to feed Colette.
“I put baby to bed!”
She tried.
Always.
And Alastor and N/N loved her for it.
As Colette grew older, her personality emerged.
She was shy — hiding behind Marguerite’s legs when strangers came.
She was gentle — petting animals with such tenderness.
Marguerite and Colette were inseparable.
They played together — tea parties with dolls, hide-and-seek in the garden, inventing stories.
“I’m the princess!” Marguerite declared.
“Me too!” Colette said.
“Okay, we’re both princesses. And Papa is the dragon.”
“I’m a dragon?” Alastor raised an eyebrow.
“A good dragon!” Marguerite assured him.
“A dragon who tells stories!” Colette added.
Alastor laughed and played along.
He roared, chased them through the garden, caught them, tickled them until they squealed with laughter.
N/N watched from the porch, her heart so full.
This was her family.
The Third Gift – Vivienne Grace Hartfelt (1938)
“Alastor, I need to tell you something.”
It was a summer evening.
Marguerite and Colette were playing in the garden.
Alastor and N/N sat on the porch, drinking lemonade.
“What is it, chère?”
N/N smiled and took his hand.
“We’re having another baby.”
Alastor blinked.
“A third?”
“A third.”
He laughed — loud, surprised, happy.
“Our trio will be complete.”
“Are you sure you can handle three children?” N/N teased.
“With you, I can handle anything.”
He kissed her, gentle and loving.
────୨ৎ────
Marguerite and Colette were excited.
“Another sister!” Marguerite prayed.
“Or a brother,” Alastor added.
“No, a sister!” both girls insisted.
And once again, they got their wish.
On April 3rd, 1939, Vivienne Grace Hartfelt was born.
A calm birth, quicker than the other two.
Vivienne was… different.
She had Alastor’s darker skin and N/N’s eye color.
But there was something old in her gaze.
As if she understood more than a newborn should.
“She is wise,” Big Daddy said as he held his youngest granddaughter. “I can see it. She will be something special.”
Vivienne hardly ever cried.
She observed.
Listened.
Learned.
When Marguerite and Colette met her, it was love at first sight.
“Our baby sister!” Marguerite proudly declared.
Colette, usually shy, carefully touched Vivienne’s hand.
“Hello, Vivienne,” she whispered.
“And I’m Marguerite!”
Vivienne blinked, seeming to study them.
Then she smiled — small, but real.
And the girls squealed with joy.
Alastor stood at the edge, watching his three daughters and his wife.
His heart was so full.
Three beautiful, perfect daughters.
And a woman he loved more than he had ever thought possible.
How had he deserved this happiness?
“Alastor,” N/N called to him. “Come. Hold your daughter.”
He took Vivienne into his arms.
So small. So perfect.
“Hello, Vivienne Grace,” he whispered. “Welcome to our crazy, wonderful family.”
Life with Three Daughters – The Wonderful, Chaotic Years
The Hartfelt house was never quiet.
From the moment Marguerite woke in the morning until Vivienne fell asleep at night, the house was filled with life.
Marguerite Grows Up
Marguerite grew into a beautiful young woman. At sixteen, she had N/N’s features — gold-flecked eyes, full hair, a smile that lit up rooms. But she had Alastor’s mind — clever, witty, charming.
On Sundays, they all sat together at the kitchen table while Marguerite talked about her plans and Colette sat quietly beside her, sometimes holding her big sister’s hand. Vivienne scribbled in her notebook and listened to every word.
“Papa, I’m going out with friends tonight.”
“Which friends?” Alastor set his newspaper aside, his full attention now on his eldest.
“Just people from school.”
“Boys?”
“A few, yes.”
Colette giggled softly into her hand. “Papa’s getting nervous,” she whispered to Vivienne.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed — not angry, but protective. “What time will you be back?”
“Papa…”
“What time, Marguerite Rose?”
“10 o’clock?”
“8 o’clock.”
“Papa! That’s not fair!” Marguerite crossed her arms, exactly the way Alastor did when he was stubborn.
N/N intervened, placing a hand on Alastor’s arm and giving Marguerite a knowing look. “9 o’clock is a compromise.”
Marguerite sighed, but walked over to her father and kissed his forehead. “Fine. 9 o’clock. But only because I love you.”
“We love you too,” Alastor murmured, his voice softer.
When she left, all three stood at the window — Alastor in the middle, N/N at his side, Colette and Vivienne in front of them.
“She’ll find a good man,” Colette said quietly. “Someone like Papa.”
“No one is like Papa,” Vivienne countered, and Alastor laughed despite his worries.
“You have to let her go,” N/N said gently, her fingers intertwined with his.
“She’s too young.”
“You were young once too.”
The whole family laughed, and the tension melted away.
N/N kissed his cheek. “She’s smart. We raised her well. She’ll make good choices.”
And she did.
Marguerite had suitors — many of them — but she didn’t rush. On evenings when she returned from dates, her sisters often waited for her, slipping into her room in their pajamas.
“So? Was he nice?” Colette asked eagerly.
“He was fine,” Marguerite shrugged. “But he didn’t laugh like Papa. And he didn’t look at me like… well.”
“Like Papa looks at Mama,” Vivienne finished the sentence.
“Exactly.”
The three sisters curled up together on Marguerite’s bed, just as they had when they were little.
“I won’t get married until I find someone who looks at me the way Papa looks at Mama,” Marguerite said firmly.
“Me too,” Colette agreed.
“I’m going to write books,” Vivienne declared. “About love like yours.”
────୨ৎ────
Marguerite wanted to become a nurse — to help people, the way she had helped during the Depression.
When the acceptance letter arrived, she didn’t run to her parents alone. She gathered her sisters first, all three hand in hand, before rushing into the kitchen.
“I got in!” Marguerite shouted.
N/N hugged her first, then Alastor, then the whole family in one big group embrace.
“I’m proud of you,” Alastor said, his voice thick with emotion.
“Really, Papa?”
“So proud. You will save lives. Give hope. That’s all a father could ever wish for his child.”
Marguerite hugged him tightly, her sisters pressing in close to both of them.
“Thank you for believing in me.”
“Always. In all of you.”
Colette Finds Her Voice
Colette remained shy, but she grew into her music. At fifteen, she played in churches, at weddings, at events. Her music was transcendent. It touched hearts. People cried when she played.
And her family was always there. Marguerite sat in the front row, smiling proudly. Vivienne listened with her eyes closed, absorbing every note. N/N held Alastor’s hand, both parents glowing with pride.
“You have a gift, little bird,” Big Daddy often said when the whole family gathered after performances.
“I only play what I feel,” Colette replied softly.
She began composing too, her own pieces. Gentle. Dreamlike. Full of emotion.
On one special Sunday, when the whole family sat together at dinner — grandparents, aunts, uncles, everyone united — Colette stood up.
“I… I composed something,” she said shyly.
Marguerite immediately took her hand, squeezing it encouragingly. “Play it for us.”
“This is for Mama and Papa,” she sat at the piano, her fingers trembling slightly. “For our family.”
The melody filled the room — a story of love, gratitude, togetherness. Every note spoke of shared Sunday breakfasts, of kisses before bedtime, of hands held through difficult times.
N/N cried quietly. Alastor held her hand, his own eyes damp. Marguerite wrapped an arm around Vivienne as both listened to their sister turning her heart into music.
When she finished, there was a moment of silence. Then they all hugged Colette at once — a warm, tight family embrace.
Colette had an admirer too — a boy named Thomas, also a musician. He played the violin. They met in the orchestra and played duets together.
“Papa, can Thomas come to dinner?” Colette asked one day while the family peeled potatoes together — a Sunday tradition.
Marguerite grinned. “Oh, Thomas. The cute violinist?”
Colette blushed. “Marguerite!”
Vivienne looked up. “Is Papa going to interrogate him like Marguerite’s dates?”
Alastor stiffened, his peeler pausing mid-motion. “A… boy?”
“He’s nice, Papa. And he respects me.”
N/N smiled, exchanging a look with Marguerite. “Of course he can come, darling.”
Thomas came — nervous, polite, sincere. Marguerite helped in the kitchen and winked encouragingly at Colette. Vivienne observed Thomas with her clever eyes, quietly assessing him.
Alastor grilled him at dinner.
“What are your intentions with my daughter?”
“Alastor!” N/N warned, but she was smiling.
“It’s a fair question!”
Thomas swallowed and looked at Colette, who nodded at him encouragingly. “Sir, I… I like Colette very much. She is talented, kind, beautiful. I would like to get to know her better. With your permission.”
“And you can play the violin?” Vivienne suddenly asked.
“Yes, I—”
“Play something with Colette. Then we’ll know if you’re good enough.”
“Vivienne!” Colette was shocked, but the whole family laughed.
Thomas and Colette played after dinner — a duet, beautiful and harmonious. Alastor watched the way Thomas looked at Colette while they played. With respect. With admiration. With love.
“He’s good for her,” Alastor finally admitted later that night, when he and N/N were alone.
“He is,” N/N smiled. “He sees her. Truly sees her.”
“Like I see you.”
“Exactly.”
“Our girls are growing up.”
“But they will always be our girls.”
Vivienne – The Philosopher
Vivienne was ten years old, but she spoke like an adult. She read philosophy, psychology, literature. She asked questions that Alastor sometimes couldn’t answer.
On a rainy afternoon, they were all sitting in the living room. Marguerite was studying for her exams, Colette was quietly practicing the piano, N/N was knitting, and Alastor was reading aloud.
“Papa, do you believe in fate?” Vivienne suddenly asked, looking up from her book.
Everyone paused. These moments were special in their family — when Vivienne asked one of her big questions.
“I’m not sure, darling. Why?”
“Because I think some things are meant to be. Like you and Mama. You were meant for each other.”
Marguerite smiled. “I think so too.”
“Me too,” Colette agreed, her fingers resting on the piano keys.
“Maybe you’re right,” Alastor said, glancing at N/N, who smiled back at him.
“I’ve also been thinking about hell,” Vivienne continued.
The atmosphere shifted. Alastor stiffened.
“...Hell?”
“Vivienne, that’s a heavy topic,” Marguerite said gently, setting her book aside.
“Yes. In the Bible. Is it real? And if so, who goes there? Is it fair?”
Those were heavy questions for a ten-year-old.
N/N came over and sat beside Vivienne, brushing her hair back. “What made you think about that, sweetheart?”
“I just think. About good and evil. About forgiveness.”
Alastor moved closer too, and now the whole family gathered around Vivienne. “I don’t know, Vivienne. I believe that good people are rewarded. One way or another.”
“Even if they’ve made mistakes?”
“Especially then. Redemption is possible. Always.”
“For everyone?” she asked.
“For everyone who truly wants to change,” N/N said softly.
Marguerite placed a hand on Vivienne’s shoulder. “You think so deeply, little sister. But that’s what makes you special.”
“And we’re always here to talk about anything,” Colette added.
Vivienne looked at her family — all around her, all loving, all present.
“I hope you’re right, Papa. About redemption.”
Something in her tone — serious, almost sad — unsettled Alastor. But N/N took his hand, and Marguerite and Colette moved closer to Vivienne.
“No matter what happens,” N/N said quietly, “we have each other. Always.”
“Always,” they all repeated together.
And in that moment, in the warm light of the living room, surrounded by the people they loved most, everything felt right.
Vivienne was an old soul. She thought about things other children didn’t. But she wasn’t alone with her thoughts. She had her sisters. Her parents. Her family.
And that was all that mattered.
Marguerite’s Wedding
Marguerite was twenty-six when she met James.
A doctor — kind, intelligent, with a smile that lit up rooms.
He looked at her the way Alastor looked at N/N.
“He’s the one,” Marguerite told her parents.
“Are you sure?” Alastor asked.
“As sure as you were about Mama.”
Alastor couldn’t argue with that.
The wedding took place in the garden of the La Bouff estate.
Just like Alastor and N/N’s wedding so many years before.
Marguerite was breathtaking in her white dress.
Alastor walked her down the aisle — tears streaming down his face.
“You are so beautiful, Maggie.”
“Thank you, Papa. For everything. For your love. For your example. You showed me what true love is.”
“Be happy.”
“I will be. I promise.”
He handed her to James and whispered, “Protect her. Or I will find you.”
James nodded seriously. “I will, sir. With my life.”
The ceremony was beautiful.
Colette played the piano — the piece she had composed for her family.
Vivienne read a poem — one she had written herself, about love and family.
When Marguerite and James kissed, everyone cheered.
Alastor held N/N, both of them crying with happiness.
Their first daughter.
Married.
Happy.
Colette’s Wedding
Two years later, Colette married Thomas.
A more intimate wedding — in a small church, only family and close friends.
Colette was nervous.
“What if I trip? What if I forget my vows?”
“You won’t,” N/N assured her. “And even if you do, it’s okay. That makes it real.”
Alastor walked her down the aisle.
“My little bird,” he whispered. “You are flying now. But always come back home.”
“Always, Papa.”
The ceremony was gentle, full of music.
Thomas and Colette played a duet — violin and piano.
It was magical.
Not a single dry eye in the room.
Vivienne — The One Who Chose Differently
Vivienne never married.
She had admirers — many of them.
But none of them felt right.
“I think I’m not made for marriage,” she said at thirty.
“That’s okay,” N/N assured her. “Happiness comes in many forms.”
Vivienne became a teacher — teaching literature and philosophy.
She touched young minds, opened them to new ideas.
“You make a difference,” Alastor often said.
“I hope so.”
“You do. I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
She lived in a small house not far from her parents.
Visited often, bringing books, stories, company.
Grandchildren — The Circle Closes
Marguerite and James had three children.
Colette and Thomas had two.
Big Daddy lived to see it — his great-grandchildren.
He was old now, in his eighties, but his spirit was still strong.
“Five great-grandchildren,” he laughed, holding the youngest baby. “I am blessed.”
He passed peacefully in his sleep in 1958.
Surrounded by love.
His last words were to N/N:
“I’m proud of you, baby. So proud. You lived a beautiful life. Built a beautiful family. I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
She held his hand as he went.
The funeral was enormous — hundreds came.
Big Daddy had touched so many lives.
Alastor held N/N as she cried.
“He was the best man I ever knew,” she whispered.
“He was. And he loved you more than anything.”
“I will miss him so much.”
“I know, chère. I know.”
The Golden Years
The years passed.
Alastor and N/N aged — gray hair, wrinkles, slower steps.
But their love?
It only grew stronger.
Every morning, Alastor woke up, saw N/N beside him — older, but still her — and thanked the universe.
“Good morning, my beautiful.”
“I am old and wrinkled, Alastor.”
“You are perfect.”
He meant it.
She had wrinkles around her eyes — laugh lines from years of smiling.
Gray streaks in her hair — signs of a life well lived.
But in his eyes?
She was still the woman who had burst into Tiana’s restaurant.
Radiant. Beautiful. His.
They sat on their porch every evening, hand in hand, watching the stars.
“Do you remember when we met?” N/N often asked.
“How could I forget? You turned my life upside down.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Not a single moment.”
He kissed her — gentle, tender, full of decades of love.
“I love you, N/N Hartfelt. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”
“Forever,” she repeated.
The Beginning of the End — N/N’s Illness
N/N was seventy-one when she became ill.
Cancer.
Advanced.
Incurable.
“How long?” Alastor asked the doctor, his voice hollow.
“Months. Maybe a year, if we’re lucky.”
Alastor broke.
Not physically.
But inside.
How could he live without her?
How could he breathe, exist, without her?
But he didn’t show it.
Not to her.
For her, he was strong.
“We fight,” he said, taking her hand.
“Alastor—”
“We fight. Every day. Together.”
They fought.
Chemotherapy. Radiation. Treatments that made her sick, weakened her.
But N/N still smiled.
“I have you,” she whispered. “As long as I have you, I can endure anything.”
Alastor never left her side.
He held her hand through the nausea.
Wiped away her tears.
Read her stories.
Their daughters came — often, with the grandchildren.
The house was full again with laughter, with life.
“I am so happy,” N/N often whispered. “So blessed.”
“You are the strongest woman I know,” Alastor said.
“I am only strong because you are beside me.”
The Last Dance
It was spring — April, the month they had fallen in love so many years ago.
N/N was weak, in bed most of the time.
But she still smiled.
On a warm evening, the window open, the scent of jasmine filling the room.
N/N opened her eyes.
“Alastor?”
“I’m here, chère.” He held her hand, always.
“Dance with me.”
“N/N, you can’t—”
“Please.” Her eyes — those beautiful, gold-speckled eyes, now clouded with pain — begged him. “One last time.”
How could he say no?
He carefully helped her out of bed.
She was so light in his arms, so fragile, as if a strong wind could carry her away.
But as he held her, as they began to move slowly — without music, only the beating of their hearts as rhythm — she was herself again.
His N/N.
Young. Alive. Radiant.
“I love you,” she whispered against his chest. “So much. Never forget that. No matter what happens, where you go — I love you. Always.”
“I could never forget.” His voice broke. “You are my everything, N/N. My sunshine. My love. My life. My all.”
“Then promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Live. After me. Live. Tell our story. Love our daughters. Our grandchildren. Be happy. For me.”
Tears ran down his face.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. You are the strongest man I know.”
“Only because you were beside me.”
“And I will always be beside you. Maybe not here,” she touched his chest, over his heart, “but here. Always.”
They kept dancing, slowly, tenderly, while the sun set and the stars came out.
“Do you remember our first Christmas?” N/N whispered.
“How could I forget? The girls woke us at five in the morning.”
“And you muttered how much you missed sleep.”
“But I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“Neither would I.” She smiled. “We had a good life, Alastor.”
“The best life.”
“No regrets?”
“Only one.”
“What?”
“That we don’t have more time.”
N/N cried and laughed at the same time.
“That’s not your fault. That’s no one’s fault.”
“I know. But it feels unfair.”
“Life is sometimes unfair. But we had decades. Three beautiful daughters. Grandchildren. Love. So much love. That’s more than most people ever have.”
She was right.
He knew it.
But it didn’t make the goodbye easier.
“Wait for me,” Alastor whispered. “Wherever you go after this — wait for me. Because I will find you. I will always find you.”
“I promise,” he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I will wait for you. Forever, if I must. I will wait, and when I see you again, I will take you into my arms and never let you go.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
She smiled — tired, but real.
“Good. Because I couldn’t be without you. Not truly. Wherever I go, you are with me. In my heart.”
“And you in mine.”
They danced until N/N was too tired, too weak.
Alastor laid her back in bed, tucked her in, kissed her forehead.
“Sleep now, chère.”
“Will you stay?”
“Always.”
He held her hand, watched her sleep.
Her chest rose and fell — slow, shallow.
Their daughters came — Marguerite, Colette, Vivienne.
All held their mother, whispered love, said goodbye.
“I love you, Mama,” Marguerite cried.
“Thank you for everything,” Colette sobbed.
“Until we meet again,” Vivienne whispered.
She looked at Alastor.
Smiled.
“I will see you again, my love.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Forever.”
She took one last breath.
And went.
Peaceful. Loved. Complete.
~ END ~
True love never ends. It waits. It finds you again.
No matter where. No matter when.
In this life or the next.
Forever.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
Thanks to all the People how asked for a seacond part <3
So you know princess and the frog can you do alastor meeting a y/n Lottie who was completely different then what he was expecting instead of being spoiled and rude she was spoiled but the sweetest person your ever meet and I feel like tiana would introduce alastor to Lottie since they were around the same time and I feel like lottie would fall first but alastor would fall harder from watching her and seeing how she's always there to help Tiana with her restaurant always happy to be there with her friend and her daddy (anyway thank you for listening and I really like your work)
Oh yes, please!
I’m a total Disney girly — this was absolutely unavoidable. 🏰🦌✨
It took me a whole week to write 😭
Idk how many version I have...But this is the best.
I also wrote a poeam.
What do you guys do to me ? I have never written something, only in school. I love it!
As the princess of his heart I Alastor x Reader I Princess and the Frog AU
Word Count: ~5.7k
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
New Orleans, 1920s
Tiana had already told Alastor about her several times.
“She is… special,” the hardworking restaurant owner had said with a warm smile.
“Y/N — everyone calls her N/N — is the daughter of Big Daddy La Bouff. You know, the richest man in all of New Orleans.”
Alastor, the charismatic radio host with the velvety voice, had rolled his eyes internally.
He knew the type — spoiled, rich princesses who thought the world revolved around them. Arrogant, superficial, probably unbearable.
“Tiana, chère, I don’t know if—”
“She’s coming by this afternoon to help me,” Tiana interrupted him with a knowing grin. “Just stay for lunch. Please? I think you two will be… surprised.”
And so Alastor now sat at a small table in Tiana’s Palace, drinking coffee and waiting for the inevitable disappointment.
Then he heard her.
“TIANA!”
The door flew open, and a whirlwind in pink and white burst inside.
The girl — no, the young woman — shone like the sun itself, as if someone had poured liquid gold and summer mornings into human form.
Her dress was unmistakably expensive, perfectly tailored, adorned with pearls and lace that sparkled in the light like captured stars.
But it wasn’t the dress that stole Alastor’s breath.
It was her smile.
Real. Radiant.
Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, a few strands having come loose and framing her face.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled with pure, unfiltered joy for life.
Alastor’s heart did something strange.
It skipped a beat.
“N/N!”
Tiana came out of the kitchen and opened her arms.
Y/N — N/N — ran to her friend and hugged her tightly, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though it had probably only been days.
Alastor could hear her laughter — bright, melodic.
“I brought you the flowers you wanted! And Daddy says if you need — ANYTHING — I should just tell him!”
She clapped her hands excitedly, and Alastor noticed the small dimples appearing in her cheeks.
“Oh, and I found a new recipe for beignets! Can we try it? Please, please, please?”
Tiana laughed.
“N/N, you have to breathe.”
“Who can breathe when it’s about food?”
N/N spun around — and then she saw Alastor.
Their eyes met.
The world held its breath.
Alastor felt it — that electric moment when two gazes meet and something irreversible happens.
Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly in surprise.
“Oh!”
Her hand flew to her chest.
“Oh my goodness! You’re Alastor! The radio host!”
And then she ran to his table—
“I listen to your show EVERY night!”
She stopped so close in front of him that he could smell her perfume — roses and something sweet.
“The story last week about the street musician? I cried! I really cried! Daddy had to give me a handkerchief, and then another one, and then I just cried all over his jacket!”
Alastor stood up — automatically, his mother had taught him manners — and suddenly found himself far too close to her.
Close enough to see that her eyes weren’t just one color, but a thousand — with golden flecks dancing in the light.
Close enough to count the freckles on her nose.
Close enough to be completely, hopelessly lost.
“Miss… La Bouff, I presume?”
His voice sounded rougher than intended.
“Oh please, call me N/N!”
She beamed at him, and God, that smile should have been illegal.
“Tiana has told me so much about you! She says you have the best humor and the most interesting views! Would you stay for lunch? Please? I would LOVE to hear more about your work!”
No trace of condescension.
No forced politeness.
Just… pure, unfiltered enthusiasm.
And then she touched his arm.
Just lightly, just for a moment, her fingers barely more than a whisper against his suit.
But Alastor felt it like a lightning strike, like fire racing through his veins.
“I…” he blinked, tried to collect his thoughts, “yes, of course.”
“Wonderful!”
N/N spun back to Tiana, and Alastor immediately missed her closeness, the warmth she radiated.
“Then let’s cook! What are we making today?”
“WE?”
Tiana raised an eyebrow, but her smile was knowing.
“Nonsense! It’s fun!”
N/N tied an apron around herself.
“Besides, friends help each other.”
Alastor sat back down.
His hands trembled slightly.
His heart refused to return to a normal rhythm.
What the hell had just happened?
The observation begins
In the following hours, Alastor observed something that overturned all his prejudices — and changed his heart in a way he didn’t understand.
N/N — this rich, spoiled princess — stood in the kitchen and… worked.
Really worked.
Her perfectly manicured hands cut vegetables — a bit clumsily, but with such concentration that the tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips.
Alastor watched, fascinated, as she bit her lower lip when she focused.
How her eyes narrowed.
How a small crease appeared between her eyebrows.
“No, no, sweetheart, like this,” Tiana gently corrected her cutting technique, taking N/N’s hands in hers.
“Otherwise you’ll cut your finger.”
“Oh! Of course! Thank you, Tiana!”
N/N beamed — completely without ego, without shame for not knowing something.
She laughed at herself, bright and free.
“I’m hopeless in the kitchen, aren’t I?”
“Practice makes perfect,” Tiana smiled.
“Then I’ll practice every day! Until I can cook just as well as you!”
N/N swore it with her hand raised, so serious, so determined, that Alastor had to smile.
She meant it.
She meant everything seriously.
Then the first guests arrived.
Alastor watched as N/N immediately jumped up.
“I’ll help serve!”
“N/N, you really don’t have to—”
But she was already gone, balancing plates — a bit wobbly, her tongue again between her lips in concentration — toward an elderly couple.
Alastor watched every movement.
How she brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
How her hands held the plates — carefully, as if they were precious.
“Good afternoon! Welcome to Tiana’s Palace!”
Her smile was radiant, real.
She spoke to the woman as if she were an old friend.
No artificial politeness.
Just genuine, warm interest.
Alastor felt something tighten in his chest.
Something dangerous.
Something wonderful.
He watched as N/N went from table to table.
How she remembered names.
How she asked about children and grandchildren.
How she laughed at jokes — really laughed, threw her head back, placed her hand on her heart.
“That’s Miss La Bouff?” one guest asked in disbelief.
“Big Daddy’s daughter?”
“She’s helping here? Voluntarily?”
“She’s so… nice. Really nice.”
Alastor had to agree with his instincts.
She was real.
In a world full of masks and lies and people pretending to be someone they weren’t — she was real.
And that…
That was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
A Father’s Love
In the late afternoon, Big Daddy La Bouff himself stopped by — a large, imposing man in an expensive suit who nonetheless radiated a warmth that filled the entire room.
“N/N, baby! There you are!”
His voice boomed through the restaurant.
“Daddy!”
Alastor watched as N/N’s entire face transformed.
How she glowed, brighter than the sun.
How she ran to her father and threw herself into his arms like a little girl.
Big Daddy caught her, spun her around, laughing deep and warm.
And Alastor’s heart…
It ached for that love.
For that connection.
For someone who would look at him the way Big Daddy looked at his daughter — as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Alastor noticed the flour stains on N/N’s dress — a dress that probably cost more than he earned in a month.
The sweat on her forehead.
Her messy hair.
And how Big Daddy didn’t seem to care at all.
He saw only his daughter.
Happy.
Laughing.
Alive.
“Working hard again, sweetheart?”
He kissed her forehead, brushed a strand of hair from her face with such tenderness.
“I’m helping Tiana! Isn’t it wonderful? We have twenty more guests today than last week!”
“That’s my girl.”
Big Daddy looked at Tiana, his smile warm.
“Tiana, my dear, if you need anything—”
“I know, Big Daddy, thank you,” Tiana smiled.
Big Daddy noticed Alastor.
His eyes narrowed — not hostile, but assessing.
Weighing.
“And who is this young man?”
“Oh! Daddy, this is Alastor! The radio host!”
N/N beamed, and her hand — her hand found Alastor’s arm, touched it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Alastor’s skin burned beneath her touch.
“Alastor…”
Big Daddy studied him from head to toe.
Alastor felt seen through.
Analyzed.
Measured.
“I listen to your show. Good work, young man.”
He extended his hand.
Alastor shook it — impressed by the firmness of the grip, but also by the warmth in the man’s eyes.
“N/N, sweetheart, don’t you want to come home? You look tired.”
“Oh nonsense! I’m full of energy!”
But then she yawned — small, sweet, her hand flying to her mouth.
Big Daddy laughed, deep and loving.
“Come on, my little whirlwind. Let Tiana rest.”
“But—”
“N/N,”
Tiana stepped up to her, hugged her tightly.
“You were incredible today. Thank you. For everything.”
“That goes without saying!”
N/N beamed, then turned to Alastor.
And her gaze met his with an intensity that stole his breath.
“It was SO wonderful meeting you, Alastor.”
His name on her lips — like a caress, like music.
“Will you come back soon? Please?”
Her eyes were hopeful, anxious, expectant.
As if his answer mattered.
As if she cared.
“I… think so,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.
“Wonderful!”
And then she smiled at him — radiant, happy — and Alastor felt his heart explode in his chest.
With one last wave, she spun away, her Daddy at her side.
Alastor stood there, staring at the door long after she had gone.
“She’s something special, isn’t she?”
Tiana’s voice was soft, knowing.
“She is…”
Alastor searched for words, found none that were enough.
“…not what I expected.”
“N/N has a heart of gold. Her Daddy gave her everything — money, education, everything — but he also taught her that true beauty comes from within. That kindness matters more than wealth.”
Alastor couldn’t speak.
His heart was too full.
The Invitation That Changed Everything
It was Thursday evening.
The restaurant was closed, the last guests had gone.
But Alastor, Tiana, and N/N were still sitting together at a table, eating leftover beignets.
N/N sat across from Alastor — so close that their knees almost touched.
Every time she moved, every time her leg brushed his — just for a second — Alastor felt electricity race through his veins.
“Alastor,”
N/N nervously turned her glass, her fingers tapping against it — a nervous tick Alastor had learned to recognize.
She always did it when she was unsure.
“I… I wanted to ask you something.”
His heart leapt.
“Yes?”
His voice sounded calmer than he felt.
“There’s a garden party at our house next week.”
She bit her lower lip — that damn gesture that drove him crazy every time.
“Daddy is inviting half the city — music, food, dancing, the whole… society.”
She said “society” with a faint undertone of disdain that made Alastor take notice.
“And I…”
She looked up at him, and her eyes were full of hope and fear at the same time.
“Would you… come as my guest?”
The world seemed to stop.
Alastor heard his own heart pounding in his ears.
“Not as Daddy’s guest or as part of society,” she continued, her words coming faster, desperate.
“As my guest. My personal guest. I would be very happy if you came. If you spent time with me.”
Tiana coughed not-so-subtly into her fist and stood up.
They were alone.
Alastor stared at N/N.
Her face was flushed, her hands trembling slightly around the glass.
“N/N,”
his voice was gentle, careful,
“do you know what people will say? If they see you with me? A man like me—”
“A man like you?”
Her voice suddenly became firmer, more passionate.
She leaned forward.
“You mean a talented, intelligent, kind man? A man who tells the most beautiful stories and makes people cry and laugh? A man who comes here every day, not because he has to, but because he wants to? A man who talks to Mrs. Henderson about her grandson even though he really doesn’t have time? A man who—”
“—of mixed heritage,”
he interrupted quietly.
“In a society that doesn’t… accept that.”
“Does. Not. Matter.”
Each word emphasized.
She stood up and stepped toward him.
Stood in front of him, and he had to look up at her — and in that moment, she was majestic.
“Alastor, I don’t care what people say. I have never cared what society thinks.”
Her hand — trembling — rested against his cheek.
Alastor stopped breathing.
“Daddy taught me that a person’s character is what matters. Not their money. Not their skin color. Not where they come from or who their parents were.”
Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone.
“And your character, Alastor… is beautiful. You are beautiful. Inside and out.”
“N/N…”
his voice broke.
“Please come.”
Her eyes shone.
“For me. I want you there. I want to dance with you. I want…”
She faltered, blushed deeper.
“I want to spend time with you. Is that… is that too much to ask?”
How could he say no?
“Yes.”
The word came out like a breath, barely audible.
“I’ll come.”
Her smile could have lit up the entire city.
And then she threw herself into his arms.
Alastor caught her and for a moment, he held her.
Felt how perfectly she fit into his arms.
How her head fit exactly beneath his chin.
How her heart beat against his — fast, wild, in the same desperate rhythm.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.
“I should go,” she said breathlessly.
“Daddy’s waiting. But I’m looking forward to next week.”
“So am I,”
Alastor said honestly.
She left the restaurant, and Alastor simply sat there, his heart racing, his hands trembling.
Tiana came back from the kitchen, grinning broadly.
“Well?”
“I’m an idiot,”
Alastor muttered.
“A lovestruck idiot,”
Tiana corrected.
And Alastor couldn’t disagree.
The Garden Party — The Moment That Changed Everything
The La Bouff estate was… there were no words.
Hundreds of guests in elegant dresses and tailored suits. A jazz band played on a raised stage—the music drifting through the warm night air. Tables overflowing with food, champagne in crystal glasses. Lanterns hung from the trees like captured stars, casting golden light over everything.
Alastor felt out of place.
His suit was good—the best he owned, the one he had specially cleaned for this evening.
“Isn’t that the radio host? The… mixed one?”
“What is he doing here?”
“Did N/N really invite him? Big Daddy should step in.”
Alastor felt his jaw tighten. He should leave. This was a mistake. He didn’t belong here. He—
Then he saw her.
And the entire world ceased to exist.
N/N stood on the veranda of the estate, surrounded by people, yet completely alone in his vision.
There were no words. No language ever created could describe her in that moment.
Her dress was like liquid gold, like captured sunlight. It clung to her curves, falling in soft waves to the floor. The neckline was tasteful, but it revealed enough of her neck, her shoulders, the curve of her chest that Alastor’s mouth went dry.
Her hair was pinned up—but a few loose strands had escaped, framing her face, and all Alastor could think was: I want to bury my hands in it. I want to kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
But it wasn’t the dress. Not the hair. Not the flawless, radiant beauty.
It was her face when her eyes found him.
The way it lit up. The way her entire being seemed to change. The way she glowed—just for him—as if he were the only thing that existed among hundreds of people.
“Alastor!”
She came down the steps. Her dress swirled around her legs. Her heels clicked against the stone.
“You came!” She reached him and, without hesitation, took his hands. Both of them. Held them tight. “Oh, I’m so happy! I was afraid you might change your mind, but you’re here!”
“I promised,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.
“Yes.” Her smile was radiant, genuine, reaching her eyes. “You did. And you keep your promises.”
“Always.”
“Alastor,” she whispered, stepping closer, her voice meant only for him, “people are staring—”
“Let them stare.” He said it loudly enough for a few nearby people to hear. “I’m here with you. Why shouldn’t they stare?”
N/N’s eyes filled with tears. She laughed—bright, free. “Come. I want to show you the garden.”
She slipped her arm through his and led him away from the crowd. Deeper into the garden, where there were fewer lanterns, where they could be alone.
She showed him everything. The roses. The pond with the goldfish. The pavilion overgrown with jasmine, its scent filling the air.
Alastor’s heart skipped a beat.
She sat down on a bench beneath the pavilion. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, painting patterns across her face, her dress, making her look like something out of a fairy tale.
She was the most beautiful woman Alastor had ever seen.
“This is where I first met Tiana,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the pond. “We were both five. She came with her mama, who cooked for us. And I was so lonely. Every child who played with me did it only because Daddy was rich. Because of the toys I had. Because of the sweets I could share.”
She smiled—wistful.
“But Tiana… she looked at me and said, ‘Do you want to play tag with me?’ Not ‘Miss La Bouff’ or ‘can we use your dolls.’ Just—do you want to play.” A tear slid down her cheek, glistening in the moonlight. “She became my best friend. My sister.”
“She’s a good friend,” Alastor said gently, sitting beside her.
“The best.” N/N looked at him, her eyes shining. “And she likes you, you know? She says you have a good heart.”
“Different,” he laughed bitterly. “That’s a nice way of saying—”
“Wonderful.” She interrupted him, her hand finding his, weaving her fingers through his. “Different in a wonderful way. Alastor, why do you think so poorly of yourself?”
The question caught him off guard.
“I…” He searched for words, found none that fit. “I’m not good, N/N. I’ve done things—”
“Everyone has done things.” She turned toward him, her knees touching his, her hand gripping his tighter. “Everyone has made mistakes. Regretted decisions.”
Her free hand lifted, touched his face.
“But you are more than enough. You are wonderful, Alastor.” Her voice broke. “You are kind. You tell stories that touch hearts. You see me…” Tears now flowed freely down her cheeks, “You see me. Not my money. Not my name. Just me. N/N.”
“How could I not?” Alastor whispered, turning his face into her palm, pressing a gentle kiss there. Her skin was soft, warm. “You are everything real in a world full of lies.”
“Alastor…” His name, like a prayer.
She moved closer—so close he could feel her breath on his lips, sweet and warm.
“You are something special,” Alastor whispered, his hands framing her face, wiping away her tears. “You are the best thing I have ever seen. You are sunlight in human form.”
“Then kiss me,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to his lips. “Please, Alastor. Here. Now. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
“Here? Where everyone can see us?”
“I. Don’t. Care.” Each word emphasized, passionate, desperate. “Kiss me, Alastor. Show me that I’m not the only one who feels this. Show me that you—”
He kissed her.
Pulled her to him—not gently, not carefully, but desperately, hungrily, as if she were air and he were drowning.
She tasted of champagne and sugar and something sweet, something undefinable—something that was only her. Her lips were soft, warm, perfect against his.
N/N moaned—a small, surprised sound that went straight into Alastor’s soul—and opened her mouth beneath his.
Alastor’s hands slid from her face to her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He could feel her heart against his—wild, fast, beating in the same desperate rhythm.
When they finally pulled apart—both breathless—Alastor rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” N/N whispered. “I know it’s too soon, I know I should wait, but I can’t lie. I love you, Alastor. With all my heart.”
“N/N… I…” He took a deep breath, his hands trembling as they held her face.
He kissed her forehead.
“I love you, N/N. So much. So damn much it sometimes hurts to look at you. You are my first thought in the morning and my last before I sleep. You are in every story I tell. In every song I hear. You are—” He laughed, disbelieving, blissfully happy. “You are everything.”
“Then never stop,” she whispered, kissing him again. “Never stop loving me.”
“Never,” he promised against her lips. “Until my last breath. And beyond that. Forever, N/N. I love you forever.”
They kissed again—deeper, more passionate.
The Radio Poem — The Night He Said Her Name
Two weeks later, Alastor sat in his radio studio. His hands trembled as he arranged the notes in front of him. He had made a decision—one that would change everything.
“Thirty seconds, Alastor,” his technician called.
Alastor nodded, took a deep breath. His hands were slick with sweat. His heart a wild animal in his chest.
The red light came on.
“Good evening, my dear listeners.” His voice—professional, smooth, familiar. “This is Alastor speaking, and you’re listening to WDSU, the heart of New Orleans.”
At the La Bouff estate, N/N sat in her room with Tiana. They had spent the evening together. The radio was on—N/N never missed his show.
“Tonight,” Alastor continued, and his voice… changed. Became softer, more emotional, “I would like to share something personal with you.”
N/N froze, looking up at the radio. Her heart began to race.
“There are moments in life when you meet someone who changes everything.” His voice was rough, full of feeling. “Someone who shows you what it truly means to live. To love. To hope. For me… that someone is a young woman.”
“Oh my God,” N/N whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
“She is the daughter of the richest man in New Orleans, yet she spends her days helping her best friend at the restaurant. She wears dresses that cost more than my monthly salary, yet she kneels in the dirt to help a crying child.”
Tears began to stream down N/N’s cheeks.
“She could have any man in this city—anyone. Any rich, handsome, perfect man. But she…” his voice broke, “she chose me.”
“Alastor…” N/N sobbed softly.
“A radio host of mixed heritage. With a dark past. With an uncertain future. But she saw past all of that. She saw my heart. And she loved it anyway. No—not anyway. She loved it.”
Tiana placed a hand on N/N’s shoulder, tears shining in her own eyes.
His voice dropped to a whisper—intimate, as if he were speaking only to her.
“So tonight I want to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. N/N—and I know you’re listening—this is for you.”
He cleared his throat, and his voice became poetry:
N/N, my light in the darkness,
you came into my life like dawn after the storm.
With a smile that drives away shadows,
and a heart that does not fear even my scars.
For a long time, I believed I did not deserve love.
But you truly saw me—
behind masks, fear, and guilt.
And you found something I myself believed I had lost.
You stand up for me without hesitation, without shame,
while I still often hide behind my microphone.
But today I borrow your courage
and say out loud what my heart has long known:
I love you, N/N La Bouff.
You are my home, my peace, my today and tomorrow.
Not because you are perfect—
but because you are real.
I love your small gestures,
your laughter, your warmth,
the way you make the world brighter
without even realizing it.
And if you want me—
with all my flaws and my past—
then meet me tonight
at Tiana’s restaurant.
Because I have a question.
The most important of my life.
Come to me.
And let me show you
how a man kneels
when he gives away his entire heart—
forever.
Silence in the studio. Alastor’s hands trembled violently. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure it could be heard through the microphone.
“N/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I love you. With every part of me. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you every single day. Come to me. Please. I’m waiting for you where it all began.”
At the La Bouff estate, N/N jumped to her feet, tears pouring endlessly down her face. She sobbed.
“Go!” Tiana cried, laughing and crying at the same time. “Go to him! Hurry!”
“But I—I’m—I look terrible—”
“You look beautiful!” Tiana shoved her toward the door. “Go! He’s waiting!”
N/N ran. Her feet carried her through the garden, across the streets of New Orleans. Her hair came loose from its style, falling over her shoulders. Her simple house dress fluttered behind her.
People turned, stared.
But she didn’t care.
She had to get to him.
Now. Immediately. Her heart wouldn’t survive waiting.
The Proposal – Where It All Began
Alastor stood in front of Tiana’s Palace. The restaurant was closed.
His hands were slick with sweat. His heart a wild, desperate thing in his chest.
What if she didn’t come? What if he had risked too much? What if—
“ALASTOR!”
He turned around.
N/N was running down the street, her hair flying wildly behind her, tears glistening on her cheeks in the light of the streetlamps. She was the most beautiful, chaotic, wonderful sight he had ever seen.
She threw herself into his arms with such force that they nearly fell over. He caught her, spun her around, held her so tightly he was afraid he might break her—but he couldn’t let go.
“You idiot!” she sobbed against his chest, her fists pounding playfully against him. “You wonderful, romantic, impossible, perfect idiot! How could you say that on the radio? The entire city was listening! I cried! I’m still crying!”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!” She looked up at him, her face wet with tears but glowing—so glowing. “The poem—Alastor, the poem was—I can’t—I have no words!”
“Then you don’t need any,” he whispered, wiping away her tears. “Say it to me again. To my face. Without a microphone. Just you and me.”
Alastor lifted his hands, framed her face, gently wiped away her tears—but new ones came.
“I love you, N/N La Bouff,” his voice was steady, clear, without doubt. “I love you so much that sometimes I forget to breathe. You are my everything. My morning. My reason. My—”
“Yes,” she interrupted him.
He blinked. “I haven’t even asked yet—”
“Yes!” She laughed through her tears, happy. “Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is yes! Today, tomorrow, forever—YES!”
“N/N…” He laughed, disbelieving, overjoyed. “Let me at least do it properly.”
And he sank down onto one knee. Right there, on the sidewalk in front of Tiana’s Palace. Where it had all begun.
N/N’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God—”
“N/N La Bouff,” he began, pulling a small box from his jacket pocket. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it. “I’m not rich. I can’t offer you a life of luxury like your Daddy can. I have an uncertain future.”
He opened the box, revealing a simple silver ring with a small but perfectly cut diamond.
“But I can give you my heart. My soul. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every story I tell—it will be about you. Every moment of my life.”
His voice broke, tears burning in his own eyes now.
“I can promise to love you every day. To fight for you. To hold you when you cry and laugh with you when you’re happy. To hold your hand when we’re old and gray and still tell you stories. To wake up every morning and think: how did I get this lucky?”
Tears streamed endlessly down N/N’s face. She sobbed, laughed, trembled.
“Alastor…” his name was a sob, a caress, a prayer.
“N/N La Bouff, my light, my muse, my love, my everything—will you be my wife?” His voice broke completely. “Will you walk through this crazy, wonderful world with me, hand in hand, heart to heart, soul to soul? Will you let me love you every day of my life?”
“Yes!” She dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands clutching his, the ring forgotten between them. “Yes, yes, yes! A million times yes! Forever yes!”
His hands shook violently. But he slid it on—perfectly, when he placed it on her finger.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” she whispered back. “So much.”
And then they kissed—both on their knees on the sidewalk, beneath the star-filled sky of New Orleans, in front of the restaurant.
The kiss was long, deep, desperate. Full of promises and future. Full of a love so strong it overwhelmed them both. They both cried, both laughed, held onto each other as if the world would end if they let go.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, they heard something.
Applause. Cheers. Whistles.
They looked up. The street was full of people—neighbors, passersby. All clapping, cheering, crying.
And there, in the doorway of Tiana’s Palace, stood Tiana and Big Daddy La Bouff—both crying, both glowing.
“That’s my daughter!” Big Daddy shouted, his voice thick with emotion but full of pride. “That’s my little N/N! And her future husband!”
N/N laughed, burying her face against Alastor’s shoulder.
“Come,” he whispered, helping her to her feet, “let’s go to them.”
Hand in hand, they walked toward Tiana and Big Daddy.
“Daddy,” N/N hugged her father tightly, sobbing into his chest, “he proposed to me.”
“I know, baby. I was listening.” Big Daddy kissed her forehead, held her close.
He looked at Alastor, reached out—not for a handshake, but to pull him into an embrace.
“Welcome to the family, my son,” Big Daddy whispered, his voice choked. “You’ve made my daughter happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her. Take care of her.”
“With my life,” Alastor promised, his own voice breaking.
“I knew it,” Tiana said, grinning as she wiped away her tears. “I knew from the very first day that you two were meant for each other.”
“Thank you,” N/N said, hugging her best friend tightly. “Thank you for introducing us. Thank you for everything. Without you, we would never—”
“Nonsense,” Tiana smiled. “You two would have found each other anyway. Some love is fate.”
Later That Night – Just the Two of Them
Hours later, Alastor and N/N sat alone on the steps of Tiana’s Palace. Big Daddy and Tiana had gone home, the crowd had dispersed.
“I still can’t believe it,” N/N whispered, studying the ring on her finger. It sparkled in the moonlight. “We’re getting married.”
“Already regretting it?” Alastor teased, kissing her cheek.
“Never.” She turned toward him. “Alastor, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you for the first time. Here. At that table. You were drinking coffee and looked so lonely. And I thought: I want to make him smile.”
“Me too,” he admitted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well, maybe not in the very first moment. But when I watched you helping everyone, the way you laughed, the way you simply… were. The way you spoke to everyone as if they mattered. The way you sang while cooking—terribly off-key, by the way—”
“Hey!” She punched him playfully.
“—but so full of joy that my heart hurt. That’s when I knew.”
“You fell harder than I did,” she observed, smiling knowingly.
“So much harder, chère.” He pulled her close, his head resting against hers. “You fell into me like a summer rain—fast, sudden, wonderful. But I… I fell into you the way the Mississippi flows into the Gulf of Mexico. Slowly, a little more each day, unstoppable, eternal.”
“That was very poetic,” she murmured.
“I’m a radio host. Words are my craft.”
“And stealing my heart?”
“That,” he kissed her, soft and tender, “was a happy accident.”
She cuddled closer, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. They fit together like two puzzle pieces—perfect, as if they had been made for each other.
“Alastor?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me a story. Our story. How it continues.”
He smiled, his voice slipping into the familiar, velvety rhythm of his radio show.
“Once upon a time, there was a radio host and his wonderful fiancée…”
“They were married in a small garden, surrounded by friends and family. Tiana was the maid of honor, glowing and crying at the same time. Big Daddy walked his daughter down the aisle with tears in his eyes and a pride in his chest so big it nearly burst.”
N/N sighed happily, snuggling closer.
“And when the priest said, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ the radio host kissed his wife as if it were the first and last time. As if she were air and he were drowning. As if she were everything.”
“And then?” N/N whispered, her eyes growing heavy.
“And then they lived in a small house—not as big as the La Bouff estate, but big enough for two. Later for three, when a child came. A little girl with her eyes and his smile. Then another one. Then maybe another.”
“Three children?” she laughed softly.
“At least. Maybe four.” He grinned. “All with your good heart.”
“And then?”
“And then he loved her a little more every day. Every day he found new reasons to fall in love with her. The way she scrunched her nose when folding laundry. The way she spoke to their children—with the same kindness she showed everyone. The way she grew older, lines forming around her eyes, gray in her hair, but still herself. Still laughing. Still loving.”
His voice grew softer, more emotional.
“And if one day—in many, many years—one of them went, then the other would know: We had something real. Something that endured time. Something not even death could take away. Because true love never dies.”
N/N cried—quietly.
“That’s a beautiful story,” she murmured, her eyes closing.
“It’s our story, chère. And I can’t wait to live it with you. Every day. Every moment.”
She fell asleep in his arms, right there on the steps, beneath the stars.
And Alastor? Alastor held her, kissed her hair, and thanked the universe for the day Tiana had asked him to stay. For the day a whirlwind in pink had burst into his life.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂
Autor's Note:
How are we feeling after this?
Princess and the frog wasn't my fav Disney movie.
It is so sad they don't draw anymore!!
In a world ravaged by natural disasters and societal collapse, an Archivist safeguards the ancient texts of her ancestors, determined to keep them out of dangerous hands. With a vision to reshape Humanity's future better than before, the Radio Demon is eager to unlock the secrets within her books.
But there's one catch: he can't read them.
What begins as a battle of wills turns into something far more dangerous and complex, as Alastor demands translations which she fiercely refuses. As an even greater threat emerges, an unexpected attraction ignites, blurring the lines between captive and captor.
Want to request something? (focused on the end of ADIF for now!)
Dec 4 A Doe in Fall Part 17 - Touch
Aug 31 Fascinating Anatomy smut 💦
Apr 22 A Doe in Fall Part 16 - Mine
1500 words or longer
⟢Alastor x Reader - The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (A Valentino Production)
Valentino has acquired a living, breathing human in hell. But at the begging of Angel, Alastor makes a deal in exchange for her soul.
Part 1 smut 💦
Part 2 smut 💦
Side Story
Part 3 smut 💦
Part 4 smut💦
Epilogue sexual
Deleted Scene teeny smut💦
⟢Alastor x Reader - A boiling frog smut💦
Your companionship was peppered onto Alastor so gently and slowly he didn’t realize he was too far gone until he was hopelessly dependent on your attention. He decides the only remedy is to drown you in his.
⟢Alastor x Reader - Good Vibrations sexy🔥
After you make an offhand comment about doubting if his microphone actually works, Alastor finds a creative way to convince you while at dinner with the group.
⟢Alastor x Reader - Luck smut💦
Vox’s ever present eyes noticed a reoccurring face around Alastor, and decided you were an easy way to get under his skin. Alastor manages to find you during the kidnapping but how he finds you sends his gentlemanly resolve unraveling. He had wanted to be gentle, he really had. C’est la vie, hm?
⟢Lucifer x Reader x Alastor - The Safeword is RadioApple smut💦
Alastor would give you anything, all you had to do was ask. When you asked for Lucifer, he delivered. But after seeing just how much you enjoyed Alastor’s rough handling, Lucifer takes a turn and gets a little lost in the pleasure.
Part 1 ꒰აMaleReader✧FemaleReader໒꒱
Part 2 ꒰აFemaleReader໒꒱
Part 3 ꒰აAlastorxLucifer໒꒱
tidbit (cute, not smut)
Part 4 ꒰აFemaleReader໒꒱
₊⊹⁀➴ Lucifer wins⟡Alastor Wins
tidbit 2 (cute? Not smut) NEW ✨
Part 5 ꒰აFemaleReader໒꒱
⟢Alastor x Virgin FemReader -
The Big Part smut💦
Bigger and Wetter smut💦
The Wettening smut 💦
You were dead, it was time to divest yourself of your virginity. When you ask Alastor, he takes to the task immediately. Unfortunately, he seems to enjoy surprising you.
⟢Angel x Virgin Reader - Someone Nice, Somewhere Safe smut💦
You let it slip to the group you were a virgin, and instead of laughing, Angel grabs you before bed to offer a friendly hand.
꒰აMale reader ✧ Female reader ໒꒱
⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall
A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.
Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦
Part 2 - Liar smut💦
Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦
Part 4 - Enough
Part 5 - Too Much
Part 6 - Learning smut💦
Part 7 - Recognition smut💦
Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵
Part 9 - Shiny Things
Part 10 - Good Deeds
Part 11 - Caught
Part 12 - Eddie
Part 13 - The Release
Part 14 - Someone like smut💦
Part 15 - Silence smut💦
Part 16 - Mine
⟢Alastor x Cupid FemReader - Finders Keepers
Tasked with making a demon believe in true love or you can’t return to heaven, things immediately go off the rails when you hurt yourself and Alastor catches one of your most troubling arrows; Mania
˚₊ · »-♡→ Week 1 and Week 2
˚₊ · »-♡→Week 3 and Week 4 smut💦
˚₊ · »-♡→Week 5, Week 6, Week 7, and Epilogue smut💦
⟢Rutting Alastor x Fem Bunny Reader - Alastor in Rut smut💦 NEW ✨
Less than confident and lacking much in the way of assertiveness, you find hell to be scary. But, a very kind and helpful deer demon has a solution! Just in time, as an unexpected rut hits him and he feels the need to reel you in.
Deleted scene
🕯Kinktober Masterlist 👻
Under 1500 words and specific requests
⟢Luci x Reader x Alastor imagine (and Vox) sexual 🔥
⟢Alastor SFW and NSFW Headcanon fluffy☁️ and sexual🔥
⟢Ace Alastor x Ace Reader - Fuck Joke around and Find out
Part 1 soft smut 💦 ✧ Part 2 smut 💦
⟢Ace Alastor bottoms for a GN!Seraphim Reader - Wrapped Around Your Finger
Part 1 smut💦 ✧ Part 2 smut💦
⟢Angel Dust x PornstarReader - Besties get Banged smut💦
Part 1 ꒰აMaleReader ✧ FemaleReader໒꒱
Part 2 ꒰აMaleReader ✧ FemaleReader໒꒱ ✨NEW✨
⟢Lucifer x GN!AngelReader (fic based on Griftwood by ghost) ✧ a continuation a - Yes smut💦
⟢Cursed Cat Alastor
⟢Hazbin Crew Drunk Headcanon (tiny sexy?)
⟢TopAlastor x BottomLucifer - for my darling Fraugwinska , Lazy Mornings smut💦
⟢TopLucifer x Bottom Nun!Alastor - HateJoke Fuck
⟢TopAlastor x Bottom Angel Dust - Angel’s Alastor smut💦 ✨NEW✨
⟢Alastor x FTM reader - Mon Cher
⟢Vox x Doe Fem Reader, Alastor x Doe Fem Reader - Cucking Vox smut💦✨NEW✨
⟢Angel Luci x Raphael - Research smut💦
⟢Alastor x Reader - Loss of Decorum dirty✨
One ✦ Two ✦ Three
⟢Omega Reader x Intersex Luci x Alpha Alastor - The Transitive Property of Love preview smut 💦
⟢HumanAlastor x AFABSheepDemonReader - Fascinating Anatomy smut 💦
Hazel Imagines - general imagines, very small
⟢Would Alastor indulge in anal with a fem!reader?
⟢What would Alastor do about a reader with a scent kink? Smut💦
⟢Imagine Alastor and a S/O aroused by his voice
⟢Would Alastor have sex with a reader on their period?
⟢Alastor with a pregnant, but not yet showing, reader
⟢Imagine Alastor removing your make up after a bad date
⟢A Doe in Fall (part 13) HumanAlastor x FemReader
im not telling you a goddamn thing
⟢super secret project
Happy Birthday!
Lucifer x Fem Birthday Reader x Alastor
A Very Hazbin Happy Birthday Imagine (Alastor, Luci, Angel, Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Vox, Valentino)
Birthday Spankings Alastor x GN!Reader dirty✨
*There are so few openly gay characters in mainstream media, I wanted to provide something for gay dick-having fans who wanted to see their gay spider power bottom fucking someone they can relate to physically so I will always write a male counterpart to Angel stories
He took her face between his clawed hands and kissed her, hard and quick.
“So now that I have you back,” as he spoke, his voice crackled and lowered several octaves, and the room darkened as he allowed his power to slip out just enough to make reality around them go fuzzy. “I’m not letting you go.”
In the 1950's, Alastor met the woman he would eventually marry but unfortunately his Radio Demon persona went for her soul rather than her hand. He has to learn what it means to love, and cherish, without possessing and he does. Their relationship is beautiful, strong, unbreakable . . . but he carries a dark secret through their marriage for decades until eventually he has to face the consequences of that secret and leave her, without warning, for seven years. He returns, finding her at the Hazbin Hotel, and has to convince her to forgive him, while being literally bound to secrecy, unable to tell her any of things he now is desperate to explain to her.
(This is a duel timeline fic, timestamps will be a the top of every chapter.)
TW: canon typical violence, language, character behavior. recreational drug use. body image issues. references to self harm. OC has ptsd from sexual trauma and spousal abuse - not from Alastor! cannibalism. gun violence. slow burn. alastor is an ass and alastor is also soft. the smut will eventually include: p&v, fingering, oral - both receiving. biting, scratching, blood play. occasional shadow tentacle and sex toy usage. Anal play. Nun Alastor makes an appearance later on. Breeding kinks - both Alastor and OC deal with breeding cycles. Touch adverse Alastor. Ace-spectrum Alastor.
Also available on AO3 .
Chapter 1 - The Pilot: Alastor returns to Hell. Basically the events of the Pilot, but rewritten with Mina present.
SEASON 1
Part 1
Chapter 2 - Reflections. The short story of Mina's life and death.
Chapter 3 - Overture. Events of Episode 1 as well as what happened during the Extermination the day before.
Part 2
Chapter 4 - Terminally Dispelled. Mina arrives in Hell.
Chapter 5 - Radio Killed the Video Star. Events of Episode 2. Alastor is a simping show-off but still not good at processing emotions.
Part 3
Chapter 6 - Little Sunshine. - Mina's POV from the end of last chapter.
Chapter 7 - Ashes in My Wake. - Alastor handle's being smitten really, really badly.
Chapter 8 - Scrambled Eggs. - Alastor finds out someone has hurt his wife.
Part 4
Chapter 9 - Wretched and Joyful. - "First time" smut
In a world ravaged by natural disasters and societal collapse, an Archivist safeguards the ancient texts of her ancestors, determined to keep them out of dangerous hands. With a vision to reshape Humanity's future better than before, the Radio Demon is eager to unlock the secrets within her books.
But there's one catch: he can't read them.
What begins as a battle of wills turns into something far more dangerous and complex, as Alastor demands translations which you fiercely refuse. As an even greater threat emerges, an unexpected attraction ignites, blurring the lines between captive and captor.
Chapter one (SFW) Kitty Kitty!
Chapter two - That damn dress (NSFW)
Chapter three - Jealousy Looks Good On You, Cher (MILD NSFW)
Chapter four - Piss off...She's mine. (NSFW)
Chapter five - Early Mornings (NSFW)
Chapter six - Bath time (NSFW)
Tags - Devoted Alastor/ Fingering/ Fem receiving/ Alastor being lovesick/ Alastor loves his wife omg/ Cumming partially untouched/ Cumming in pants/ Body worship/ Bath stuff...like candles and bubbles/ Smutty....obvi.
Eli Note! This is a series that I made a WHILE ago, before episode 4...So some things aren't canon BUT IDC. I'm gonna post it anyway. This is an ongoing series. If you'd like to request a chapter its 3 USD to my Venmo Eli_Harper77 (yes thats my only payment method unless its an actual fic) ANYWAY ENJOY, Also. None of these chapter are related to one another
The evening in New Orleans had settled into its slow, sultry rhythm. Streetlights flickered through the windows of the house, painting shadows across the walls, and the faint hum of distant jazz mingled with the crickets outside. Upstairs, the bathroom was a sanctuary of warmth and candlelight. Dozens of small flames flickered, casting a soft glow across the tiles and making the bubbles in the bath sparkle like tiny glass beads. The scent of lavender and rosewater hung in the air, mingling with the faint undertone of soap and warmth from the bathwater.
She was there, knees drawn up from the frothy bubbles, a light novel in hand that she occasionally set aside to glance around, letting the heat and scent of the water envelop her. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the nape of her neck to the open air, and small droplets of water clung to her skin, catching the candlelight. A small portable radio sat on the sink, tuned to his broadcast. When his voice wasn’t filling the room, soft jazz danced out of the speakers, smooth and lazy, curling through the space and mingling with the flickering shadows. Archie, their little black cat, was curled up in a ball on the bath mat, fast asleep, his tail twitching lazily but guarding nothing.
Below, the staircase creaked faintly as he climbed, careful to keep quiet but not wanting to rush. Alastor’s mind was a storm of devotion and longing. Each step toward her, the faint click of the floorboards, made his chest swell with pride and affection. He had never imagined himself in a life like this—married, utterly enraptured by a woman who made his world brighter with every smile, every movement. And yet, here he was, drawn to her even when he had work left to finish, utterly bewitched by the sight of her bathed in candlelight, submerged in the warmth of the water, bubbles clinging to the swell of her shoulders and the curve of her knees.
He reached the top of the stairs and paused, spotting the bathroom door slightly ajar. The sight of her—soft, relaxed, completely unaware of him—sent a rush of heat to his chest. He leaned against the doorframe, careful not to startle her, though every instinct in his body ached to reach out, to pull her close, to press his lips to her damp skin. He watched her for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her, the way the candlelight kissed her form, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He could feel the familiar swell of need and adoration building inside him, his mind filling with love-sick thoughts, each one devoted entirely to her.
How did I deserve this? he wondered, voiceless in the quiet. She is mine, and yet I’ve never felt more like I belong anywhere than when I see her like this.
Archie stirred first—lifting his head, giving a tiny questioning chirp before a full, echoing mrrrow announced the intruder.
She looked up, eyes drifting toward the doorway, and the moment her gaze met her husband’s lovesick stare, her smile bloomed. She closed her novel with a soft thump, bubbles shifting as she adjusted in the tub.
“Alastor,” she giggled, “you’re a dreadful creep.”
The accusation only deepened his smile. He stepped forward with that smooth, unhurried grace he carried everywhere, leaning over the edge of the bathtub. She rose up from the warm water just enough to meet him halfway, lips brushing his—soft, warm, familiar—and he let out a quiet hum of contentment.
He sank down to the floor, folding himself beside the tub and settling his head on the porcelain edge so he could be level with her. Her fingers slipped immediately into his curls, combing gently, just how he liked—slow, deliberate strokes that eased every muscle in his shoulders.
His eyes fluttered half-shut. “Tell me about your day, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice smooth but low, touched with affection that soaked into every word. “Go on—every detail.”
She hummed, thinking, circling a finger in one of his curls before letting it slide away. “Well… I did some chores around the house.” She tapped her wet knuckles against the rim of the tub playfully. “I scrubbed the floors today.”
His eyes snapped open. Still resting his cheek on the tub’s edge, he shifted just enough to glare at her, brows raised indignantly.
“That,” he said pointedly, “was meant to be my task come Sunday.”
She rolled her eyes, lazy and amused. “It’s done already.”
He made a sound—half scoff, half pout. His hand slid along the tub until his fingers brushed her arm beneath the water, as though making sure she was truly there, truly safe.
“I dislike when you lift a finger around the house,” he muttered, voice sliding into a low, earnest grumble. “I can tend to everything for you.”
She laughed softly, bubbles shifting around her shoulders.
But he wasn’t joking.
Not in the slightest.
Inside, the thought echoed with a possessive warmth that made his chest ache.
You shouldn’t have to work. Not when I’m here. Not when I can do it all. Not when you deserve every comfort I can offer.
He stayed with his head resting on the tub’s edge, gazing up at her with that simmering blend of devotion and irritation—the kind only a man hopelessly in love could muster.
Her fingers slid into his hair again, and he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like a man starved.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured under his breath, half to her, half to himself. “One of these days I’ll simply tie you to the bed so you don’t overwork yourself.”
She flicked water at him. Archie purred.
And Alastor smiled—soft, dark, and utterly besotted.
He watched her pick her book back up, the soft ripple of water moving with her, one hand still lazily carding through his curls. He let out a hum—low, pleased, content in a way only her touch ever coaxed out of him. His eyes closed without him meaning to; the feeling of her nails grazing his scalp was enough to make his shoulders melt against the tub.
After a quiet moment, his voice slipped out, warm and curious.
“You never take baths, darling… Why tonight?”
Then quickly—instinctively—his tone sharpened in earnest reassurance.
“Not that I’m complainin’. Never that.”
He didn’t bother hiding the way his gaze drifted lower, down the gleaming slope of her shoulders to where the bubbles clung thickest over her chest. The candlelight caught on her skin in soft gold, and he could swear the sight alone could knock the breath from his lungs. His cheek stayed pressed to the porcelain edge, but his eyes had a hunger to them—a reverent one, dark and shining all at once.
She rolled her shoulders, sinking deeper into the warmth. “My back’s been killing me lately. Figured I’d try to relax a bit.”
Then she reached down with her free hand and pinched his cheek.
The audacity.
He blinked, caught between outrage and lovesick awe.
“And if you were home sooner,” she teased, eyes glittering, “I would’ve just used you to wind down.”
Heat flared through his chest—swift, consuming, sweet.
His heart gave a sharp, eager thump against his ribs.
Used him.
She said it so casually, so playfully—yet he felt the words like hands on his hips, pulling him forward.
“Oh,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, voice tinged with a tremor he hoped she didn’t hear. “Would you now?”
He tipped his head a little, nuzzling against the cool porcelain beside her arm, letting his fingertips drift along the outside of the tub until they brushed her submerged knee. Every bit of him leaned toward her—drawn helplessly, instinctively, like gravity itself bent for her.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice a smooth, warm rumble, “you’ve only to say the word, cher. I’d sooner be your cushion than let you ache even a moment.”
She snorted softly, returning to her book, pretending she wasn’t flustering him senseless.
Her hand stayed in his hair, though—stroking lightly, affectionately.
And he stayed curled against the tub, watching her with soft, smoldering eyes, every beat of his heart whispering the same thing:
I'd let you use me for anything.
He didn’t even see Archie leave—didn’t hear the soft meow, didn’t register the little thump of paws as the cat disappeared down the hall. The moment the door clicked faintly behind the cat, Alastor’s entire world had shrunk down to the sight in front of him: his wife sinking into warm water, bare skin glowing under candlelight, soft bubbles clinging to her collarbones.
She felt him staring—of course she did—and when her eyes lifted to his, that sweet, knowing giggle left her lips. It undid him instantly.
She leaned in to kiss him.
He met her halfway, eager, greedy, cupping her face with a gentle but trembling hand. When she tried to pull back, he didn’t let her—not this time. He pressed in harder, breath warm, lips urgent. With his free hand, he plucked her book cleanly from her fingers and set it aside without so much as looking. He rose to his knees on the bathmat, leaning over the tub, guiding her backward with the weight of his kiss until she was comfortably braced against its porcelain curve.
The kiss went from warm to burning in an instant—deep, messy, hungry.
A needy little sound escaped him when she opened her mouth to him, and he swallowed it greedily like a starving man.
She broke the kiss with a breathless laugh. “Alastor… what has you so—” her voice dipped teasingly, “—worked up?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead he dipped down to her throat, lips sliding over damp skin, teeth scraping lightly before he bit—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her breath hitch and her back arch out of the water. His hands trembled on the edge of the tub before sliding down, fingers brushing bubbles aside to find the warm curve of her chest.
Her gasp shivered straight through him.
“What’s gotten into you?” she whispered, though her tone said she already knew.
He breathed against her skin, voice low and thick with desire.
“How could I not be?” His lips dragged down her neck, slow and intoxicating. “I walk through the door… tired, ready to unwind…” His hand cupped her breast through the bubbles, thumb brushing over a peak he could barely see. “And I find my wife—my darling—naked… wet… glistening for me?”
His thumb grazed again, slower this time, savoring the way she trembled.
“You think I wouldn’t fall to pieces at the sight?”
Another kiss to her neck, this one softer, reverent.
The curls at his forehead brushed her collarbone, damp from the steam.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails dragging lightly through his shirt.
“Mmn… cher,” he murmured, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “You’re reward enough to make any man lose his senses.”
His palm slid lower, down her ribs, over the edge of the tub, then underwater—slowly, deliberately—until his fingertips brushed the soft inside of her thigh. He looked up at her, eyes dark, glassy with want.
Her whole body answered him before her voice could—hips lifting from the water, thighs parting under the warm glide of his fingers. A trembling, breathy little “Alastor…” left her as his fingertips brushed her mound, and he felt the sound all the way down his spine.
He was too focused on the taste of her neck—soft skin, warm from the bath, pulsing faintly under his mouth—to notice that half his sleeve was soaking itself in the bubbles. She noticed, though. She always did. Even when her breath was hitching and her legs were shaking.
“Darling,” she scolded softly, fingers tugging his sleeve up past his elbow, “you’re getting your shirt all wet—”
He barely heard the words.
Because the moment his fingers parted her folds beneath the surface—oh, that sound she made. That sharp, startled gasp as his thumb slid over her clit made his pulse stutter, made his breath falter against her throat.
And that was when he blinked, pausing just a moment.
“How odd…” he murmured.
She froze, face going hot, hands hovering in the air like she wasn’t sure whether to pull him closer or cover herself. “W-What’s wrong?”
He lifted his head, dark curls damp with steam, eyes heavy-lidded and warm as they swept over her. He shook his head slowly, reassuring, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said—and his voice was maddeningly casual, smooth, steady. That same voice he used when he was telling her about his day… even when he had her pinned to the mattress, flushed and incoherent beneath him. “It’s simply… curious.”
His fingers stroked her again—slow, deliberate. She sucked in a breath, hands gripping the edges of the bathtub.
“Even with the water…” he continued, as if discussing the weather, “I can feel your slick. The difference in the texture.” His tone dropped, warm and pleased. “Thicker… warmer… unmistakably you.”
The smile that crept across his lips was sinful, reverent, hungry.
And when he slid two fingers into her—effortless, smooth, the water parting around his hand—her whole body arched. Her breath broke into a needy, helpless little cry; her hand flew to his shoulder, gripping hard.
His eyes softened, darkened, drinking in the sight of her mouth falling open, her chest rising from the bathwater.
“There,” he murmured, voice roughened by desire he barely bothered to hide. “Just like that, darling.”
His thumb circled her clit, slow but firm, fingers curling inside her with a confidence that bordered on worship.
“Let me hear you.”
He almost didn’t realize he’d pulled her up until her slick back hit the cool porcelain lip of the tub—one arm around her shoulders, dragging her gently, reverently, until she was settled against the divider with her head tipped onto him. It would’ve looked tender from afar. Devoted. Perfectly domestic.
But his other hand was a completely different creature.
He drove his fingers into her with an urgency that shook the water around them, each thrust sharp and sure, the wet slap of the tub echoing under the rhythm he forced inside her. His sleeve—still rolled haphazardly to his elbow from her earlier fussing—was soaked again within seconds. Not that he cared. Not when she spread for him like this. One leg hooked out of the bath entirely, foot braced on the ceramic as if she needed every bit of leverage just to take what he was giving her.
She was trembling. Small, breathy squeaks kept slipping out between her gasps, her nails scraping helplessly at the edges of the tub. Her chest rose in shuddering little bursts as she tried to form words, but all she could manage were choked, needy sounds that made something tight and aching coil inside his ribs.
He hadn’t stopped kissing her neck. His lips dragged slowly along the curve of it, tasting her damp skin, sighing softly between each kiss as if she were something divine he’d been granted temporary permission to worship. Every time her body jerked around his fingers, he hummed—low, pleased, maddeningly calm.
Of course he was calm.
He was in love. Obsessed. Entirely consumed.
And she was in his arms.
When she squealed—an honest, high noise she couldn’t swallow down—his breath hitched against her throat. His eyes closed for a moment, lashes trembling with restraint he didn’t actually possess. The water splashed against the sides of the tub with each punishing stroke of his fingers, droplets flicking up onto his cheek and the corner of his grin.
“Oh,” he murmured, voice warm, delighted, like he was taking notes in a spellbook. “There you are…”
His hand tightened on her shoulder, pulling her impossibly closer. Her head rolled against him, her lips parted, her breath fanning over his jaw as she moaned.
He cracked one eye open, looking down at her flushed face—the dazed, blissed-out expression she only ever wore for him. The sight made something hungry and deeply tender twist through his chest.
“Such a lovely reaction,” he said, voice utterly steady despite the obscene pace of his fingers inside her. “You always sound sweetest when you’re overwhelmed…”
He flexed his wrist, thrusting harder, deeper, until the water surged violently around them again. She cried out, her leg slipping slightly before he caught her, steadying her without missing a single motion.
He pressed his lips to the top of her head, smiling like a man who had finally won his lifelong obsession.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he breathed against her hair. “Fall apart for me.”
And he made sure she did.
The moment she grabbed his lapels, everything inside him twisted.
Her little fists bunching in the fabric, tugging him closer—not out of fear or discomfort but sheer, desperate pleasure—made his vision blur at the edges. The candlelight flickered across her wet skin, her flushed chest, the frantic rise and fall of her breath. She looked ruined already, trembling and slick and needy, and he had barely even started.
She lifted her hips up into his hand, small choked sobs leaving her throat every time his fingers bottomed out. Water sloshed violently with her every movement, spilling over the tub rim, but she didn’t even notice.
“Alastor—” she gasped, breath catching. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
One perfect brow arched.
“Oh?” he said lightly, as if she’d told him it was raining outside, not that she was about to fall apart all over his hand. The candlelight painted a halo across his cheekbones, made his smile look soft and sinful all at once. “So soon, darling? You hardly ever unravel this quickly.”
She let out a frustrated sob, hips jerking, her grip tightening on his lapels. Her thighs squeezed around his wrist helplessly, trying to take him deeper, begging without words.
“Yes—yes please—”
The sound she made when his fingers curled just right nearly tore his composure to shreds.
Outwardly, he stayed composed. Pleasantly attentive. Almost casual, the way he tilted his head, studying her face as though her pleasure were a specimen he was cataloging.
But inside?
Oh, inside he was completely unhinged.
His heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. He could feel the pulse of his own arousal throbbing against his palm as he pressed the heel of his hand discreetly into his erection—an attempt at relief that only made the ache worse. His breath caught every time her body clenched around his fingers, every time her eyes rolled back, every time she moaned his name like it meant salvation.
She had no idea what she did to him.
She didn’t know that he was seconds away from shaking. That he was grinding the heel of his palm against the outline of his cock like a starving man sneaking scraps. That he felt devoted—truly, terrifyingly devoted—in a way that made his knees weak even though he was sitting.
She didn’t know that the sight of her reaching for him, clutching him, trusting him to guide her through the crest of her pleasure, made him feel almost reverent.
She writhed again, water splashing up his chest.
“Please,” she begged, voice high and trembling. “Please—Alastor, I’m—I can’t—”
His chest tightened painfully. His fingers didn’t slow.
He leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed hers, his voice low, steady, betraying none of the frantic devotion clawing inside him.
“Then come for me,” he murmured, eyes dark. “Show me how beautifully you fall apart.”
Her climax hit so hard it nearly stole his breath.
Her head tipped back against the porcelain, throat arched, eyes rolling white as she sobbed his name—broken, desperate, perfect. Her whole body tightened around his fingers, convulsing with pleasure, and the sound she made—high, strangled, half-cry, half-prayer—sent a sharp shiver straight down his spine.
His teeth sank into his bottom lip, hard enough to bruise.
God, he tried. He always tried.
But every single time she came, every time she clenched around him, every time she dissolved like this because of him—
He broke.
Quietly. Shamefully. Inevitably.
While she writhed through her orgasm, completely gone to the world, he muffled a low, guttural groan against her shoulder. His hips jerked forward helplessly, and he felt it—hot, thick, humiliatingly eager—spill into his underwear in a pulse he couldn’t stop.
It hit him so fast his fingers stuttered inside her.
His breath trembled. His face burned. His entire body went rigid as pleasure ripped through him—silent, stolen, hidden.
And she didn’t notice.
She never did.
Her back arched, limbs shaking with aftershocks, barely conscious, too overwhelmed to open her eyes.
Perfect.
That was how he wanted her—blissed out, unaware, soft and pliable in his hands—because it meant she wouldn’t see the dark, filthy obsession twisting inside him.
When she finally slumped, panting, water lapping weakly around her hips, he still couldn’t breathe right. His cock throbbed uselessly in his soaked pants, warmth spreading uncomfortably under the fabric as the last of his release tapered off.
He swallowed hard, dizzy with it.
Before she could even speak, he reached into the water and scooped her up into his arms, bridal style. The bubbles slid down her thighs in sheets, the water clingy and weightless compared to the limp heaviness of her post-orgasm body.
She gasped softly, arms slipping around his neck on instinct. Her legs dangled over his forearm; she felt small and fragile and utterly spent.
He rose from the bathmat without effort, ignoring the sticky discomfort between his thighs. His focus was only her—her trembling limbs, her dazed eyes, her soft, confused smile as she realized she was being carried.
“Al…?” she whispered, voice shaking, unsure if she was dreaming.
He didn’t trust his voice.
Not when his mind was a cyclone of lust and devotion.
Not when all he could think about was laying her out on their bed and marking every inch of her until she remembered nothing except his hands.
He pressed his cheek to her temple as he carried her down the hall, breathing her in, holding her tighter than necessary.
His thoughts were nothing but craving.
She’s mine.
She’s so beautiful.
I’d ruin myself for her.
I’d ruin everything for her.
When he reached their bedroom, he laid her onto the sheets with a tenderness that violently contrasted the filth swirling in his head.
He stayed leaning over her, staring down at her flushed, boneless body. His soaked pants clung to him unpleasantly; his thighs felt sticky, tacky, humiliatingly wet.
But his voice, when he finally spoke, was soft—adoring to the point of worship.
“You look divine.” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek.
Inside?
He was trembling with the need to give her more.
To take her again.
To feel her come again.
To lose control again.
