Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house was always quiet after sunset.

Not peaceful—never that—just quiet in the way a place becomes when faith is enforced rather than lived. Her parents moved through their routines with stiff, practiced holiness: evening prayers, recitations, sermons murmured like warnings drifting through the thin walls. She’d grown used to feeling like a ghost in her own home, a girl whose softness was treated like sin, whose questions were met with scripture instead of comfort.

But late at night, tucked beneath quilts pulled to her chin, she found a world that belonged only to her.

The little radio was hidden beneath the loose floorboard under her bed. The metal was scratched, dented, and warm from being clutched too many nights in trembling hands. Every time she touched it, she feared her parents might somehow hear the click of its dial from across the house—and every time, she switched it on anyway.

Static filled her ears, bright and alive, until his voice cut through.

Alastor.

Smooth, playful, wickedly bright—every syllable felt like a spark striking the dry kindling of her heart. She didn’t understand why it affected her so deeply back then. She only knew that his laughter made her smile into her pillow, his cadence made her pulse flutter, and his stories made her feel something beyond the rigid purity demanded of her.

She’d press the radio to her chest and close her eyes, breathing in his words like they were forbidden scripture meant for her alone.

As she grew older, the radio became her lifeline. The nights when she felt suffocated by her parents’ rules or the weight of their expectations, she’d sink into her mattress and wait for his voice. Sometimes she fell asleep to it, dreaming of glowing red stage lights and a man she’d never met—but who somehow felt closer than anyone in her life.

When she turned nineteen, the weight of longing became unbearable.

She snuck out for the first time on a rainy evening when her parents left for a community vigil. Her hands shook so violently she nearly tore her stockings climbing out the window. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept walking—down streets she’d only seen from carriage windows, toward the pulse of music and laughter.

The small venue was tucked between two buildings, warm golden light spilling out from behind the front doors. She almost turned around when she saw the crowd, the smoky haze drifting out into the night—but then she heard him.

His voice, this time not through static but clear, rich, alive.

She slipped inside.

The room was dim and sweltering with excitement, a hundred people buzzing with anticipation. She drifted to the very back, almost swallowed by the shadows. It felt safer there, hidden. She was sure someone would recognize her family resemblance and drag her back home.

But then he stepped onstage.

Suit sharp. Smile razor bright. Eyes like something otherworldly dressed in human charm. She didn’t breathe for a moment. Didn’t blink.

He spoke into the microphone, and her knees nearly buckled.

Every joke, every story, every sly aside—she soaked it in like someone starved. She forgot about her family, her rules, her fear. For the first time in her life, she felt… awake. Expansive. Like something inside her could break open and spill light instead of guilt.

From the back row, half-hidden behind a beam, she watched him with an expression that bordered on worship.

And she had no idea he noticed.

No idea that at one point, while the crowd roared with laughter, his gaze drifted. Lingering for just a beat too long. Catching the soft awe in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the way she held her breath when he spoke.

She thought she was invisible in the shadows.

She never was.

When the show ended and the lights dimmed, she slipped out quietly, holding her coat tight around her. She walked home under the streetlamps with her heart fluttering madly, trying to memorize every second of what she’d just witnessed.

By the time she crawled back through her bedroom window, she knew one thing with absolute clarity—

She would go again.

No matter the risk. No matter the consequences.

Because that night, for the first time in her sheltered life, she felt the beginnings of a devotion that had nothing to do with the religion she was raised in—

and everything to do with a man on a stage who looked into the crowd…

and saw her.

-------

The first time wasn’t enough.

If anything, it ruined her.

That single night—standing at the very back of the crowd, tucked behind men in hats and women wrapped in fur—left something inside her changed. Permanently. It was as if his voice had carved a small, impossible warmth into her chest, and now it glowed whenever she even thought of him.

So she went again.

And again.

Every week.

Every show.

She learned the layout of every venue by heart, which telegraph pole she could hide behind, which shadowy corner let her see the stage without risking being seen by anyone who might know her family. Her hands always trembled with excitement the moment the lights dimmed, the moment the warm crackle of speakers rose, the moment he stepped into view.

She never pushed forward. Never tried to speak to him. Never even dreamed of it.

She simply stood where she always stood—quiet, steady, breath held—and watched him breathe life into the room.

His presence had always fascinated her over the radio, but in person? It was something else entirely. Commanding. Effortless. Wickedly charming. Every smile, every lilt of his voice, every elegant sweep of his hand felt like a brushstroke painted directly on her skin.

And she kept coming back like a moth wandering willingly into flame.

At home, she returned to silence and sermons and the oppressive weight of her parents’ rules. But on show nights—just for that hour—she felt something unholy and alive inside her.

She wasn’t certain when admiration shifted into yearning.

But she felt it each time her stomach fluttered the moment he walked out under the stage lights.

Felt it every time her knees weakened when he laughed.

Felt it when he’d occasionally wink toward the crowd and she’d blush so violently she’d have to lower her head, ridiculous as it was to imagine it meant anything at all.

She wasn’t special. She knew that.

Yet she kept coming back as though she was.

---

He noticed her the second night she came.

Not the first—he was used to having eyes on him, throngs of strangers clinging to his every word. But the second night? There she was again. Same quiet posture. Same distant corner. Same soft, reverent gaze that didn’t scream devotion the way everyone else’s did.

It whispered it.

And that was somehow worse.

He found his eyes drifting back to her without meaning to. Something about the stillness in her—or the meek way she held her hands together, or the faint glimmer of awe tucked under her lashes—unsettled a part of him he didn’t know could be unsettled.

By the third week, he was looking for her before he even hit the microphone.

By the fourth, he realized he was irritated when she wasn’t there immediately—his introduction losing some of its shine until he finally spotted her slipping quietly into her usual corner, breathless from rushing.

And his smile—usually practised, sharpened, calculated—tugged real for a fleeting second.

He hated that he noticed.

He hated that he felt anything at all.

But each time she was there, something in him lifted. His voice grew brighter, richer. His banter sharper. His confidence more effortless. As if her presence polished him from the inside.

And every time he winked in her direction—just to see if she’d react—she did. A blush so pretty he had to turn away before the grin threatening his face betrayed him entirely.

What was she to him?

Nothing.

A stranger in the dark.

Yet he had started to need her there. Not consciously, not really—but enough that it put a crack in the rhythm of his performances whenever she wasn’t.

He told himself it was curiosity.

He didn’t believe himself.

------

Her parents called it a noble profession. A righteous path. A way for her to serve God and community with clean hands and a quiet smile.

They never once asked what she wanted.

She’d grown up humming jazz beneath her breath, slipping notes into the silence like tiny rebellions. When the radio crackled to life each night, she didn’t just listen to Alastor—she sang with him, matching the rise and fall of his voice, dreaming of smoky clubs and gold-lit stages. Dreaming of a life where applause replaced the endless sermons echoing through the halls of her home.

But her parents would sooner let the devil into their parlor than let their daughter become a musician.

So she became a nurse.

She folded the dream down, smaller and smaller, until it was something she could hide beneath starched collars and long hours. She let them choose the path, the school, the hospital. She let them praise themselves for her obedience. She let everyone believe she was content.

The hospital was a world of flickering lights and heavy footsteps, where exhaustion clung to her like a second uniform. She learned quickly how to move without being noticed—unless someone wanted something from her. Doctors barked orders. Patients grabbed at her wrists, her waist, any part of her they could reach. “Sweetheart—” “Darlin’—” “Come here, angel—”

She endured it all with a polite, brittle smile. Because good girls endured. Good girls stayed quiet. Good girls didn’t dream of jazz or run away to crowded smoke-filled clubs to listen to a man their parents condemned.

She didn’t have time to attend Alastor’s live shows anymore. The late shifts swallowed her evenings whole. Sometimes she’d make it home just in time for his broadcast, slipping her radio under her pillow like she used to as a girl. She’d close her eyes and imagine the way his bright grin must have looked as he delivered a punchline. She imagined where his hands rested on the microphone stand. Imagined if he ever smiled like that when no one was watching.

Foolish, she told herself. Childish.

And yet she couldn’t stop.

She missed him—missed the warmth that filled her chest whenever he winked toward the shadows where she hid. Missed the way her pulse jumped at the small, electric possibility that he saw her.

She buried it all. Buried everything.

Until the day he walked into her hospital.

She didn’t see him at first—too focused on the patient chart in her hands, too tired to do anything but keep moving. She only looked up when the air shifted, as though a second spotlight had bloomed in the corridor.

He was standing at the front desk, a bouquet of deep red flowers tucked elegantly under one arm. His bowtie sat rakish, his smile sharper and far more genuine than the one he wore in photographs. He radiated charisma the way other men radiated heat.

He was visiting a relative, she heard the receptionist say. She tried to duck her head, slip past unnoticed—

But then his gaze caught her.

It stopped her mid-step.

His eyes widened—just slightly, but enough to make her heart leap traitorously into her throat. Recognition softened his expression like dawn breaking across a stage.

“My,” he murmured, stepping toward her with smooth, unhurried confidence, “I thought I recognized that face.”

Her pulse thrashed.

He recognized her? Her?

Before she could speak—before she could even think—he took her free hand gently in his gloved one. The warmth of him seeped through the fabric. He lifted her knuckles toward his lips, brushing a slow, deliberate kiss across her skin.

The world dissolved into static.

“I’ve missed seeing you at my shows,” he said with a lilt that felt too intimate for a public hallway. “Your presence was… reliably encouraging.”

Her face went up in flames.

She opened her mouth—nothing came out. A tiny, humiliating squeak escaped instead, strangled and breathless. She tried again, tried to form any kind of coherent response, but awe tangled every word.

He laughed softly. Not mocking—amused. Warm.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teased.

She shook her head, utterly mortified, trying to hide the trembling in her fingers.

“I— I’m just— I didn’t think you—”

“Noticed?” he finished gently. “My dear, I noticed every week.”

The hallway spun.

Her breath stuck in her chest.

For the first time since becoming a nurse, she wished desperately she had chosen the life she wanted. The music. The stage. The freedom. Anything that would have led her to moments like this sooner.

He released her hand only when a doctor called her name down the hallway. Even then, he didn’t step back—he simply tilted his head, eyes sparkling like a man who’d stumbled upon a secret he had every intention of unraveling.

“I do hope,” he said quietly, “that I’ll see you again.”

Then he turned and walked away, bouquet in hand, leaving her rooted to the spot, breathless and ruined in a way she’d never recover from.

The evening air hit her like a cool balm the moment she stepped out of the hospital’s back doors. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion, the kind that settled into bone and never truly let go. Twelve-hour shifts, endless charting, the constant hum of fluorescent lights—she’d learned to endure all of it. What she never grew used to were the hands that lingered too long, the comments that made her shrink into herself, the way every doctor spoke to her like she owed them something simply for existing.

So when a familiar cadence sliced smoothly through the quiet evening, her heart lurched hard enough to hurt.

“Good afternoon.”

She almost dropped her water bottle. She whipped to the side—and nearly lost her footing altogether.

He stood there like he’d stepped out of one of her dreams, leaning against the brick wall as though the world simply posed around him. Cigarette between two long fingers, hat tilted just enough to cast shadows along his cheekbones, a lazy smirk resting on his lips. Not the polished stage-smile she’d memorized. Something far more illicitly real.

Alastor.

Her breath snagged.

He pushed off the wall without hurry, flicking ash to the side as that smirk deepened—and softened—into something unmistakably genuine when he took her in.

“My, my,” he drawled, voice warm as radio static. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

She squeaked. Actually squeaked. Then immediately wanted to die on the spot.

“H–how— I mean— what—”

His laughter folded around her like velvet. “How long do you have?”

She swallowed hard. “A-an hour.”

“Perfect,” he said, offering his arm as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Would you grant me your company for a moment?”

She nodded too quickly, too eagerly, and let him guide her away from the hospital. Her pulse thrummed against her ears.

They walked beneath the shade of the oaks lining the street, and he coaxed conversation from her with ease—gentle questions, playful little jabs that made her shrink and brighten all at once. Eventually, almost without meaning to, she confessed.

“I’ve listened to you since I was little,” she whispered. “Every night. Even when my parents… told me not to. You were the only thing that made me feel… alive.”

He stopped walking.

She froze, mortified, but when she dared to look at him, his expression shocked her even more. He looked… moved. Deeply so. A glimmer of awe flickered behind his eyes, quickly veiled behind something softer, heavier.

“Is that so…?” he said quietly. “I’m very flattered.”

Her heart rattled in her chest.

They talked more—about her work, about his distant relative he was supposedly visiting, about her favorite broadcasts. He teased her gently when she stumbled over her words. She blushed so deeply she felt feverish.

When her hour was finally nearly up, they stopped by the service doors. She shifted nervously, not wanting to break whatever strange, delicate thread had formed between them.

He seemed reluctant too.

“May I see you again?” he asked smoothly.

Her breath caught. “I… I’m not sure. If my parents saw me with— with a—”

He finished it for her, voice soft, not mocking, not pitying—just true.

“A Black man.”

She winced, shame curdling in her stomach. But he didn’t look angry. Instead, he stepped closer—so close she had to tilt her head up—and took her hand gently in both of his.

“Fortunately for you,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a ghost of a kiss, “I’m very good at sneaking.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

He tipped his hat, eyes gleaming with something far warmer than he ever showed on stage, and stepped back onto the path.

“Until next time.”

She watched him walk away, breathless, trembling, cheeks burning, heart thundering like a trapped bird.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, she didn’t feel exhausted at all.

Days passed and night pulled quietly over the city, soft and bluish around the edges, the kind of hour where the hospital felt like a half-alive thing—buzzing, flickering, yawning through the exhaustion of its staff. She stepped out through the side doors with her coat pulled close, breath warm in the cold air. Her shift had run over by nearly two hours. She only wanted to go home, maybe listen to his voice on the radio before collapsing into bed.

She didn’t expect her heartbeat to stop first.

Not a metaphor. It halted—froze—then slammed painfully back to life the second she heard him.

Not the smooth, bright cadence he used on air. Not the charming, cackling showman she adored.

A different tone entirely.

Laughter—low, almost humming—carrying from the mouth of a narrow alley beside the hospital. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to a performer entertaining a crowd. The kind that belonged to a man indulging something he didn’t want anyone to witness.

Her feet moved before her brain did, instinct guiding her into the shadow of the wall as she peered around the corner.

Alastor stood there like he’d stepped through a slit cut in reality—dark coat swaying, shoulders squared, a silhouette lit only by a flickering streetlamp overhead. His eyes weren’t the playful, amused crescents she was used to. They were fixed—sharp—focused completely on the man quivering against the brick wall.

The stranger was big. Violent. His fists were raw with someone else’s blood. His voice shook as he tried to speak, yet Alastor’s hum only grew warmer—almost delighted—as he tilted his head.

“I did warn you,” he murmured, tapping the radio cane against the ground. The force made the man jerk.

“P-please— I—I won’t—”

“You already did.” His smile stretched, serene. “And you’ll never do it again.”

Her lungs seized.

And then it happened fast.

Too fast.

Alastor moved with a grace she’d never associate with violence—smooth, practiced, intimate in its certainty. A flash of steel. A strangled cry cut in half. The man crumpled to the pavement like a dropped marionette.

She didn’t realize she’d made a sound—just a soft, broken gasp—but his head snapped up instantly, eyes locking on the darkness where she hid.

Her body reacted on pure terror.

She ran.

Not thinking, not breathing, only running—heels striking the pavement, breath hitching, heart clawing at her ribs. She ran until her side burned and her throat hurt and her mind screamed at her to stop, to explain, to understand—

She didn’t stop.

Not until she reached the safety of her tiny bedroom and fell to her knees beside the bed with shaking hands pressed over her mouth.

The man she loved—quietly, desperately, secretly—was not a mythic comfort. Not a charming voice in the dark.

He killed someone.

And worse—far worse—he had looked beautiful doing it.

The next morning passed in a blur. She felt nauseous every time she thought of the alley. Every time she imagined him turning toward her. Every time she remembered the way his smile didn’t falter while blood hit the ground.

She didn’t expect him to find her.

But when she left work—one of the last to finish, the hallway nearly empty—he was there.

Just standing.

Waiting.

As though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t pretend he’d arrived by accident.

He stood in the middle of the quiet street, lit by the pale amber glow of a streetlamp, hands tucked behind his back, looking at her with an expression she had never once seen on his face.

Not a smirk.

Not a stage smile.

Something softer. Something solemn.

She froze several steps away, breath stuck somewhere between her throat and lungs.

“Good evening,” he said gently.

Her heart kicked painfully. His voice… it wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t cold.

It was… steady.

She swallowed. “W-why are you here?”

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he replied. “And I wanted you to know… I’m aware you didn’t tell anyone.”

Her lips parted. “H-how—?”

“When you’ve lived my life,” he said with a faint, rueful tilt of his mouth, “you learn to recognize panic. And you learn the difference between someone who will speak… and someone who won’t.”

The street was quiet around them, cold enough that the air bit at her fingers. But his voice came warm, almost careful.

She forced herself to ask: “Was it the first time?”

His eyes lowered—not ashamed, not proud—simply honest. “No.”

A breeze tugged her skirt. She wished it would pull her away from this moment, from him, from the truth she was terrified to accept.

“Why?” she whispered.

He laughed softly—but not cruelly. More like someone exhaling a truth too heavy to carry. “The world is cruel. People...are cruel. I’ve never been able to sit by and watch it swallow people whole.”

She shook her head. “You’re not a god.”

“I never claimed to be,” he replied. “You’re the one who sought answers I cannot give.”

Her breath stuttered. His tone—quiet, almost chiding—wasn’t angry. It felt more like he was asking her not to tear open a wound he could not show her.

“I am sorry,” he added. “That you saw that part of me. I know what it must have done to your heart.”

She blinked fast as her eyes stung.

“And…” His voice lowered—softer, fragile around the edges. “I miss seeing your eyes at my shows.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

He stepped back—not threatening, not imposing, only beginning to turn away.

“And that,” he murmured, “is all I came to say.”

Her voice caught. “Are you… warning me?”

He paused at the edge of the lamplight and looked over his shoulder.

“I don’t need to.”

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

She wanted to ask him—wanted to force the words out—Would you ever hurt me?

But she knew the answer. Even now. Even after what she’d seen.

He never would.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

-----

She’d seen stab wounds before, but not like these.

The doors burst open with a crash as two orderlies shoved a stretcher through, doctors barking orders over each other. She snapped into motion automatically—gloves on, breath steady, professionalism like armor—and slid to the patient’s side.

His blood drenched the sheets. Deep punctures along the ribs, the stomach, the shoulder. Too clean, too precise. Too much like—

Her throat tightened.

Too much like what she’d seen spill across the alley bricks when Alastor drove cold steel into a man who had begged for mercy.

She forced the memory down and checked the patient’s pulse, her fingers steady even when her insides weren’t. Rapid, thready. He was hanging on by threads. Oxygen mask, pressure applied, instruments handed off. She followed every command, every practiced motion, clinging to familiarity as if it could keep reality from collapsing in on her.

The doctors eventually rushed him into surgery, leaving her alone to clean the blood from her arms.

Hours later, she was the one assigned to monitor him during recovery. The room was dim, quiet, machines humming softly. She reviewed his chart to distract herself—no family listed, no emergency contact, no steady address.

But there was a long, ugly trail of criminal charges.

Assault. Assault. Assault. Three ex-wives, all with restraining orders that were later dropped under suspicious circumstances. A handful of bar fights that had put other men in the hospital. And one police note: “Known for targeting vulnerable women.”

Her stomach churned.

She didn’t want this man to die.

But she hated him instantly.

She checked the IV, his vitals, adjusted his mask—and then he stirred.

A groan at first, low and miserable. Then a slurred curse.

“Son of a… that damn radio boy…” he mumbled, trying to lift a hand but failing. “That uppity black bastard—thinks he can stick his nose where it don’t belong… I’ll have his hide when I—when I get out…”

Her heartbeat stopped.

He knew.
He knew it was Alastor.

He wasn’t guessing—he recognized him. Either saw him clearly or knew him from before. And he was already planning revenge.

A danger to innocents.
A danger to her.
A danger to the man she loved.

She spoke before she realized she had.

“Don’t try to move,” she whispered softly, like she was comforting any ordinary patient. “You’re safe. I’m giving you something for the pain.”

His breath rattled; he sneered through the mask, “He’s dead when I—”

She uncapped the syringe with a trembling hand.

The room felt too quiet.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

One voice in her head screamed no. Another said this was justice. A third whispered Alastor’s name and nothing else.

She slid the needle into the IV port as gently as if she were administering a vitamin dose.

“This will help you rest,” she said—because she didn’t know what else to say.

She pressed the plunger.

Slow. Careful. Steady.

His breathing eased. His eyelids drifted. The monitors stayed steady… and then, as she walked into the hallway to log the medication, a long, piercing beep ripped through the quiet.

Code blue.

People ran past her into the room. She didn’t move.

She stood in the hallway, hands clasped tightly against her chest, watching the emergency lights pulse down the tile.

They tried to revive him.

They failed.

She sank into the nearest chair, her breath shaking, her palms clammy.

He was gone.

And somehow—she felt relief so fierce it scared her.

Because the thought of Alastor behind bars, hunted, exposed—
the thought of him dying—

She would do anything to stop that.
Even this.

Her eyes blurred. She pressed her hands to her face, trembling open-mouthed breaths the only sound she could make.

For the first time in her life, she prayed not for salvation—

But for forgiveness she doubted heaven would ever give.

The church felt colder than the night outside.

She slipped through the wooden doors as quietly as she could, but even the faint creak sounded accusing. The little chapel had always been a place where townsfolk gathered shoulder-to-shoulder on Sunday mornings, murmuring hymns and filling the space with warm bodies and warmer judgment. Tonight, with only a few candles burning in their sconces, it felt cavernous—an empty ribcage of a building. Hollow. Watching her.

She shut the door behind her and instantly regretted how loud the latch clicked. The sound echoed up into the dark beams of the ceiling, bouncing back down as if the walls themselves disapproved of her being here. Her breath trembled. Her heart felt swollen, bruised. A life spent believing she must always be good—and now she wasn’t sure what she was anymore.

Her steps were small at first, then slightly quicker when she realized how loud her shoes sounded on the wooden floors. Everything echoed too much. Everything felt like a reminder of what she’d done only hours ago. What she’d chosen to do.

A few pews in, she stopped. Far enough from the entrance that she felt hidden, far enough from the altar that she didn’t have to look directly at the cross. She reached under the pew and pulled out the small kneeling pillow—faded red velvet, worn smooth by years of devotion. Her hands shook a little as she set it on the floor and lowered herself onto it.

Her knees pressed into the padding. Her elbows rested on the wooden back of the pew in front of her. She lowered her head until her forehead touched her clasped hands, breath stuttering.

The silence swallowed her whole.

No choir, no congregation, no priest. Just faint candle crackles. A draft that whistled under the door. A faint ringing in her ears. And her own heartbeat, too loud, too fast, pounding like something trying to escape.

She prayed—if it could even be called praying. It came out as broken whispers, barely shaped words, apologies she wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to. Her throat tightened around each confession. Her palms grew clammy where they pressed together. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly the darkness behind her lids sparked gold.

She asked for forgiveness for the stranger she let die.
For the sin she committed with full awareness.
For the part of her that didn’t regret protecting someone else.

For the part of her that had thought of him while she did it.

Her breath hitched. Her shoulders curled inward. The church pressed around her like a stern hand on the back of her neck—heavy, unforgiving, unyielding. She felt fifteen again, with her mother’s fingers digging into her arm, her father’s voice listing the ways a good girl must behave.

Good girls didn’t trespass in alleyways.
Good girls didn’t talk to men their parents hated.
Good girls didn’t kill.

Her stomach twisted. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and she bit her lip hard enough to taste metal. She whispered another prayer—softer, more desperate. Something about mercy. Something about strength. Something about wanting to be better while not knowing how.

So wrapped in her own trembling thoughts, she didn’t hear the door open.

But she felt it.

A brush of air swept across her cheek, cool and sudden, as though the church itself exhaled. The cushion of the pew beside her shifted under someone’s weight. Not loud—no, impossibly quiet—but she sensed the presence before she understood it.

Her head snapped up.

The candles flickered, throwing warm gold over the figure seated inches away. He was angled slightly toward her, elbows resting casually on his knees, hands folded loosely. His skin glowed rich and deep under the candlelight, like polished mahogany. His posture was relaxed in a way that didn’t belong to this place at all. His eyes—soft, observant, impossibly familiar—found hers instantly.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she pulled herself upright from the kneeler and sat beside him on the pew. Her spine felt fragile; her hands trembled in her lap. She lowered her head—not in shame exactly, but in disbelief, as if she wasn’t entirely certain he was real in this echoing, judgmental sanctuary.

He didn’t speak yet.

And she didn’t dare trust her voice.

So she simply sat beside him, swallowed by candlelight, guilt, and the sudden, overwhelming warmth of his presence.

“I had planned to finish the job myself,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “Imagine my surprise when some angel beat me to it.”

The casual tone hit her like a slap. Her breath stuttered; her fingers curled tight around the folded pillow beneath her knees.

“That—” Her voice cracked. “Don’t say it like that, please. It wasn’t… it wasn’t right.”
He leaned back in the pew, smirking faintly at her trembling form. “Right or wrong is a matter of angles, sweetheart. And from mine, you were quite the blessing.”

She flinched. “Don’t call me that. I—I did something unforgivable.”

“Mmm.” He tilted his head, eyes bright in the candlelight. “I disagree.”

She shut her eyes, shaking her head hard. “I’m going to hell,” she whispered, the words breaking apart at the edges. “God won’t forgive—He can’t forgive—what I—” Her breath shivered loose, her hands clutching at the pew like she might fall through the floor. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Now, now…” His voice softened—real softness, not the playful mockery he wielded so easily. She felt the shift before she dared look up.

His hand slipped over hers.

Warm. Gentle. Steadying.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

She did. Slowly. Fearfully.

He gazed at her like she wasn’t something ruined, but something precious.

“Heaven,” he said quietly, “would be spectacularly foolish not to want you.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, a touch almost reverent. “And if—by some cosmic mistake—they don’t… then I will protect you myself. Wherever you go. Even in hell.”

It unraveled her.

Completely.

Her breath hitched, eyes filling before she could stop it. His expression changed when he saw—softening further, fond in a way she had never seen directed at anyone.

Her chest constricted painfully.

“Alastor…” she breathed, barely audible.

He reached up—slowly, giving her time to pull away—tucking a trembling strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek, brushing the tear that escaped and trailed down to her lip.

That single touch ruined her.

The church was dark, the world was empty, and the two of them were hidden behind tall wooden pews, surrounded by broken moonlight spilling through stained glass.

When she leaned in first—just an inch—his breath caught.

He closed the rest of the distance.

Their mouths met in a soft, searching brush that was almost nothing… and then everything.

He tasted like smoke and warmth and a hunger he’d caged for too long. She made a tiny, startled sound into his lips—her very first kiss in every sense—and his hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, guiding, coaxing, worshipping.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, then starving.

Years of secret devotion poured out of her all at once; years of carefully smothered fascination burst out of him with equal force.

Her fingers threaded through his hair—hesitant, then desperate. He groaned softly into her mouth, a sound that vibrated through her entire body.

His other hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer across the creaking pew as though the space between them was intolerable.

She tasted like fear and longing and innocence he had no business touching.
He kissed her like he’d been waiting forever.

Her heart was pounding so violently she could feel it in her throat. Her lips tingled where he shaped them with his own, learning her softness, savoring it, deepening the kiss until her breath caught and she trembled again.

When they finally broke apart—breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching—she saw it.

The rawness in his eyes.

The affection.
The hunger.
The quiet, dangerous devotion.

And she realized she was trembling for more than one reason.

He brushed her lower lip with his thumb, voice roughened in a way she had never heard.

“…Darling,” he breathed, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

Her back hit the pew before she even fully understood what she was doing.

One moment she was tasting him—warm, soft, dizzyingly real—and the next her hands were clutching the lapels of his jacket like she’d drown if she let go. She tugged him down with her, breath breaking into a helpless gasp when he followed, bracing himself above her with a hand on the back of the pew and the other gripping the edge by her head.

She didn’t care that the wood was cold. She didn’t care that the church was silent and cavernous around them. She didn’t care that her heart was pounding loud enough to echo off stained glass.

All she cared about was him.

And god—he was laughing breathlessly against her mouth, that low, delighted sound that made her toes curl and her stomach flip. She dragged him down again, pressing frantic kisses to the corner of his mouth, then to his lips, then deeper, chasing every exhale.

He pulled back a hair’s breadth, just enough for his breath to ghost across her mouth.
“Utterly indecent,” he murmured, voice warm and full of wicked amusement. “I never imagined you’d be the type to—”

She fisted his jacket and yanked him back down with a broken sound, kissing him so hard her head bumped the wood beneath her. The tiny gasp that left her didn’t slow her down; if anything, it set something loose in her chest.

He inhaled sharply, the laugh catching in his throat, turning into something deeper. His body lowered just enough that she could feel the heat of him, his thigh brushing hers, his breath unsteady for the first time.

She whimpered into his mouth—she couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even be embarrassed about it. Years of whispered devotion under her blankets, years of holding a radio to her chest because it was the closest she thought she’d ever get—years of imagining that voice saying her name—

And now he was here, above her, kissing her like he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him.

Her hands slid into his hair, trembling with the force of everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel. She tugged, gentle but desperate, and he made a sound she’d only ever dreamed of hearing—a low, surprised groan that vibrated against her lips.

He tried again to pull back, to speak, to breathe something teasing or reprimanding or unbearably fond—but she surged up, chasing his mouth, swallowing the start of his words.

His fingers curled tight around the edge of the pew beside her head.

His breath stuttered.
“Sweet girl,” he murmured against her lips, voice unsteady for the first time, “if you keep kissing me like that—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Her mouth met his again, hungry, shaking, overflowing in a way she’d never felt before. Every kiss was a confession she didn’t know how to say aloud. Every soft sound she made, every desperate tug of her hands, every arch of her body toward his—years of worship turning into something fierce and uncontrollable.

He shuddered above her.

And then his mouth opened against hers, answering all that need with his own—slow for a heartbeat, then deep, then hungry, as if her desperation lit something inside him he couldn’t pretend wasn’t there.

His thumb brushed her jaw, his nose grazing her cheek, his breath shivering into her mouth like she’d undone him.

The pew creaked beneath them.

Her pulse throbbed everywhere—her throat, her lips, her trembling fingers in his hair—and she didn’t break away even to breathe. He had to do it for her, dragging in a shaky inhale before diving back in, kissing her like he’d wanted this just as long.

She felt light-headed. Weightless. Consumed.

And when she whimpered again—small, needy, helpless—he froze for a heartbeat, a sharp sound of breath leaving him, his face buried against her mouth like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.

“Indecent,” he whispered again, but now it sounded wrecked, reverent, almost grateful.

Her fingers tightened in his hair.

And she kissed him harder.

-----

Every day blurred into the next.

She moved through the hospital halls like a ghost—starched white uniform, aching feet, mind half-present. But when her shift ended… she never went home. Not really. Her body went to the little church on the outskirts of town. Her heart went to him.

She learned quickly: the dark, quiet chapel was never empty when she arrived.

He was always there.

Always.

Sometimes leaning against a pew, sometimes lounging in the shadows like he owned the place, sometimes sitting in the very spot where he first kissed her—legs crossed, hat tilted low, humming one of the jazz songs she adored but had never been brave enough to sing. And the second she slipped inside, his head would lift. His smile—slow, warm, sinful—was only for her.

And in that empty church, he taught her everything no one had ever dared let her know.

It started with kisses. Always kisses. Soft, slow ones that made her knees shake… then deeper ones, greedy ones, the kind she’d only ever heard whispered about by rebellious girls at school. He kissed her until she forgot her name, until her pretty little prayers melted into breathless sounds against his mouth.

Then—he ruined her.

He lay her across those wooden pews, her skirt bunched around her hips, breath coming in shivering gasps. She’d never been touched before. Didn’t even know what could be touched. But he taught her—patiently, wickedly, reverently.

He showed her what pleasure meant.

He knelt between her trembling thighs one night, the moonlight spilling through stained glass and painting him in blues and ruby red. She’d tried to close her legs in shame, overwhelmed, but he held them gently apart and murmured something soft—something she still replayed in her mind at night.

Then he put his mouth on her.

There.

She’d nearly screamed, her hand flying to her lips to stop the sound. She had no name for the sensation, no language for the way her body trembled under his tongue, for how he moaned into her like she was something holy. Her parents had never warned her about anything like this. They couldn’t have. Nothing in scripture covered anything that felt like that.

He murmured praise into her skin as she came apart—her first, her second, her third—until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except cling to his shoulders as he devoured every pretty sound she made. He laughed, low and pleased, when she whimpered his name for the very first time.

Another night, he sat on one of the pews, broad chest warm against her back as he pulled her onto his lap. Her legs rested over the pew in front of them while his hand slipped beneath her skirt. She’d squirmed and gasped as his fingers stroked sensitive places she’d never known existed.

“Here,” he had whispered against her ear, voice deep and velvet-smooth as he touched the tiniest part of her— “this little pearl… that’s your clit. Sensitive, isn’t it?”

She had nodded—no breath to speak—as he rubbed slow circles that made her hips jerk helplessly. He explained what he was doing, what her body was feeling, why each touch made her writhe. His voice guided her through every trembling wave until she broke against him again, clutching his arm for mercy he never gave.

He loved her chest too—kissed her softly there, reverent and slow, as if each touch were a secret prayer. His lips against her breasts felt like worship, like devotion she’d never earned but desperately craved.

But he never took her fully.

Even when she begged—not in words, but in the way she clung to him, the way she pressed her hips against his, desperate and aching—he only cupped her cheek, thumb stroking tender circles.

“Not yet,” he’d whisper, voice somewhere between restraint and need. “When I take you for the first time… it won’t be rushed. I want you to remember it every day of your life.”

Her heart always fluttered painfully at that. At the promise. At the warmth in his tone. At the softness he didn’t show anyone but her.

So night after night, she returned.

Night after night, he undid her all over again.

And each time she left that little chapel—hair mussed, lips swollen, legs shaking—she told herself she would stop. That she would be good. Proper. Holy.

But the next night, she was back.

Because she had never learned how to stop wanting him.

And he had never once failed to be waiting.

------

Candlelight pooled across the small, empty church, gilding the altar in gold while she knelt before it—bare legs trembling, dress bunched at her hips, breath shuddering. His mouth was a warm, sinful pressure between her thighs, each lingering kiss sending soft, startled sounds fluttering out of her.

But tonight he wasn’t just devouring her.

Tonight he seemed… distracted.

He lifted his head, lips glistening, hair slightly mussed from her fingers. His smile was gentle, almost scholarly, as if he were studying her expression as much as he was savoring her taste.

“Tell me something…” he murmured.

She blinked, dazed. “W-What…?”

His thumbs stroked the soft inside of her knees, coaxing them wider with an ease that made her feel boneless.

“What sort of flowers do you like?” he asked casually—far too casually for a man kneeling between her thighs.

Her breath caught in a broken gasp as his nose brushed her inner thigh. “Um—flowers? I— I don’t—”

He hummed, amused. “Not even one? There must be something that makes your heart flutter.”

His voice vibrated right against her skin, making her back arch helplessly off the altar cloth.

“R-Roses—” she blurted. “White ones— I like white—”

“White roses,” he repeated, pleased. “Lovely.”

Then he leaned back down without warning and sealed his mouth around her again, and her hips jolted up in a full-body tremor. A gasp tore out of her as she slapped a hand over her mouth, whimpering into her palm.

He chuckled against her, wicked, self-satisfied.

Her fingers scrambled through his hair, clutching at the thick, soft curls as her ankles pressed against his shoulders. Her head fell back, eyes rolling, and all thoughts of flowers vanished into a haze of warmth and want.

And still— still—his questions kept coming.

Between two slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, he lifted his head again just enough to speak, his breath hot against her.

“Do you prefer warm nights… or chilly ones?”

She stared at him, panting. “Wh—what kind of ques— Alastor, please—”

His smirk deepened. “Answer, darling.”

“C-Cooler,” she gasped. “Cool nights— I like cool nights—”

“Mm. Good.”

And then he disappeared between her thighs again, this time with purpose so sharp her vision went white at the edges.

Her hands slapped against the altar, pushing and pulling against the worn wood as her hips rocked helplessly toward his mouth. Sweat clung to her skin; her breath came in ragged little sobs of pleasure she’d never imagined herself capable of making.

And under all of it, woven into every stuttering moan, every gasp she tried and failed to hide—

Her parents’ silence lurked like a strange dream.

They should have been scolding her, calling her ungodly for coming home late, for the way her hair was tousled, for the faint bruises blooming like fingerprints at her hips.

But lately… nothing.

Her mother’s eyes slid past her without comment.
Her father went entire evenings without a single reprimand.

It was as though they were waiting for something.

But the moment Alastor’s hands slid up her waist, the moment his lips returned to the center of her—every worry evaporated.

He was what filled her mind now.
He was what her body recognized.
He was the sin she had waited her entire life to taste.

He lifted his head once more—this time just enough for her to see his smile.

“And one more thing…” he murmured, voice rich and low, “what’s your favorite animal?”

She almost choked on a gasp. “Wh—Alastor—!”

He kissed her inner thigh sweetly. “Tell me.”

Her fingers curled in his curls, dragging him closer as another broken sound ripped from her throat.

“A—A deer,” she whimpered. “I… I always liked deer…”

His eyes warmed at that. “Delicate things. Soft things.”

He brushed his lips right where she was trembling the most.

“Just like you.”

Then he pulled her hips toward his mouth and devoured her again—slow, deep, reverent—until her back arched off the altar, until her breath staggered, until all she could do was cry out his name into the echoing hush of the empty church.

And through it all—

He felt calm. Focused.

As if each whisper, each question, each kiss was part of something he was quietly building.

Planning.

Preparing.

Something meant just for her.

-----

She sank further into him without meaning to, her breath catching as his fingers curled just right. His other arm rested loosely around her waist, palm warm against her stomach, holding her there—steadying her, guiding her, coaxing her through every struggling inhale.

“Go on,” he murmured near her ear, voice velvet-smooth, too calm for what he was doing to her. “You were saying something about… plans?”

She tried to continue, she really did—but her hips jerked when he thrust upward again, a soft sound breaking in her throat. Her hands clutched the lapels of his coat to keep herself grounded.

“I—mmh— my parents,” she stammered, cheeks burning, “they… they’re leaving tomorrow—ah— for their yearly trip.”

“Oh?” His tone lifted with mild interest, as if he weren’t buried in her, stroking her from the inside like he knew her better than her own body did. “Is that so?”

“Yes—” Her voice wavered when he dragged his thumb lazily along the inside of her thigh. “They—they always go to the coast for a week but— I have work now, so—so I can’t go with them.”

“How fortunate,” he purred.

Her breath hitched. “F–for who?”

“Why, for you, of course.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear—light, teasing, intentional. “Imagine a whole week without anyone checking your whereabouts. Without anyone telling you where you must be.” His fingers thrust deeper, unhurried, deliberate, savoring each trembling noise she tried—and failed—to swallow. “Freedom, my dear. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

She couldn’t answer. Her head fell back against his shoulder, mouth parting on a soft, helpless whimper. The pew creaked under them with each careful rise and fall of his hand.

“Focus,” he chided sweetly, nipping her earlobe. “Tell me the rest.”

“I—I don’t—Alastor, I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His smile pressed against her skin. “You always do so well for me.”

Her heart fluttered violently at the praise, at the warmth in his voice. She fought to form words, her body shivering around his fingers with every gentle push.

“They leave tomorrow morning,” she whispered shakily. “I’ll be— I’ll be alone all week.”

“Alone.” He hummed like the word tasted divine on his tongue. “What a delicious thought.”

Her thighs tightened around his wrist involuntarily. He chuckled low in his chest, that rare, unguarded sound that always made her feel like she was the only person in his world.

“And what will you do with all that freedom?” he asked, pumping his fingers faster, purposefully making it harder for her to speak, breath coming out in quivering bursts.

“I—I don’t know,” she gasped.

“Don’t you?” His teeth grazed her neck, slow and wicked. “You’ve been coming here every chance you get. Climbing into my arms the moment I sit down. I think you know exactly what you want.”

She shivered violently—because he was right, because she was melting around his hand, because she could barely think.

His voice dropped lower, more intense. “Tell me.”

Her nails dug into his jacket as her body stuttered on the edge of release. “I—I want—”

“Yes?” he coaxed.

“You.” It slipped out, raw and breathless.

His fingers curled deep.

Her back arched.

He held her tight with his free arm, murmuring a satisfied, “Good girl,” against her cheek as her entire body trembled in his lap.

------

He had never experienced a week like this.

Every evening bled into the next, each one orbiting around her in a way that unsettled him, fascinated him, thrilled him in a manner he hadn’t felt since he’d first tasted power. She lingered in his thoughts even when she wasn’t around — the curve of her smile, the shy way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the little gasp she made when he pressed too close or brushed his thumb along her waist.

And the strangest part — the part that honestly disturbed him more than anything — was that he didn’t simply crave her body.

He wanted her company.

Her attention.

Her laughter echoing in the hollow cathedral when he coaxed her to dance with him down the empty aisle. Her voice trembling but trying so hard to be bold when she asked him questions about jazz or told him about the patients she helped. Her hands fisting in his sleeves as she tried to keep up with his teasing.

He still wanted sex — desperately, hungrily, ferally at times — and that alone was odd, because intercourse had never meant anything to him. Women were beautiful, yes, and softness was pleasant enough, and he could play the part of a lover when it suited him. But he never cared.

Not until her.

With her, he wanted it in a way that pulled at him from the inside, something low and ancient and territorial. He wanted to taste every sound she made, ruin her in every way she’d let him, leave himself trembling in the aftermath of it.

And yet—

He also wanted to walk with her. To talk. To listen.
To sit beside her on the pew and feel her shoulder brush his.
To hear her heartbeat pick up when he leaned too close.

It was infuriating how much he wanted.

It was worse realizing he had no desire to restrain himself.

All week she had been with him more often — slipping into the church between shifts, meeting him at dusk for short walks where he carried her coat over his arm and pretended he wasn’t staring at her every chance he got. She laughed more now, freer than he’d ever seen her, like she was melting open just for him.

He thought about killing her parents more than once.

It would be easy, and satisfying, and he could keep her forever without their intrusive commands and demands. But he knew — to his irritation — that she wouldn’t like that. And for her, he tried to be… better.

He wanted to take her virginity, yes. She’d made it clear she wanted him to. But it had to be right.
Perfect.
Memorable.
Something she would carry with her for the rest of her life — and he wanted that marking to be his.

So he picked the night before her parents’ return. Not ideal, considering how little time they’d have afterward, but tonight was cool, crisp, the exact kind of night she once admitted she loved. Her shift ran a bit late, which was annoying, but it bought him more time.

Behind the church — the little fenced patch of grass laughingly called a “yard” — he laid out blankets in layers, smoothing them carefully so her back wouldn’t hit uneven earth. He arranged them in a soft curve beneath the moonlight. The silver glow would kiss her skin beautifully; he could already imagine the way her thighs would shine with it, the way her breath would mist in the chilled air.

He caught himself smiling.

That alone was enough to startle him.

The church doors creaked open behind him.

Her voice — faint, soft, tired from her shift, but warm in that way that always made his heartbeat hitch — drifted through the hall. “Alastor? Are you here?”

He snapped upright, smoothing down his coat, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. Irrational nerves flickered somewhere low in his chest. He despised the feeling, but he couldn’t banish it.

He slipped inside through the back doors.

She stood near the altar steps, still in her tidy nurse’s uniform, soft white apron immaculate, the little cap perched perfectly in her hair. The sight of her — that clean, innocent white against the dim church shadows — always hit him in the gut. She looked ethereal, devout, untouched.

He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck every time.

She noticed him and lit up instantly, her smile shy but radiant. “Oh—” She smoothed her skirt, suddenly bashful. “There you are.”

He approached slowly, letting his expression soften into something charming, easy, practiced — though for once it wasn’t entirely an act. He took her hand gently and bowed over it, brushing his lips against her knuckles. Her breath caught every single time.

“Good evening, chère,” he murmured, letting the endearment slide off his tongue like silk.

Her cheeks warmed. “What were you doing outside?” she asked, smiling with honest curiosity.

He swallowed — an involuntary, betraying movement — because suddenly it felt real. The night he’d planned for, imagined, obsessively crafted in his mind… it was here.

And he felt a flash of nerves sharpen through him.

He kept his voice smooth. “Preparing the weather.”

She blinked, confused, and he coughed lightly, averting his eyes. That… hadn’t been what he meant to say.

He tried again, more steadily. “I had something in mind for us. But first…” His fingers tightened subtly around her hand. “You still want me to take you, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened — bright, hopeful, glowing. “Yes.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
A breath, barely a heartbeat, and then she nodded almost too fast. “Yes— I want that. I want you.”

Another swallow.

His pulse jumped.

He lifted her hand again, pressing another kiss to her knuckles — slower this time, deeper. “Then,” he said softly, almost reverently, “come with me, darling.”

And he led her toward the back doors, the moon waiting beyond.

--

Moonlight spilled over the little patch of grass behind the church, pale and full and impossovingly bright, turning the blanket-nest he’d made into something soft and silvered. She’d barely stepped outside before the cool air hit her cheeks and the faint perfume of crushed roses brushed her nose. The white petals trailed from the door all the way to the blankets—thin at first, then thick, like snowfall.

She blinked, breath catching, a hand rising helplessly to her mouth.

Alastor watched that reaction like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to see. His eyes warmed, his shoulders eased, something boyish softening under all that careful poise. Before she could say a word, he swept her up in his arms. One smooth motion, like lifting her was instinct.

She squeaked—then burst into a small, bubbling giggle, clutching the front of his coat. He flushed, the color rich against his dark cheeks when she leaned up to kiss the side of his face.

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered against the corner of his smile.

“And you,” he murmured, carrying her down the path of petals, “are making me far too pleased with myself.”

He set her down in the center of the blankets with a tenderness that made her heart tumble. Pillows were piled around them like a little den, warm from the heat trapped in the grass. She sank into it, fingertips sinking into soft knit and cotton.

Alastor knelt over her, leaning in to kiss her—slow first, savoring her breath, then deeper, urgent. He only pulled back long enough to whisper against her lips, voice low, almost breathless:

“We’ll need to hurry… we’ve only an hour, darling.”

A shiver raced from her chest to her belly. She nodded quickly, hands already sliding over his shoulders, pulling him in again. Her mouth met his with a hunger she couldn’t temper, couldn’t hide—not tonight.

She lay back, lowering herself into the blankets, and the moment her spine met the softness beneath her, his mouth left hers and glided to her throat. A gasp tore out of her, her head tipping back. His lips traced the pulse fluttering in her neck, then lower, lingering like he wanted to memorize the slope of her collarbone.

Her breath hitched—and then her eyes caught something above him.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore.

She was staring past him.

He pulled back slightly, eyebrows lifting in confusion, following the direction of her gaze.

Above them, framed perfectly over her body, was a round, clear moon—huge, luminous, as if placed there deliberately. The clouds had thinned just enough to let it glow in full.

Her lips parted, her eyes softening with a kind of awe he’d only ever seen directed at him. Now the sky held it.

She breathed out, voice small but full of wonder. “It’s perfect…”

His expression shifted—something fond, something helpless.

While she gazed upward, he reached for the buttons of her uniform with gentle fingers, letting the soft moonlight bathe her cheek, her chest, the small tremble of her stomach. Each piece of fabric he eased open or slipped away revealed another curve gilded by pale light.

She felt his hands working delicately, reverently, and let her head fall back again, smiling up at the moon as if sharing a secret with it.

Her pulse quickened under his touch.

His breath quickened above her.

And beneath the bright sky, she let him undress her—slow, careful, like unwrapping something sacred—while the world beyond the churchyard went utterly still.

The moonlight draped over them in a soft silver haze, washing his dark skin in luminous highlights that seemed almost ethereal against the backdrop of the churchyard. Her eyes roamed hungrily over him, noting the way his hair caught the light at the edges, the subtle sheen along the curve of his jaw, the way the shadows from the blankets and pillows seemed to frame him perfectly. He moved with deliberate slowness, studying her as well, though her teasing giggles urged him to stop admiring and start attending to her fully. He finally snapped out of the trance she had put him in, and with a small, amused growl, he shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the lean, powerful lines beneath. The moonlight kissed his torso and shoulders, tracing the curve of his chest, and she couldn’t help but think—though she would never voice it aloud—how stunningly beautiful he was.

He leaned closer, voice low and teasing, “Do you remember when I used my fingers on you?”

She shivered at the memory, her breath catching, and whispered, “I remember…”

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear, “it’s much like that… but bigger. Longer. More.”

Her legs instinctively parted wider, offering herself, and he groaned audibly, a sound that vibrated through her and made her chest press against his. Every inch of him reflected raw desire, but his eyes held a tenderness that belied the hunger in his hands. He traced her curves, memorizing her body with a worshipful reverence, murmuring instructions and soft praise between kisses to her neck and shoulders.

When he finally aligned himself with her, she gasped, anticipation and need pooling in her stomach. He paused, hands hovering gently on her hips, waiting for her consent and ensuring she was ready. She couldn’t wait, her impatience nearly trembling off her skin, and she pressed back against him, giving a soft whine that urged him forward. Slowly, meticulously, he entered her, making sure each inch of her welcomed him, molding himself to her body as if he had been made to fit perfectly into her.

Her hands tangled in his hair, clutching at him as he moved with patience and precision. He kissed her temple, her shoulder, whispering every time he shifted or pressed deeper, drawing out moans that escaped her lips before she could even think. “You feel… perfect,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “so good, all for me… all for us.”

She trembled beneath him, shivering from the combination of raw desire, the tenderness in his words, and the exquisite, aching pleasure of finally feeling him fully. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust, then, as she urged him, gradually increased the rhythm, each thrust a blend of hunger and reverence. He murmured encouragement, told her how beautiful she looked, how perfect she was, letting her take control of her arousal while he guided, pressed, and worshiped her body.

Her breaths came in ragged, desperate pants, hands clutching him, nails grazing his back. Every whispered word from him, every gentle touch, sent shivers through her. He made her feel treasured, adored, and utterly undone all at once. Her hips lifted instinctively, meeting him, trying to go faster, harder, wanting every moment to be intense, even as he shushed her softly, reminding her to breathe, to let him take care of her.

When her body clenched around him in a tremor of first-time climax, he held her through it, never leaving, never rushing, whispering praises and soft, filthy words that left her breathless. Her cries filled the night air, her hands clutching him, her nails dragging along his shoulders and back as he gripped her hips, guiding her through the waves of sensation. He followed her lead completely, entirely focused on her pleasure, savoring every reaction, every gasp, every shiver she gifted him.

As she quaked beneath him, his thrusts deep and steady, he whispered lowly, almost reverently, “So perfect… all mine… all yours.”

By the time it slowed, both of them were flushed and trembling, breath mingling, hearts racing. She clung to him, still dazed by the intensity of everything, and he held her like he never wanted to let her go, his lips brushing hers softly as he murmured reassurances and praise. Even in the aftermath, every glance, every touch, every whispered word reaffirmed the devotion, care, and hunger that had built between them for years, finally ignited in the silver glow of the moonlight.

Chapter Text

The drive back to her house felt unreal—soft and humming and warm, the kind of quiet that only happens when every inch of her body is still ringing from someone else’s touch. Alastor kept one hand on the wheel and the other loosely laced with her fingers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles every so often like he couldn’t help himself. Every time he looked at her, he smiled in that boyish, dazzled way he hadn’t shown anyone else on earth.

He pulled up to the curb outside her house, engine rumbling low. She was still catching her breath, still tasting him, still feeling the bite marks blooming down her neck. Her collar was crooked, her skirt wrinkled from his hands, and her hair—well, she’d given up trying to smooth that down the moment she saw her reflection in the window.

He leaned in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice like velvet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Her heart tripped. She nodded, breathless.
“Yes.”

He kissed her—slow this time, lingering, savoring her like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth. When he finally let go, his forehead brushed hers. One last look. One last smile. Then he waited until she climbed out and closed the door before he pulled away, turning the corner and disappearing into the night with the certainty he’d see her again in less than twenty-four hours.

She stood there for a moment, pressed a hand to her burning face, and giggled. Actually giggled. Her legs felt weak, her chest fluttery, her thoughts floating like she was walking on air.

Inside the house, everything was dark.
Of course it was—her parents weren’t supposed to be home for another two days. She pushed open the front door quietly, stepped inside, humming a tune from his show under her breath. She toed off her shoes, swayed a little, still smiling like an idiot.

Her fingertips grazed the bite marks on her throat, and she let out another tiny laugh. She moved through the hall, hips loose, steps light. The house felt almost safe in the dark—muted wallpaper, closed rooms, the familiar creak of the floorboard near the dining room. She didn’t turn on a light. She didn’t need to. She was glowing.

But as she crossed into the living area—

Click.

The overhead light snapped to life.

She froze.

Her breath caught like a scream stuck in her throat.

Her parents were there.

Both of them standing in the middle of the room. Arms crossed. Eyes blazing. Her mother’s face wet and red from crying. Her father stiff with fury—jaw clenched so tight the muscles trembled.

Her entire body went cold.

He stepped forward first.
“What—” His voice cracked, then rose. “What in God’s name is this?”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even breathe.

Her father’s eyes swept over her—her swollen lips, her neck littered in unmistakable marks, her half-buttoned uniform, the stains on her collar, the wild tangle of her hair. His face twisted.

“A disgrace,” he spat. “You look like a harlot. Filthy. Shameful. Shameful.”

Her mother covered her mouth, sobbing.
“We saw you,” she cried out. “We saw you in that car—oh Lord, help us—we saw you with that… that man.”

Her father’s voice boomed through the house.
“A black man?!” The word hit like a slap. “Have you lost your senses?! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family?! You’ve damned yourself!”

She stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. The walls felt like they were closing in.

“You’re going to hell!” her mother wailed. “You’re going to burn for this—what will the church say, what will the neighbors say—”

Her father jabbed a finger toward her, shaking with rage.
“You will never see him again. Do you understand me? Never. I will not have a daughter who throws herself at some lowborn radio showboy—”

“I wasn’t throwing myself at anyone,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, small and useless.

“Oh, look at you!” he roared. “You reek of sin. You’re barely clothed. You think I can’t tell what you’ve been doing? You think I’m blind?!”

Her throat tightened painfully.

“You’re done with him,” he snarled. “You’re done with all of this filth. You will stay in this house, and you will repent—”

“I’m not.”
Her voice came out thin at first, trembling. But something inside her snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Her hands balled into fists.

“I’m not done with him.”

Her father blinked.
“What did you just say?”

She swallowed, lifted her chin, and the shaking in her voice hardened into something clear, sharp, and unstoppable.

“I love him.”

Silence.

Her mother’s sob broke off mid-breath.
Her father’s expression emptied into something darker.
The house felt colder.

“He’s not just some man,” she said, louder now, chest heaving. “I love him. I love that radio man more than anything in this world.”

Her parents stared, stunned.

“And,” she continued, voice steadying with every word, “you can’t stop me. Because I’m going to marry him.”

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, electric, ready to snap.

Her father’s face went white.
Her mother looked like she might faint.

The whole room held its breath.

And she stood there, trembling, terrified, but unbroken.

Her father’s jaw twitched first. His face went dark, almost purple, nostrils flaring, eyes blown wide in a way that was nothing short of murderous. Her mother’s chin quivered, breath catching in a horrified, wheezing gasp—

And then the back of his hand cracked across her cheek.

The world snapped white for a second. Her head whipped to the side, ears ringing, skin stinging with a heat that spread fast. She stood frozen, breath stuck high in her chest, a tiny animal-paralyzed sort of shock grabbing every muscle.

Her mother screamed first—the shrill, panicked kind, not for her, but because of her.
“Oh Lord above—what have you done to this family? What will become of your soul—your poor soul—” She clutched her hands together beneath her chin, sobbing into her knuckles.

Her father didn’t give her time to recover. His hand clamped around her upper arm—iron tight, cutting circulation—and yanked her forward so sharply her feet stumbled under her.

“You shame us,” he roared, spit flying. “You disgrace God. Is this what you sneak off to do?! This—this filth—” He shook her so hard her teeth clicked. “Kissing a man like that? Letting him lay hands on you? Look at yourself!”

She didn’t need to look. She could feel everything:
Her blouse half-buttoned wrong…
Her skirt creased and dirt-smudged…
Her hair wild from clutching his coat in the car…
The lingering ache at her neck, the marks she hadn’t realized were visible under her collar…

He saw all of it.

He saw everything Alastor had touched.

Her mother’s sobbing grew higher, frantic, “How will she repent? How will we cleanse this? She’s consorted in lust—she’s invited in the devil’s influence—oh God, oh God—”

“I’m nineteen!” she tried to yank her arm free, voice cracking. “Let go—!”

But her father hauled her toward the stairs, dragging more than leading, boots thudding hard against each step as she stumbled after him.

“You think you’re grown?” he shouted over her. “We will fix this. We will fix you. If you love wickedness so much, we’ll make damn sure you never see it again.”

“You can’t lock me in!” she screamed, gripping the railing with her free hand. He tore her fingers off it one by one. “You can’t do this to me—!”

“We can,” he snapped. “And we will.”

He threw her into her room so hard she hit the floor on her palms, sliding on the wood. She scrambled up just in time to see him charge in after her—her mother right behind him, skirts swishing, breath hiccuping in panicked prayer.

“Stop—stop!” she cried as he began ripping open drawers, tossing clothes everywhere. “What are you doing?!”

Her father didn’t answer—just tore open her wardrobe doors so violently they bounced off the walls. He grabbed books, scattered them, flipped her mattress over with a grunt. Her mother helped him—she actually helped him—pulling out boxes from under the bed, dumping them, rummaging through everything she owned like she was infected.

“You’ve been hiding sin in this house,” her mother cried, breathless with horror. “We should have seen it sooner—your behavior, your mood—Lord forgive us for our blindness—”

“There’s nothing!” she yelled, voice breaking. “There’s nothing, stop touching my things—!”

Then her father froze.

“You hear that?” His voice dropped—quiet, deadly.

She went still.

A faint buzz.
A soft crackle.
The tiniest, familiar hum.

Her stomach plunged.

Her father reached behind the dresser, grabbed something, ripped it free—

Her radio.

The one she’d hidden for years.
The one Alastor’s voice used to pour through like warm honey on late nights.
The one that started all of this.

He held it up like a contaminated object.

Her mother recoiled.
“Dear God above—she’s been listening to him whisper filth into her ears—”

“This is how demons get in,” her father barked. “This is how corruption starts.” He shook the radio in her direction. “You brought this into my house?”

“It’s mine!” she cried, reaching for it. He jerked it away. “Don’t—dad, don’t—please—”

“This is what poisoned you.” His voice thundered. “That man—whatever he is—won’t touch you again. Nothing of him will touch you again.”

She shook her head so hard it made her vision swim. Tears blurred the whole room—her father’s towering silhouette, her mother’s trembling hands pressed to her mouth, the mess that was once her belongings.

“You can’t stop me from loving him!” she sobbed. “You can destroy everything in this room and I won’t stop!”

Her father slammed the radio onto the ground.
Pieces skittered across the floor like bones.

She screamed.

And the house seemed to swallow the sound whole.

The tension, the fear, the grief—all of it hung in the air like smoke, suffocating and heavy and absolute.

Her parents stood above her in righteous fury.

And she, trembling on the floor, cheeks wet, cheek burning from his strike—

She realized the truth in one cold, sinking moment:

They were not going to let her go.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.

---------

He went back the next morning.

And the next.

And the next.

Every day, just after sunrise, he parked in the same spot beside the church—the neat little gravel pull-off where she always paused to wave at him before going inside. He’d sit with one elbow propped on the open window, hat tipped low, pretending to sort through notes for his program… but always watching the chapel doors like a starving dog waiting for a meal that never came.

He told himself she was sick the first day.

Busy, the second.

Helping a relative, the third.

By the end of the week, the lies were ash in his mouth.

His smile—the one he used like a weapon, a shield, a mask—had been stretched tight for days, thinning at the corners. Every time he imagined the way she had looked in the car that night—kiss-drunk, warm, wearing his fingerprints on her throat and jaw—his chest tightened until it almost hurt.

She would never vanish on him without reason.

Something was wrong.

By the eighth day, he caved and went to her workplace.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and loneliness, the kind of place where people forced politeness through exhaustion. He walked in as if he belonged there—hat in hand, suit immaculate, a gentle, charming smile tugging at his lips. He caught the attention of another young nurse, a woman with wide brown eyes and a hopeful blush.

“Pardon me, cher,” he drawled softly, leaning one forearm on the counter, “but I’m looking for a dear friend of mine. Sweet girl, works the morning shift. Short, polite, pretty as a picture. I wonder if you’ve seen her lately?”

The nurse practically melted. “O-oh! You must mean her. She, um… she hasn’t come in a while.”

He tilted his head, the charm in his eyes flickering—just barely—into something sharp. “A while? How long, ma chère?”

“A couple of weeks.” She lowered her voice. “Her parents are… strange. Strict. I mean, really strict.” She leaned closer. “One time she forgot to wear stockings with her uniform and they locked her inside the house for almost a month. She wasn’t allowed outside at all.”

A pulse of cold rage shot through him.

He almost dropped the performance right there. But he caught himself. He forced a smoother smile, though it trembled at its edges.

“Merci, darling. You’ve been very helpful.”

She offered a shy grin, brushing her hair behind her ear. “If you want, I can try to—”

“No need.” His voice turned velvety, final. “You’ve done more than enough.”

And suddenly he felt sick.

She was pretty, friendly, kind. On any other day he would have coaxed more out of her—flirted, flattered, maneuvered. It was a harmless tactic he’d perfected long before he ever became a household name.

But now? The idea of charming another woman felt… wrong.

He loved someone. Only one someone. And the guilt that pricked his conscience was foreign, unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.

He left quickly.

By the time he reached her street, night had swallowed the sky. Clouds smothered the moon, turning the neighborhood into a quiet, suffocating pocket of darkness. He parked a few houses down, engine off, lights off, blending in with the stillness.

He expected silence.

Instead, the moment he cracked his window open, faint echoes bled into the night—ragged shouting, shrill and furious.

A man’s bellow.

A woman’s panicked sobbing.

And—

Her voice.

Her.

His hand snapped around the top of the steering wheel, fingers sinking into the leather. His eyes widened, then narrowed, pupils thinning with something animalistic.

He listened.

“—SHAMEFUL—”

“—SIN—”

“—YOU WILL REPENT—”

“—UNGRATEFUL—”

And then—

A crash.

A cry.

Her cry.

He stopped breathing.

The realization hit him like a bullet: they had seen her. They knew. They had been home that night. They watched her walk through that door after he kissed her breathless in his car. They knew exactly what she had done and who she had done it with.

He imagined her father’s face.

He imagined her mother’s hysteria.

He imagined her—alone, terrified, trapped inside that boarded-up mausoleum of a house.

And something inside him snapped.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned.

He could kill them.

He wanted to kill them.

A single twist of his wrist. He could end those voices forever, could sweep her out of that house and take her somewhere safe—somewhere warm—somewhere she could live without fear.

His breath stuttered.

He wasn’t strong enough.

Not yet.

Not powerful enough to protect her from the world. From this town. From its laws. From the consequences.

He was a man with a microphone and a voice people adored—but not enough to topple families. Not enough to break down doors. Not enough to stop men who hid behind scripture and nails hammered into window frames.

So he sat there.

Helpless.

Boiling with anger so fierce it made the radio humming in his bones crackle.

“Cher…” he whispered into the darkness, voice shaking for the first time in his life. “Hold on. Please… hold on.”

He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, shaking with a cocktail of fear and fury.

His heart pounded like a drum of war.

He had never loved anyone.

But he loved her.

And he could do nothing.

Nothing but listen to her scream.

-----

The house had been her whole world for weeks—then months. A prison dressed as a home, sealed and sanctified, every window hammered shut until the wood splintered, every door latched and double-latched, every hour of every day dictated by scripture, prayer, penance, sermons, chanting, and the endless drone of her father’s favorite fire-and-brimstone preacher on the gramophone.

Time stopped meaning anything.

They woke her before dawn for forced prayer. Her father would stand behind her chair, reciting threats dressed as psalms. Her mother kneeled beside her, clutching a rosary and weeping as if tears alone would scour her clean. She wasn’t allowed to bathe without someone knocking every few minutes. Her meals were rationed and eaten only after scripture recitation. She was never alone. Never unobserved. Never free.

And every night, without fail, the same routine:

Her parents dragging a wooden chair against her bedroom door.
A final, breathless reminder to “seek redemption while she still had the chance.”
The click of the lock.
And darkness.

She had cried herself empty weeks ago. Now she only stared.

Sometimes she whispered his name into her pillow. Quiet, desperate, hoping it would carry somewhere—anywhere—to him. Sometimes she prayed not to God, but to whoever might be listening, please let him know I didn’t leave him, please let him know I didn’t choose this, please let me see him again.

Her voice grew hoarse. Her hope thin.

And then, one afternoon, something changed.

Her father and mother were frantic—shouting down the hall about Mrs. Halpern next door collapsing in her garden. They scrambled to gather coats, holy books, anything they thought might matter. In their panic, in their haste, her father fumbled the door lock.

He didn’t hear it fail.
But she did.

The moment the front door slammed behind them, she moved.

She didn’t tiptoe. She didn’t hesitate. She ran.

Her legs were weak from confinement, but adrenaline carried her. Down the stairs, through the suffocating hallway lined with religious portraits, past the parlor where she’d once sat listening to his voice through her hidden radio. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t breathe.

The doorknob turned freely beneath her hand.

She tasted freedom like blood in her mouth.

Then she was outside—air hitting her lungs like she’d never known air before—sun fading, sky purple, and her heart already sprinting toward the only place she had left.

She laughed. Actually laughed. A desperate, breathless sound as her shoes slapped against pavement. She ran past familiar houses, over cracked sidewalks, around corners she could navigate blindfolded. Tears streaked down her cheeks but she didn’t wipe them.

She could already see it.

The church.

She burst through the front doors so hard they clattered against the wall. The sanctuary was empty; rows of polished pews, silent and hollow in the dim afternoon light.

No choir practice.
No families praying.
No comforting hum of parish life.

Just stillness.

She pushed forward anyway, stumbling down the aisle. Her breath shook with joy and fear and something wild. She hurried toward the back corridor

She slammed through the rear door into the night air.

Empty.

The church yard stretched out before her, quiet beneath the moon. She swallowed, chest heaving. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring up at the sky as though she might find him painted among the stars.

“Did he think I abandoned him…?” she whispered.

Her throat tightened.

“Did he think I stopped coming? Did he think I didn’t care? Oh God… did he leave because of me?”

A soft creak cut through her spiraling thoughts.

The back door eased open behind her.

She spun.

An older priest stepped out—thin, silver-haired, spectacles low on his nose. His voice was gentle, warm in a way that reminded her of a grandfather she never had.

“My child,” he said softly, “are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

She choked on a sob. “I—I had to come. I needed to see someone. A man named Alastor. He… he used to be here. Have you seen him? Do you know where he went?”

The priest’s expression shifted—sadness settling into the lines of his face.

Slowly, he reached into his robe.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I had hoped you would hear of it… under kinder circumstances.”

He drew out a folded newspaper.

Her stomach dropped.

He placed it in her trembling hands with a reverent, almost apologetic touch.

“I’m so very sorry, my dear child,” he whispered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to read this yourself.”

He stepped back toward the door, pausing only long enough to give her one more sorrowful look—then disappeared inside, leaving her alone beneath the moon, clutching the paper that suddenly felt heavier than a stone.

Her fingers were stiff, cold from fear rather than the night air, and the paper crackled sharply as she unfolded it.

And there he was.

His face—his smile—printed in stark black and white, seated at a radio booth she knew as intimately as her own heartbeat. Her vision blurred instantly, but the headline still stabbed through the wash of tears:

BELOVED RADIO HOST SHOT AND KILLED — ‘SHADOW BUTCHER’ REVEALED TO BE LOCAL BROADCASTER

The world fell out from under her.

The edges of the paper curled as she clutched it too hard. Her knees hit the ground—the stone steps of the church scraping her skin through her stockings—yet she barely felt it. The newspaper slipped from her fingers but she caught it again, dragging it back to her chest as if she could somehow shield him from the accusations spilling across the page.

Shot.
Killed.
And beneath it—those awful, vicious lines:

Authorities report that the suspect was cornered while hiding the body of his most recent victim…
Community shocked as evidence reveals a pattern of murders spanning months…
The so-called ‘Shadow Butcher’ unmasked at last…

Her breath hitched violently.

“No… no, no, no—” Her voice cracked as the tears finally spilled over, soaking into the cheap newsprint until the ink smeared beneath her fingertips. “This isn’t—this can’t be—”

Her words dissolved into a raw, animal sob.

Dead.
They had killed him.
The man who held her like she was something precious.
The man who read her every flutter and breath like scripture.
The man who kissed her outside her own home and whispered he’d see her tomorrow.

Her stomach twisted so hard she doubled over, forehead almost touching the paper as her shoulders shook. Her tears dripped onto his printed smile—warping it, blurring it—until even that last piece of him bled away into nothing.

“He’s dead…” she whispered, barely audible, as the sentence hollowed her out from the inside.

The warm summer night felt suddenly cruelly cold. The churchyard, once a sanctuary, pressed in around her like some silent witness to her ruin. Far in the distance, cicadas hummed; a mocking reminder that life went on while hers had just collapsed.

He wasn’t coming.
Not here.
Not ever again.

And she had spent months locked behind nailed boards and scripture and punishment, thinking she’d been abandoned.

She pressed the newspaper to her face, shuddering.

Her sob turned into a broken wail.

“Alastor…” she choked. “Alastor, I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

The paper slipped from her hands again, drifting to the ground like something already dead before it ever landed.

She folded in on herself beside it, clutching her arms, shaking uncontrollably as the truth crashed down:

He was gone.
She had escaped too late.
And the man she loved—her only light—had died believing she’d chosen to leave him behind.

------

Decades might have passed, but for her it never stopped feeling like a fresh wound.

They married her off within the year.

A man with a respectable name, respectable money, respectable family. A man whose parents shook hers by the hand and spoke of duty, propriety, restoring her soul after a “fall from grace.” A man who stood beside her at the altar with trembling palms and soft eyes that never once held desire for her. She could see it the moment she looked at him—someone else lived in his heart. Someone he could not have.

And she… she didn’t care.

She didn’t want him. Didn’t hate him. Didn’t feel anything at all anymore.

He was quiet, gentle, painfully apologetic when he learned her story in hushed fragments—never from her own mouth, always through gossip, subdued comments from her mother, the shameful silence that fell whenever a radio was mentioned. He never touched her. Never tried. On their wedding night, he stood in the doorway of her new bedroom, hands twisting nervously in his sleeves, and said, “I’ll never expect anything of you.” He meant it.

Every night after dinner, he left. Slipping out the back door, jacket pulled on in a hurry, almost tripping over himself to reach the person he truly loved. He’d return after midnight, careful not to wake her, smelling of cologne and someone else’s perfume. Soft footsteps. A quiet click of a door closing behind him. He lived in his room, she in hers.

Two ghosts drifting through a shared house.

The town adored the marriage. Called it a miracle she’d been “purified” enough for a second chance. Her parents boasted. Her mother cried tears of joy over her supposed redemption. Her father walked with newfound pride.

She couldn’t feel any of it.

Her soul stayed locked in a dark bedroom two months before the wedding, screaming until her throat bled, waiting for footsteps that never came. Waiting for a man already dead.

And every morning, she woke up with the same first thought:

Alastor would have kissed me awake…

Every night, she fell asleep whispering into her pillow:

I miss you… I miss you so much…

Years didn’t soften the ache. They just taught her how to live around it.

She visited his grave every week.

Sometimes more when the world hurt too much.

The cemetery sat on the far end of town, shaded by old oaks whose branches hung like grieving mothers. His gravestone was small—too small for a man who had been larger than life. For a man who had lit an entire city with laughter. For a man whose voice had woven itself into her ribs before she ever touched him.

But even small, even simple, she treated it as holy ground.

People still vandalized it. Spat on it. Left little signs condemning him as a monster, a demon, a murderer. Children whispered scary stories about “the Shadow Butcher.” Adults crossed themselves when they walked by. His grave was a public shame, a hated landmark.

She knelt in the dirt every time, brushing away the filth with tender hands.

Sometimes she brought water in a jar to wash the stone. Sometimes she brought new flowers—always white. The only pure thing left in her life. She arranged them carefully at the base, always symmetrical, always fresh. She cleaned until her fingers stung, until her knees ached, until the grave looked cared for again.

Then she sat beside it. The ground was always cold.

She’d pull her coat tighter, lean her shoulder against the stone, and talk. Softly at first. Then openly, freely, the way she never could with the living.

She told him everything.

How the day had been. How the town had changed. How her husband’s lover had gotten a job in another parish and he cried on their back steps thinking she didn’t hear. How she still listened to radio shows late at night with the volume barely audible, imagining his voice between the static.

How she kept dreaming of his hands on her hips, his mouth on her throat, his laugh filling the world around her.

How she still loved him.

Every time she said it, her voice broke. But she said it anyway.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered once, forehead pressed to the cool stone. “I would have married you. You know that, don’t you? I would have run away with you. I would have gone wherever you wanted…”

Her breath hitched, trembling through her chest.

“I still would.”

The wind rustled through the trees, lifting her hair gently, as if someone brushed invisible fingers through it. Sometimes, in moments like that, she imagined he was listening.

She almost believed it.

And every time she rose to leave, she touched the corner of his name carved into the stone—soft, reverent, aching.

She couldn’t bring him back.

But she could keep him alive.

In her memories.

In her heart.

In the quiet devotion of a woman who had once been loved so fiercely that nothing after him could measure up.

And she mourned him—every day, every night, for the rest of her life.

--------

He’d lived an entire lifetime in Hell, but nothing ever filled the hollow place she’d carved into him.

Alastor had risen fast—violently, spectacularly—in those early decades. Hell was nothing like the world he’d left behind, but its rules were simple: power, spectacle, fear. He arrived already smiling, already hungry, already vibrating with a restlessness born from a bullet in the chest and a heart that had died thinking only of her.

Seventy years later, the Radio Demon held influence that soaked through every street, every whisper, every broadcast. He had a throne of static, a reputation built of blood and applause, and an audience that worshipped the very sound of his laugh.

But when the curtains closed, when the spotlight snapped dark, when the last soul stopped screaming—

He always, always found himself thinking of her.

He sat alone on a regal chair in his private broadcasting room at the hotel, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly the leather of his gloves creaked. His grin was fixed in place, but behind it his jaw was clenched, exhausted from pretending he didn’t ache.

“That girl…” he breathed into the empty room, voice a low murmur that bled into static. “My darling… where are you now?”

He closed his eyes—and there she was, as she had been the night she ran to him with her heart in her hands, breathless and full of dreams. He saw her smile, the way she laughed against his mouth, the way she whispered she loved him as if it was the bravest thing she’d ever said.

He remembered the blood on his shirt when he died and how his last thought wasn’t fear or regret but her. Just her.

When he first arrived in Hell, he searched for her every month without fail. A ritual. A compulsion. A pilgrimage.

He’d walk the busy streets, eyes scanning every face for the shape of her, listening for her voice in the chaos. He’d slip into bars, marketplaces, forgotten alleys. He’d question imps, demons, even overlords. He’d check the census archives, the Obituary Logs of the Damned, the mortal death records he had hacked into through less-than-polite means.

And every time he found nothing, he’d feel a strange, sickening relief.

She wasn’t here.

She was alive. Living. Breathing. Aging in the mortal world he no longer belonged to.

Charlie had been the one who found him sitting alone in the gardens behind the hotel, static humming faintly around him as he stared at a dying rose like it held answers.

“Al…?” she’d said softly. “You always look sad after checking the mortal records.”

Sad.
The word didn’t fit him. But he didn’t correct her.

Instead, he told her the story.

The girl he’d loved. The one he kissed in his car, the one whose parents tore her away from him. The one who thought he abandoned her. The one who believed he died a monster.

He told it dramatically—hand gestures, theatrical sighs, flourish, humor. But by the time he finished, Charlie was openly crying, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“It’s… beautiful, actually,” she sniffled. “I mean—heartbreaking, but… beautiful. You loved someone. You really loved someone.”

He just smiled, radio static crackling like a soft melody behind him.

When he broadcast, he mentioned her often, disguised behind jokes, behind songs he dedicated to “the fairest soul to ever bless the airwaves.” Hell adored the mystery—Alastor, the fearsome, ruthless overlord, hopelessly devoted to someone none of them had ever seen.

When he told the story at the hotel, Angel would tease him, Husk would grunt but listen, Charlie’s soft heart would break every time, and Vaggie would sigh like she heard the tale one too many times. But Alastor didn’t mind repeating it.

Repeating it kept her alive.

Repeating it kept her close.

And every month—still, even seventy years later—he searched Hell for her name.

Hoping not to find it.

Praying in his own twisted way that she was safe, warm, happy, untouched by the fate that swallowed him.

Yet when he sat alone in his room, hands folded, staring down at nothing—

He wondered how long a mortal life lasted.

He wondered if she’d grown old.

He wondered if she visited his grave.

And sometimes, very quietly, very uncharacteristically, he whispered:

“Don’t come here, sweetheart… don’t follow me into this place.”

His smile brightened, radio static crackling sharp and warm, as he stood and straightened his coat.

But then his voice dropped, low and aching, a confession meant for no one but the empty darkness:

“Because if you do… I fear I shan’t ever let you go again.”

------

Chaos slammed into her the moment she opened her eyes.

She woke flat-backed on a cracked street of some impossible city, the sky bleeding neon reds and purples, buildings twisted into shapes no architect would ever claim. People—no, creatures—sprinted past her, laughing, shrieking, fighting. Someone was being eaten alive on the corner. Someone else was setting a car on fire with their bare hands. Horns, claws, wings—everything.

Her breath stuttered, shallow and panicked, because this wasn’t a dream. She knew where she was. She’d always known she wouldn’t reach heaven after what she’d done in that hospital all those decades ago. Not that she regretted it—not when it was for him.

A surge of bodies pushed past her and she stumbled forward, clutching herself, heart banging against her ribs.

A screen the size of a building flickered above the street, blaring static before an upbeat, cartoonish voice cut through the chaos:

“Looking for redemption? Hoping for a better afterlife? The HAZBIN HOTEL is officially welcoming new patrons!”

A cheerful blonde demon appeared on the screen, smiling like someone who had never been stabbed in her life. A map unfolded beside her, showing directions from this exact district.

The crowd barely noticed. She saw a demon get stabbed behind her. Another tripped over her in a rush to loot a corpse. She swallowed, trembling violently.

Hotel. Yes. Go there. Stay one night. Then find him.

Her chest clenched. The thought of him hit her like a blow.

Alastor.
Her Alastor.
God, she had missed him for a lifetime.

“Hold on,” she whispered to herself, voice wobbling. “I—I’m coming. Just… just wait a little longer.”

She ran.

It was confusing, terrifying. Roads that looped into themselves. Bridges that went nowhere. Demons who jeered at her, tried to grab her, fought each other right in front of her. But she followed the blinking signs, the occasional graffiti that pointed in the same direction, and the little printed map she’d found on a kiosk. She clutched it like a lifeline.

After what felt like hours, she turned a corner—and froze.

The Hazbin Hotel rose above the street like something out of a dream. Not a gothic ruin, but something grand and bustling—towering spires, glowing stained glass, warm lights spilling out from every window. Crowds clustered outside, demons of all shapes and sizes chatting excitedly, hopeful, scared, thrilled.

Her knees weakened with relief.

She slipped into the line at the reception desk, still shaking. People around her were buzzing:

“Maybe we’ll actually make it to heaven this time—can you imagine?”
“I heard the staff treats you like family!”
“They served pastries yesterday. Pastries!”

She wasn’t listening. Her mind was a ringing hum, every thought spiraling back to the same place.

She died.
She was here.
And somewhere in this Hell was him.

When she reached the counter, she barely managed to give her name. The demon at the desk smiled brightly and handed her a key.

She stepped away, gripping it so tightly the edges dug into her palm, and whispered to herself:

“One night. I’ll stay one night. And tomorrow… I’ll find Alastor.”

A nervous laugh escaped her, then a broken, relieved sob.

Because she had spent a lifetime missing him. Grieving him. Loving him.

And now—she had the faintest, wildest chance of seeing him again.

----

The gentle hum of the hotel room’s air vents filled the silence as she dropped back onto the plush mattress, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The door clicked softly behind her—the last demon who’d bumped into her on the way up had apologized so profusely she didn’t even know how to respond, simply nodding while clutching her room key like a lifeline.

The Hazbin Hotel was nothing like the chaotic, blood-slicked streets outside. In the halls she’d seen nothing but smiles—strange smiles, toothy and sharp or soft and shy, but smiles all the same. And right before she managed to slip into her room, she’d spotted her again—the blonde demon from the broadcast. The one with the huge, optimistic grin and the bright eyes that had no business being in Hell. A name tag pinned to her vest read Charlie in neat, cheerful handwriting.

Charlie floated from guest to guest, greeting them with genuine warmth.

“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! We’re so happy to have you! If you need anything—anything at all—just ask!”

She had said it to everyone. Every single demon she passed.

It was… comforting. Disorienting, but comforting.

And now the room—hers, at least for tonight—felt impossibly still compared to the bustling corridor. She ran her hands over the blanket beneath her, feeling its softness, trying to process everything.

She’d woken up in Hell.

Hell.

Her heart thudded. She pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself. It was too much—too loud, too violent, too fast out there. She’d barely survived the sprint through downtown, dodging snarling demons and stepping over a corpse someone was still chewing on. Her clothes were scuffed from where she’d been shoved against a wall. Her legs were shaky. Her palms hurt where she’d scraped them falling.

But she’d made it. Somehow.

She exhaled shakily, letting her body melt into the bed for a moment. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. How the hell did anyone make lavender survive down here?

Her eyes fluttered shut.

A soft click and low static cut through her thoughts. She startled, sitting upright slightly as the tiny speaker embedded into the upper corner of the wall warmed with sound.

Then a gentle, melodic voice drifted across the room:

“Good evening everyone! This is Charlie speaking! Dinner will be served in one hour in the main dining hall. There’s plenty for everyone, so please feel free to come down whenever you’re ready. If you need help finding the dining hall, don’t hesitate to ask any of the hotel staff!”

Her voice was bright. Hopeful. Completely out of place. Completely needed.

Silence returned with a fuzzy pop as the speaker shut off.

She blinked a few times.

She was hungry. Her stomach grumbled, as if in agreement, painfully reminding her she hadn’t eaten since… since before she died.

Right. She had died.

She swallowed, throat tight, but forced air into her lungs anyway.

Food. She could at least do that. Then she could sleep. Then tomorrow—

Tomorrow she would find him.

She pushed herself up from the mattress, brushing invisible dust from her skirt, trying to steady her nerves.

One step at a time.

She could do that much.

The dining hall hummed like a living creature—chairs scraping, bowls clattering, dozens of voices layered over one another in excitement. She heard bits and pieces as she squeezed through the doorway with the rest of the crowd, every overheard sentence adding to the disorienting swirl of her first day in Hell.

“Friday! Thank Lucifer—his gumbo is divine—”

“He always cooks on Fridays!”

“Better than Nifty’s, that’s for sure—don’t tell her I said that.”

“Friday means we eat good.”

She didn’t know who he was, or who Nifty was, or why everyone seemed so thrilled over something as simple as dinner—but the second the scent hit her, she forgot every question.

Gumbo.

Real, rich, Louisiana gumbo.

The smell washed over her: deep, smoky broth, spices blooming warm in her chest, that soft sweetness of long-cooked vegetables and shrimp. Her knees went weak. She hadn’t smelled something like that since—

She swallowed hard.

She followed the current of demons pouring toward long tables, trying not to stare too openly at all the horns, fangs, wings, claws, mismatched eyes, and colors. Some were laughing. Some argued loudly. Some were just quietly waiting for food with bowls cupped politely in their hands. It was…strangely cozy.

Certainly nicer than the chaos outside.

She tried to calm her racing heart. People bumped into her—everyone was moving at once—but every single demon who did turned back immediately.

“Sorry!”
“My bad.”
“First day? You’ll get used to it.”

Gentle. Polite. She didn’t expect that.

She stepped further in, searching for an empty seat, when a sharp voice cut through the chatter:

“NIFTY—STOP BITING THE GUESTS!”

She turned just in time to see a tall woman with long gray hair and a glowing white eye hoist a tiny, razor-toothed demon off the floor by the back of her dress. The small one kicked in the air like a furious kitten.

“But they taste good!”

“No biting!” the gray-haired woman hissed, placing her down and immediately whirling toward another table where a demon had spilled something flaming.

She blinked. …What on earth.

She must’ve looked completely lost, because the same gray-haired woman hurried over, brushing a stray lock behind her ear and forcing a smile onto her exhausted face.

“Hi there,” she said warmly. “You look a little turned around. Need help?”

Her gaze flicked to the woman’s name tag.

Vaggi.

“Oh—um. Yes. I, uh… it’s my first day down here,” she admitted, clutching her hands awkwardly. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to sit.”

“Oh! No problem at all, my friend.” Vaggi’s expression softened instantly. “Come with me. We’ve got a spot open near the front. Perfect place for first-timers.”

She nodded gratefully and followed as Vaggi slipped gracefully through the crowd, weaving between demons like she’d been doing this for years—which she probably had.

Vaggi pulled out a chair for her at a small table near the wall. “Here you go! And—”

Without waiting, she flagged down a red-shirted demon passing with a tray. He stopped, grinning wide, and scooped a steaming ladle full of gumbo into a bowl before setting it in front of her with a polite bow.

“Enjoy!”

Vaggi gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “If you need anything—directions, help settling in, someone tries to eat you—just shout my name.”

She blinked. “…Eat me?”

“Nifty, specifically,” Vaggi said, pointing at the tiny demon already gnawing on a napkin. “But you’ll be fine. Probably.”

And with a wave, she dashed away again, barking orders at staff, putting out small fires (literal ones), and breaking up arguments before they could escalate.

Left alone, she wrapped her hands around the warm bowl.

Her first real meal in Hell.

Her first moment to breathe.

She didn’t taste the first spoonful.

Not really.

She only felt the way her chest tightened—how the warmth of the gumbo rose with steam that smelled like home, like a radio booth she used to picture, like laughter in a church hallway, like his hands guiding hers while she blushed over a pot she was convinced she would ruin.

Her shoulders slumped. She closed her eyes. A shaky breath escaped her, and she lifted another spoonful to her lips, letting it sit on her tongue longer than necessary. The broth was rich, savory. Perfect. Exactly how she remembered it.

Her throat tightened.

She wasn’t sure when the tears started. Maybe around the second bowl. Maybe before that, when the scent alone nearly knocked the air from her lungs. By the time she finished the second helping, her sniffles had blended into the clatter of dishes and the chatter of demons around her.

But she kept eating.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been sitting there—how the crowd slowly thinned as residents finished and filtered out, how the lively hum of the dining hall softened into a low murmur, then nearly nothing.

Her third bowl was scraped clean when she finally blinked and looked up.

The room was almost empty.

Most of the tables sat abandoned, chairs left crooked or pushed aside. A few demons milled around lazily, chatting or finishing drinks. The kitchen doors—big, metal, heavy with traffic from earlier—were now closed tight, muffling the chaos behind them.

She rubbed at her damp face, gathering herself with a slow inhale.

The kitchen sounded alive back there—pots clanging, voices overlapping, something sizzling, someone barking cheerful orders. It was warm and real and grounding, and for a long moment she just stared at those doors, feeling an inexplicable pull she couldn’t quite name.

Her pulse quickened.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Only stared.

The doors suddenly swung open with a loud WHOOSH, making her jump in her seat.

Charlie—the same blonde demon she’d seen on the television ad—walked out with a massive pot balanced easily in her arms. She wore a kitchen hairnet, her cheeks flushed from heat and hard work, but her smile…oh, her smile was bright enough to fill the entire hall.

“Great work tonight, everyone!” Charlie called over her shoulder, beaming into the kitchen. “Really, it was incredible! You always nail the Friday dinners—they bring everyone together!”

Her voice rang with sincerity, pride, genuine joy.

Before the doors shut again, another voice spilled out—warm, smooth, touched with static and a familiar, unmistakable radio cadence.

“Well, thank you, my dear! You flatter me far too much.”

Her spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bowl.

Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled. Her entire body froze as though someone had carved her out of marble and left her there to crack.

That voice.

That voice.

Charlie had barely stepped aside when she caught sight of the woman sitting alone—eyes wide, shimmering with tears, fixed on the kitchen doorway like it housed a monster or a miracle.

Charlie slowed, blinking in confusion.

“H–hey,” she said gently, setting the pot down on a nearby cart. “Are you…are you okay?”

There was no answer.

She couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t look away from those doors—closed now, humming faintly with static and kitchen noise—while tears streamed freely down her cheeks, rolling one after another, unstoppable.

As if seventy years of grief had all cracked open in one shattering, breathless second.

The moment her body left the chair, it felt like she wasn’t the one moving—some force deeper, older, aching, carried her upward. Her legs trembled beneath her, and she didn’t dare blink. The double doors to the kitchen were shut now, swaying slightly from the last person who had gone through them, and she stared at them as if the world itself were balanced on the metal push-plates.

Tears spilled freely, hot and unstoppable. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. That voice—that unmistakable voice—echoed in her skull like a ghost she had begged heaven and hell to give back.

From the side, Charlie hovered uncertainly, her hands half-raised, bright eyes full of concern.

“Are you… um—are you okay?” she asked, cautious, like she feared startling her.

But she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was a locked door. Her heart drummed against her ribs so violently she genuinely wondered if it would tear itself free.

And then—

BANG.

The double doors burst open.

Heat and kitchen steam rolled out—along with him.

Alastor stepped through as if he’d walked straight out of a memory and into reality. Taller. Sharper. Not human. Not anymore. His silhouette was striking—red coat, deerlike posture, the subtle glow of hellish power humming beneath the skin. Latex gloves clung to his long, clawed hands, smoke curling from them as they incinerated the instant he peeled them off.

He was laughing softly at something Charlie had said, head tilted, smile that familiar crescent. He tucked his hands neatly behind his back in that old gentlemanly pose he’d always had—

And then he followed Charlie’s gaze.

His smile faltered.

Then froze.

Then slowly—steadily—reshaped into something breathless and wondrous. His chest rose, as if he had just been punched with life.

She stood there crying, her hand over her mouth, trembling like something fragile.

A tiny sound escaped her—broken, cracked, full of disbelief.

“Al…?”

It was barely even a word. More like a plea.

Alastor made a sound she had never heard him make before—half-laugh, half-sob, strangled at the edges. His step toward her was automatic, unthinking, a moth drawn to flame. His claws reached out midair, just shy of touching her, as though afraid she’d vanish if he grasped too quickly.

And then she moved—ran, stumbled, collided with him.

He caught her instantly.

His arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in tight, like he needed her pressed against him to believe she was real. One clawed hand cupped the back of her head, weaving into her hair with trembling gentleness. The other spread wide between her shoulder blades, holding her firmly, protectively, as if shielding her from all of hell at once.

She sobbed against his chest—loud, messy, shaking—fisting her hands in the fabric of his coat.

He bent his head down, burying his face against her temple, breath shuddering with an emotion far too immense for words. Static crackled faintly in the air around them, like his own body couldn’t contain what he felt.

“My darling…” he breathed, voice cracking through the radio filter. “Mon Dieu… you’re here… you’re here…”

Charlie stood frozen nearby, eyes wide and glossy, hands over her mouth—but she knew better than to interrupt.

He held her even tighter, as though making up for seventy years of emptiness, seventy years of aching nights and unanswered prayers.

She pulled back only enough to look at him—really look.

Those red eyes widened further, taking in her face, her tear-stained cheeks, her trembling lips. He lifted one claw to brush her cheek, so gently it barely counted as touch.

“You came back to me,” he whispered. “You truly came back.”

Another sob broke out of her, and she threw her arms around his neck, clinging like she might drown without him. His laugh—wet, awed, disbelieving—shook against her.

Hell roared outside the windows.

But in this dining hall, in his arms, it all fell silent. Only the two of them existed. Only the moment. Only the reunion they had both bled and died and waited for.

And he held her like he’d never let her be taken from him again.

He didn’t even let her breathe.

The moment she folded into his arms, warm and shaking and alive against him, something inside Alastor snapped bright and wild—and every inch of him lit up like an overcranked radio dial.

A delighted, choked sound burst out of him, almost a laugh, almost a sob, but wrapped in static and joy and disbelief all at once. His claws tightened on her waist, and in one effortless motion he lifted her clean off the ground, arms strong and sure as he spun her high above his head.

“HAH! Oh, my dear! I knew it—I knew you wouldn’t keep me waiting forever!” he crowed, his grin stretching impossibly wide, eyes glowing like twin spotlights as he twirled her. “Seventy years is hardly any time at all when it comes to you!”

She squeaked—a tiny surprised sound—hands clutching at his shoulders, tears dripping down onto his cheek as he spun her like she weighed nothing.

The dining hall echoed with the scrape of chair legs as demons peeked in from the hallway. Charlie clutched a stack of plates like she was witnessing the most romantic thing she’d ever seen. Someone whispered, “He’s never smiled like that,” and Vaggi froze mid-yell, jaw dropping.

But Alastor didn’t notice a damn thing.

It was her. His her. The girl who used to blush at his jokes and hold his hands under church pews and smell like lavender and ink and cheap coffee. The girl he buried his heart with. The girl he prayed—yes, prayed—would find her way down to him eventually.

He brought her back down, only to immediately spin her again, hands guiding her waist into a loose waltz right there between abandoned tables.

“My word, you’re as beautiful as the day I died,” he beamed, pulling her in against him and sweeping her through a quick step, his voice buzzing with overloaded radio warmth. “And here you are! Right here! In my hotel! In my arms! Oh, you have so much to tell me!”

She was still crying—blushing, laughing breathlessly, overwhelmed and trembling—but she clung to him like she feared he’d vanish if she blinked.

“Al—Alastor, I—” Her breath hitched. “You’re—oh God, you’re really here—”

He swung her into a spin so smooth it stole her words away, catching her hand and twirling her beneath his arm. His shadow slid across the wall in an elegant mirrored flourish, humming with the same ecstatic energy that pulsed through him.

“I thought about you every day!” he declared, pulling her back to his chest. “Every month I checked! Every corner of Hell I searched! I have stories—oh, I have stories, my dear! And you!” He cupped her cheek, electricity crawling warmly under his fingertips. “You must tell me everything from the moment I left this earth! I want to hear it all! Every laugh, every tear, every moment!”

She let out a breathy laugh—half sob, half joy—and he dipped her deeply, one hand supporting her back, the other tipping her chin up.

“You lived an entire life without me,” he said, quieter now, but somehow brighter. “And now you’re here. Finally here.”

He pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead, lingering long enough for her eyelashes to flutter, then pulled her upright again, hands never leaving her waist.

She stared up at him in wonder.
He stared down at her like she was the only soul in existence.

Then—

With a delighted flutter of static and a grin that could split the world open—

“You’ve arrived just in time for dessert!” he declared, immediately sweeping her into another little half-step of dance. “And after that, my dear, we simply must catch up! Oh, I insist—there’s no escaping me this time!”

And she laughed—a watery, trembling, joyous sound—because after seventy years apart, the only place she wanted to be was exactly where she was.

Held in his arms.

Spun in his dance.

And loved more fiercely than ever.

-------

Through the winding hallways of the hotel—lit in soft reds and golds, murmuring with distant conversations, flickering with neon glow—he practically floated beside her.

He didn’t walk. Alastor glided, buoyed on a joy so fierce it made his grin look almost too big for his face. His arm was locked with hers, pressed tight to his ribs, her cheek nestled into his sleeve like she was afraid he’d disappear again if she loosened her hold.

Every few steps he dipped down to kiss the crown of her head—quick little pecks, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed to keep confirming she was real.

“Well!” he chirped, static humming faint at the edges of his voice, “I really must insist you start at the beginning, my dear! When did you die?”

She sniffed a tiny laugh, lifting her head just enough to look at him. “Just a few hours ago.”

He beamed, delighted. “A fresh arrival! Why, that’s practically a record!” Then he bent down and pressed another kiss to her hairline. “I suppose I should feel honored that the very first thing you did was come running straight to me.”

Her cheeks warmed. She nuzzled into his arm, rubbing her nose against the sleeve of his coat. He let out a soft, shaky little laugh at the touch.

“And did you,” he continued in a lilting sing-song, “ever marry after I… hm… shuffled off the mortal coil?”

Her breath hitched. “Yes. But it wasn’t… we didn’t love each other. It was arranged. We were more like… roommates.”

Alastor slowed—only for a moment, only long enough for his eyes to brighten with something sharp and triumphant behind the warmth.

“Is that so?” he said lightly, but his tail flicked behind him in smug satisfaction. “Well! I can’t say I’m displeased to hear that.” Another kiss to her hair. “I always suspected your heart wouldn’t wander far.”

She squeezed his arm tightly, heart fluttering at his tone.

He asked again, voice dipping softer this time, almost cautious: “And how did you die, my dear? If you don’t mind indulging a curious old fool…” Static softened into a purr as he spoke.

“I… I’m not sure.” Her brows knitted. “I can’t remember. It was peaceful, I think. It didn’t hurt.”

He stopped walking altogether.

Not roughly—just suddenly, like his feet no longer understood the concept of moving forward. Slowly, he turned toward her, hands lifting to cradle her cheeks, claws careful, careful, careful despite how they trembled.

A long, relieved breath escaped him—almost a laugh, almost a prayer.

“Good,” he whispered, leaning in close. “Oh, good. I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering.” He pressed his forehead to hers, static buzzing faint between them. “Thank you for telling me.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. She leaned into him, hands clutching the front of his coat.

They stood like that for several long seconds, quiet in the hallway while demons walked around them, some staring, some whispering—none daring to interrupt.

When he finally pulled back, he resumed walking with a sudden burst of energy, the buoyant swing returning to his step. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow again, patting it like he needed to reassure himself she was still there.

“Oh! You must see the tower,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve added quite a number of improvements over the years—though now that you’re here, I may need to redecorate! And you simply must tell me every single thing you’ve done in the decades I missed! Did you keep your hair the same? Did you change your favorite flowers? Do you still hum when you cook? Do you—”

She laughed through the warmth swelling in her chest, leaning into him again.

He looked down at her, eyes glowing like twin radio dials warming up after a long, cold silence.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice glitching with emotion, “how long I’ve waited to walk beside you like this again.”

Alastor didn’t even make it halfway through his grand tour of the tower before her gaze caught him.

She wasn’t even trying to hide it — that wide-eyed, trembling look of pure adoration like she couldn’t believe he was real. Like she was scared he’d vanish again.

He froze mid-sentence, fingers curled politely behind his back, ears flicking downward in embarrassed surprise.

“My dear,” he laughed softly, flustered and delighted all at once, “what ever are you looking at me like that for…?”

She sniffed, her chin wobbling. “I… I just missed you. So much.”

His smile shattered into something breathless. Sweet. Undone.

“Oh,” he exhaled, and that single syllable carried seventy years of aching.

He leaned down immediately — kissing the tip of her nose, then the tears on her cheeks, tasting every trembling breath she let out.

“I’m not leaving your side again,” he murmured against her cheek, voice warm, layered with radio static and something painfully human. “Not for a moment. Not for anything.”

She hummed a soft, needy sound at that — the kind that made his ears perk again, that made his claws twitch.

His forehead rested against hers.

Her lips brushed his, feather-light.

He stilled.

Then—

He seized her.

His claw swept around her waist, the other hand cradling the back of her head as he pulled her into a kiss that devoured. She gasped, startled, and he dipped her effortlessly, the world tilting while his mouth crashed against hers like he’d waited a lifetime for it.

Because he had.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging, her fingers tangling in his hair. He made a sound — a deep, static-warped groan that vibrated straight through her — and pressed closer, mouth moving hungrily against hers, desperate, almost frantic.

His smile ruined into something wild as he kissed her deeper, tasting her like he feared she’d disappear in his arms.

Her breath hitched as he broke for air, only for him to kiss her again immediately — firmer, faster, as if catching up on seventy lost years in seconds.

“Do you—” he kissed her jaw “—have any idea—” he kissed her cheek “—how long I’ve waited—”

He dragged her upright, caging her against his chest.

“—to do that again?”

She could only whimper in response, her hands clutching his coat, her lips already searching for his again.

He met her halfway, kissing her like a starving man finally offered a meal — fierce, trembling, overflowing with everything he’d buried for decades.

Static buzzed softly in the air. His tail twisted. His claws trembled against her back.

When he finally tore his lips from hers, he didn’t step away. Didn’t even loosen his grip. He pressed their foreheads together, panting lightly, eyes glowing brighter than she’d ever seen.

“You’re home,” he whispered.

Not dramatic. Not theatrical.

Just raw.

“You’re finally home.”

And then he kissed her again — slower, but no less desperate — holding her like she was the only real thing he’d touched in seventy years.

His laugh cracked against her skin like static—sharp, delighted, feral.

He had her half-in his lap, half-on the edge of the bed, and every inch of him screamed seventy years of starvation finally, finally being fed. His arms cinched around her waist as if afraid she’d dissolve into dust again the second he blinked.

“Oh my dear— my dear— I told myself I would be civilized,” he rambled breathlessly between kisses, lips dragging over hers, over her jaw, over anything he could reach. “Tea. Conversation. A slow evening. Polite company— polite!— imagine it! And now look at me— look at what you do to me—”

She whined his name, fingers hooking into his suit collar and pulling him back up for another kiss, messy, wet, desperate. His tail wagged like an excited dog— he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Seventy years,” he gasped against her mouth, hands cupping her cheeks like he needed to anchor himself. “Seventy years of imagining this— imagining you— do you have any idea what it’s like to be dead and still love someone so much it hurts?”

Her legs kicked against the mattress, overwhelmed, flushed, trembling. “I never touched anyone else,” she whispered against his lips. “Never. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.”

That made him choke— literally choke— a strangled noise of disbelief and pleasure ripping straight up his throat. His grin broke wide and feral, his eyes burning like radio static.

“Oh— oh, darling, you’ll kill me twice over.” His claws dug into her hips, pulling her fully against the edge of the bed. “You stayed mine all that time?” His voice cracked into a laugh, soft at first, then giddy. “I adore you. I adore you.”

Her knees shifted, opening instinctively to hold him between them. He dropped again— dropped— to his knees like gravity didn’t matter, like worship was the only thing his body remembered how to do. His arms locked around her waist, dragging her forward until her thighs framed his shoulders.

“I remember,” he murmured against her stomach, nosing up the length of her torso, voice slipping into that low, dangerous purr that always meant he was moments from losing control. “I remember exactly how you melt when I touch your neck…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

His mouth latched onto her throat— hot, reverent, possessive— and she jolted so hard her hands tore at the sheets. A broken moan slipped free as he sucked, teeth grazing, tongue dragging up the delicate column of her pulse.

“Ah—! Alastor—!”

“Mm, yes, yes, that’s the sound,” he said against her skin, grinning into the bruises he was already marking. “Seventy years and not a day of it faded— you’re still perfect. Still mine.”

He kissed her again, wetter this time, teeth scraping intentionally as he moved up and down her neck, starved, greedy. Static buzzed around the room— lights flickering— as if even his magic was losing its composure.

She grabbed at his hair, tugging lightly.

He moaned.

Full-bodied. Shockingly loud. Like he hadn’t been touched by human hands in a lifetime.

“Darling—!” he gasped, pushing closer, mouth dragging along her shoulder. “If you keep doing that I’m liable to— ah— I don’t even know— tear the bed apart? Burst into flames? I’m completely— utterly— ruined for you—”

And he kept talking— kept kissing— kept clutching her like a starving man kneeling at the altar he’d worshipped for decades.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Home.

She spread herself across the sheets like an offering, chest rising and falling, eyes wide and hungry for him. Alastor froze for half a second—just long enough for a choked, reverent noise to break out of him, something between a groan and a laugh.

“Oh… darling…” His voice cracked around the static, claws flexing uselessly in the air as if he didn’t know where to touch first. “I used to dream of you doing that again—just like that—spread out for me like a feast…”

He folded down over her, almost collapsing from how badly he needed to be close. His claws found her center through the thin barrier of her pantyhose, rubbing tight circles just where she used to melt years ago. His breath hitched, then turned into a breathy, manic laugh.

“I remember—oh, I remember how you loved this,” he rasped, voice fuzzy with radio distortion as his fingers pressed that perfect spot. “Your little pearl—ah, you used to tremble for me, just like that—my sweet girl… my favorite girl…”

Her hips bucked into him, a needy whine strangled out of her.
He shuddered.

He dragged his nose along her throat, kissing and biting every inch he could reach, his voice spilling uncontrollably against her skin.

“Seventy years,” he murmured, words growing frantic, “seventy years I went without touching anyone else. My body—" he gasped as if confessing a sin, "—belongs to you. It always has.”

She whimpered at that, thighs trembling.
“I used to touch myself how you did,” she admitted, voice small, breath hot. “Every night… imagining you making love to me…”

The sound he made didn’t belong to a sane man.
His ears dropped, shot down in pure, stunned pleasure, and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder like he might actually break.

“D–d…don’t— don’t say things like that unless you want me to lose my composure entirely,” he stammered, voice warbling with static, hips jerking forward like he couldn’t control them. “You—oh, you wicked thing—"

She cupped the thick bulge in his slacks.

Alastor broke.

His head snapped back, fangs flashing, a full, desperate moan ripping out of him—raw and unrefined, nothing like his usual smooth charm. His tail thrashed behind him, wagging so hard it knocked into one of his bedside tables.

“Oh—!” His voice pitched embarrassingly high, cracking through three different radio stations. “Ah—ah! Careful—!”

She giggled breathlessly.
“It feels… bigger.”

He sputtered, ears flattening against his skull, claws tightening possessively on her hips.

“Well—! W–well I’m taller here, you see, and it… ah… consequences of height increase and—oh, dear lord, keep touching it—”

He was already rutting into her hand like he hadn’t been touched in a century—because he hadn’t.

Then he forced himself to look at her, pupils blown, hair messy, lips wet from kissing her senseless.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, lowering himself until his mouth hovered over hers, “how long I’ve waited to ruin you again.”

He said it like a prayer.
Like a promise.
Like a man who had starved for seventy years and finally found food.

Then—slowly, reverently, voice trembling—

“Let me have you. All of you. I want—" his breath hitched, "—I want to feel you fall apart for me again.”

She barely had time to finish that breathless laugh before his mouth crashed back onto hers, all teeth and heat and pent-up decades of starving for her. Their hands were everywhere at once — needy, frantic, absolutely lawless. His claws skimmed up under her skirt, snagging on her torn tights, and with a guttural growl he just ripped them clean open. The sound of fabric shredding filled the air.

She gasped into his mouth, fingers already in his hair, pushing his jacket off his shoulders with those greedy little shoves, as if she couldn’t stand the idea of one more layer between them. It hit the floor with a heavy thump.

He didn’t even let her breathe before he flipped her — literally flipped her — onto her back, kissing her like a man delirious. Her legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct, hips grinding up toward him, making him groan so loud his radio static crackled.

He pulled back only long enough to pant, “My, my… seventy years and you’re wilder than ever—!”

“You started it,” she panted back, grabbing his tie, dragging him down. “You’re the one ripping my clothes like I’m dessert—”

“You are,” he cut in, flipping himself this time so she landed on top with a squeak. His hands flew to her waist, dragging her down onto his lap with a desperation that bordered on feral. “Heaven help me, you always were.”

Her skirt was hitched high around her hips, torn tights gaping open around her thighs. She straddled him, yanking his vest open so hard the buttons flew like shrapnel across the floor. He yelped a laugh, breathless, thrilled.

And then her palms slid up his shirt — the thin fabric pulling apart under her fingers — revealing the thick, soft fluff coating his chest.

She froze.

Then grinned.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, dragging her fingers through it, slow and teasing. “You’re a deer. You’re an actual fluffy deer.”

Alastor choked. Static sputtered out of him in little bursts as his ears shot down, the deepest blush blooming over his cheeks.

“M-my dear— that— that is— I assure you—” he tried, but then she curled her fingers in the fluff and tugged playfully.

His head snapped back, a helpless moan ripping out of him, raw and shameless.

“Oh,” she purred, absolutely delighted, leaning over him as her fingertips traced patterns through the fluff. “You like that.”

He grabbed her hips in both hands like she might actually make him melt through the mattress. “You— are— incorrigible—!”

“You’re adorable.”

“I am not adorable,” he hissed — then whined when she buried both hands in the fluff at once.

His tail wagged wildly behind him.

Before she could tease him again, he surged upward, flipping her beneath him once more, kissing her hard enough to bruise, hands slipping under what remained of her dress and dragging it up, up, up—

“And you,” he gasped against her mouth, “are not getting away with mocking me, sweetheart. I waited too long for this.”

She laughed breathlessly into the kiss, legs already wrapping around him again, nails tracing down his chest fluff to make him tremble.

They tore each other apart, layer by layer, mouth on mouth, hands everywhere, both of them so desperate they could barely think, barely breathe — nothing but decades of longing finally breaking loose all at once.

His mouth was on her before she could even breathe in again—like a starving thing finally given permission to eat. He dragged her down the bed by her thighs, burying his face between her legs with a guttural, static-laced groan that vibrated against her skin. The sound alone made her jerk, her back arching, fingers flying straight into his hair. He moaned when she grabbed him, like he’d been waiting seventy years just to feel her tug him close like that again.

He nudged her knees farther apart, his claws curling under her thighs to keep them spread wide for him. The shredded remains of her pantyhose clung to her skin in torn strands, and he growled—actually growled—at the sight of her pussy glistening for him.

“Oh, my darling,” he breathed against her, voice trembling with static and relief, “I have dreamed—ached—for this…”

And then his lips sealed around her clit.

She screamed. Hands shooting from his hair to the sheets, eyes flying open as her whole body jumped. His tongue was already moving, swirling, pressing, tracing patterns he remembered perfectly—patterns he used to pull from her in the 20s when he was still warm-blooded and human. He lapped at her like she was something holy, something precious. And every little noise she made? Every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan of his name? He devoured them like they were keeping him alive.

His claws moved too—one hand wrapped tight around her thigh, the other slipping down to tease her wet entrance. Just the tip of one claw at first, scratching lightly through her slick. She responded instantly, hips rolling, voice breaking.

“Al—Alastor—”

“Say it again,” he begged against her, voice shaking as he flicked her clit with his tongue. “Say my name, sweetheart—oh, I’ve starved for you—”

She choked on a moan as he pushed two fingers into her, and the obscene squelch that followed made him shudder. He pumped them fast, curling them, his thumb sliding up to circle her puffy clit while his tongue chased every twitch of her body. Her thighs trembled around his head, squeezing, trapping him there—but he only growled in delight and pressed deeper.

“Yes—yes, that’s it, my love, let me hear you—let me hear those sounds I’ve been craving for decades—”

She tugged at his hair again, pulling him closer, her chest heaving, her breath shaking. Her thighs shook violently around his ears, her hips lifting off the bed.

“Alastor—god—please—”

He moaned at the word please, the vibration of it shooting straight into her, making her cry out. His fingers pistoned harder, faster, wet sounds filling the tower room. He pulled away from her clit for a moment, panting, his mouth shiny with her arousal.

“You taste—” he laughed breathlessly, deliriously, “—even sweeter than I remember.”

Then without hesitation—he dove back in.

His mouth was hungrier this time, desperate. His tongue flattened and dragged up her slit, then flickered against her clit in frantic, messy strokes that made her hands fly back to his head. Her fingers tangled in his hair and tugged, and the sharp gasp he let out melted into a whine—his tail wagged in pure, helpless bliss.

Static broke through his breathless rambling as he licked her, words tangled and frantic:

“I missed you—I missed you—I missed every sound you make—let me have you—let me taste all of you—let me make up for every year we lost—”

Her thighs shook harder—she was close, so close, her whole body tightening, breath breaking—and he felt it. He felt her getting there, and his pace became downright punishing. Tongue flicking, thumb circling, fingers curling—

“Alastor—!”

“That’s it—come on, my darling—give it to me—let me feel you again—”

She came with a cry, back arching off the bed, thighs squeezing his head so tight he moaned into her like it was a reward. Her release poured over his tongue, hot and sweet, and he swallowed it eagerly, drinking every drop she gave him like he’d been dying of thirst.

He didn’t stop.

Even as she trembled and gasped and whimpered—he kept licking her through it, soft but greedy, savoring her, whining with gratitude.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wet with her, his grin unhinged, his eyes glowing like he was drunk on her.

He climbed up her body on all fours, breath shaking, voice rough.

“I could spend the rest of eternity between your legs,” he whispered against her mouth before kissing her hard—letting her taste herself on his lips. “But, my love…”

He pressed his forehead to hers, panting, desperate.

“I need to be inside you.”

His hand trembled where it held her throat—barely applying pressure, just enough for her breath to hitch the way he remembered, the way that always made her flutter around him.

Her needy nodding made his ears pin back, his voice dropping into something wrecked and eager as he kissed her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her lips between gasps.

“Of course I will… anything, my sweetheart… anything you want—I’ll give you.” His words crackled with little bursts of static, radio interference betraying just how undone he already was.

He guided his cock along her slick folds again, the hot, swollen head sliding over her clit, making her jolt so sharply her thighs trembled around his waist. The needy whine she gave him—high, breathy, familiar—made him shudder like he might break.

“Oh— oh, darling, you’re still so sensitive…” He sounded choked on disbelief, kissing her again and again as she writhed. “Seventy years, and you still react like this—”

He pushed the head inside, slow, savoring the way her body pulled at him. Her back arched violently, fingers clawing at the sheets, one hand flying up to grip his wrist around her neck as a moan spilled out of her, loud and unrestrained.

His eyes rolled back, a guttural groan ripping straight from his chest as inch by inch disappeared into her. “Tight— good lord— tighter than I remember—” His grip around her throat trembled with restraint, thumb stroking her jaw while he pressed his forehead to hers, panting warm air against her lips.

She gasped his name like a prayer, and he twitched hard inside her, the sound alone nearly finishing him.

“Yes… yes, just like that—say it again,” he begged through clenched teeth, sinking deeper, both of them shivering at the stretch.

She moaned it for him—breathy, desperate—and he groaned like he’d been starved for centuries and finally got to eat.

When he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, he had to stop—had to just breathe through the violent pleasure shaking through him. His claws dug into the sheets beside her head, his free hand still lightly circling her throat, thumb stroking reverently along her pulse.

“You’re—hah— you’re trembling,” he rasped, his voice glitching with static, his chest heaving. “Does it feel that good, my love? After all this time?”

She nodded, frantic, thighs hugging his hips, a broken little sound escaping her. “Feels—so good—Al…”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—his ears shooting down, eyes shining with raw, delirious joy.

“Oh, darling, I could die all over again hearing you say my name like that…”

He pulled halfway out and sank back in, slow and deep, making them both gasp.

His hand squeezed—just enough to make her flutter around him again, just enough to make her eyes glaze.

“I remember this,” he whispered hungrily into her ear, voice dipping low, dark with devotion. “How tight you got when I held your throat… how you’d beg for more… how you’d shake for me—”

Her breath hitched—her whole body tightening around him as he rocked his hips just once, deliberately slow, deliberately deep.

He groaned brokenly, lips brushing her ear. “Gods, sweetheart… you’re going to undo me. Already… already clutching me like you never let me go.”

His pace still slow—but the restraint was paper thin, his body trembling with the effort not to devour her whole. His claws traced down her ribcage, across her hip, sliding under her thigh to pull her leg higher around him, opening her up, pushing deeper—

He kissed her hard, muffling the desperate sounds clawing out of his throat as he whispered against her lips:

“Tell me you want it—tell me you want me to ruin you all over again.”

His answer to her broken little “ruin me” was a sound that barely resembled laughter—low, strangled, already trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

Then he didn’t hold back at all.

Hands clamping around her hips, claws dimpling her skin, he dragged her body down the bed with a single rough pull and slammed himself back into her in one brutal, overwhelming stroke.

She screamed, fingers twisting in the sheets, back arching as her breasts jolted with the force of it.

“Aah—Alastor—!”

He snarled at the sound of his name on her lips, teeth bared, eyes blown wide and feral as hellfire.
“Mon dieu… you feel even better than I remembered,” he growled, voice warping with static as he pulled out to the very tip just to hammer back inside her again. “So tight—so greedy, chère…”

Another slam, harder. The bedframe shook. She gasped and choked for breath, legs trembling.

He didn’t give her a moment—not a single second—to catch up.

“Ohhh—f-fuck—!” she cried as he found that perfect angle, the one that made her whole body jolt up the bed.

His pace was vicious, unrelenting, his hips snapping against hers in sharp, punishing thrusts. Every time he buried himself fully, a ragged groan ripped out of him, deep in his chest, like it was hurting him not to come already.

Her voice dissolved into breathless, high-pitched moans.
“Alastor—Alastor, please—oh god—”

He leaned down over her, chest fluff brushing her bouncing breasts, lips brushing her ear as he rutted into her with animalistic force.

“Oui, cry for me,” he hissed, breath shaky. “I’ve waited—so long—to hear that again…”

He snapped his hips forward with a hard thrust that made her choke on a moan.

“Tell me—” he growled, losing himself, “—who makes you feel like this? Eh? Who?”

“You—you—!” she sobbed, voice breaking, legs twitching helplessly.

He groaned, a sound full of pleasure and desperation.
“Bonne fille… my perfect girl…”

His fingers dug deeper into her hips as he pounded into her, the wet slap of their bodies echoing through the room, obscene and frantic. Her thighs trembled around his waist but he held her down every time she tried to lift herself.

“No, no—let me,” he panted, thrusts somehow growing faster, rougher. “Just take it, ma beauté. Let me ruin you—let me have you—”

Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry when he shifted his angle again, hitting a spot that made her vision go white.

“There,” he snarled, eyes wild. “Right there, hm? I remember—every place—you like to be touched.”

She clenched around him so tightly he nearly collapsed, a strangled groan ripping out of him.

“Ah—chère, you’re going to make me lose my mind—”

His thrusts grew frantic, messy, his breath hot and uneven against her throat, every word a growled confession torn straight from his starving soul.

“Seventy years,” he panted, voice cracking with static. “Seventy years without you—and you expect me to be gentle?”

He slammed into her again, dragging a sob from her lips.

“No,” he whispered, kissing her jaw, hungry and trembling. “Tonight—I’m taking everything you’ll give me.”

She was trembling beneath him, every inch of her drenched, every nerve alight with his touch. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him chest to chest, as if trying to fuse their bodies together. His hips drove into her with a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, and she couldn’t hold back—sobbing, squealing, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Alastor… please… I’m gonna… I can’t—” she whined, her words cut off by a shuddering gasp as her body tensed around him.

His clawed hand dipped down, finding that neglected pearl, pinching and rolling it mercilessly, sending her over the edge. “Oui… oui, ma belle… cum for me, soak me…” he growled into her ear, his voice low, feral, dripping with need. He sank his teeth into the nape of her neck, biting and sucking, leaving a purple bruise as he murmured filthy praises.

Her back arched off the bed, her legs clamping instinctively around his waist as the waves hit, a scream of his name bursting from her lips. “Alastor! Ah—ahh—” she cried, her body shuddering violently, her juices spilling down over him, dripping and slick.

He groaned, hips still rutting into her, feeling her squeeze him tight around his cock. The sensation drove him wild—he gasped out her name, face flushed, breathing ragged, back arching as he slammed into her. His other hand gripped her hips, holding her down as he let go, filling her with every hard, desperate thrust.

“Mon dieu… ma belle… tu es tellement serrée… tellement parfaite…” he growled in French, voice breaking with lust, his teeth grazing her shoulder as his body tensed, the pressure building, until he came with a shuddering roar. Thick, hot, spilling inside her, mixing with her own mess, leaving them both trembling, coated, utterly undone.

She clung to him, soaked and shaking, whimpering, and he groaned, burying his face against her chest, panting, feeling every quiver of her body against his. His claws dug into her sides lightly as he rode out the last of his release, his own need finally sated but leaving them both utterly raw, sticky, and breathless.

Even then, he stayed on her, murmuring low, possessive praises, his lips brushing hers, his voice desperate, reverent. “Ma belle… tu es à moi… pour toujours… si parfaite…” Every word was soaked with hunger, with decades of longing finally spilling over, messy and glorious.

By the time they finally slowed, the bed was a tangled mess of sheets, sweat, and the faint lingering scent of sex. Alastor had taken the time to clean her, lingering in the most intimate places—her thighs, her hips, trailing long, wet strokes with his tongue, eliciting whimpers and gasps that made him shiver with delight. One particularly long, deliberate lick had her bucking against him, cumming again, trembling and squealing as he held her close, murmuring praises that only made her melt further.

When he finally pulled back, they lay together under the covers, his dark, velvety skin contrasted with her softer, flushed tone, and she insisted he stay naked. She nuzzled against his chest fluff, running her fingers absently through it, feeling the coarse softness and inhaling the musky scent that was so uniquely him. He was blushing at the intimate attention, tail flicking nervously under the sheets, but she didn’t care—she was enthralled.

For hours they talked, the night stretching endlessly. She told him about the years she had survived without him, the long nights of mourning, the odd sense of purpose she had built while carrying his memory like a sacred flame. He listened, his usual giddy, frenetic energy softened into a quiet devotion, occasionally whispering in wonder, asking questions, pressing her for details, teasing her lightly about some of the smaller, absurd moments in her life. He spoke about Hell, about his schemes and dealings, about how he had grown in power, how he had tried to make sense of a world without her. And through it all, she clung to him, alternating between laughing at his dramatic stories and crying softly at the thought of how long they had been apart.

Finally, there was a comfortable lull, the only sounds being the faint rustle of sheets and the beating of their hearts. She turned to him with a mischievous glint in her eye, lips curving into a devious little smile. Before he could react, she reached behind him, fingers curling around the tip of his tail.

“Ah! Eh! Qu—what are you doing, ma belle?!” Alastor yelped, yanking slightly and sending his tail flicking as his ears flattened against his skull, eyes wide and blazing with embarrassment.

She giggled, teeth biting her lip, voice teasing. “I saw it the first time you took your pants off… I can’t help it… I’m obsessed with your deer features.”

His face flushed scarlet, the combination of arousal, embarrassment, and sheer adoration leaving him nearly speechless. He stammered, trying to regain his usual giddy composure, but the tail in her hand, her warm body curled against his, and her teasing tone had him utterly undone.

She leaned closer, pressing her body fully against his chest, fingers still lightly gripping his tail, sighing contentedly. “You’re mine now… all of you,” she whispered, and he couldn’t help but let out a low, desperate laugh, burying his face into her hair while his heart raced, utterly captivated by her, by them, by the fact that after decades, they were finally together again.

They stayed like that for hours more, talking, laughing, whispering, and teasing, the night stretching on with no need for anything else. Every touch, every glance, every breath was filled with longing, relief, and an unbreakable bond that had endured lifetimes.