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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

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And Eat It, Too: Chapter Thirteen: Dark

In which Jon encounters monsters in the Dark...

>>> NOW ON AO3!

Dark-typical content. There is scary crap and a good amount of unseen-monster-violence.

Jon gets pretty banged up - but, as Jon does, he will not give up.

Consider yourself warned.

(Masterpost including playlist)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He stumbles, goes still.

The Eye is gone.

It does not feel anything like he thought it would.

Weakness is first, sapping strength from his body and his bones, and he is amazed and breathless at how much pain he is in, absolutely everywhere, as he falls to his knees.

There is a weight to the darkness.

It presses against every inch of his body, drills into his pores, sharp and hungry, and the air is cold and musty and bad, like old towels stuffed in a closet and forgotten.

And… there are fingers, just for a moment, a dozen or more, pattering along his face in search of his eyes.

They do not find his eyes. They go away.

He cannot yet stand.

There are sounds, quick, sharp sounds, like claws on earth, something large, running past him very fast. He knows if he makes noise, they will catch him.

But it’s so much worse than just that.

He hasn’t forgotten anything. He still knows what he knows, who he is, why he’s there—things he could not hold if he were not the Archivist, even cut off.

But he is alone in a way he has never been.

A way that tells him no matter how lonely he thought he was before, as a child, as a teenager, as a miserable adult flying through uni, he was never truly alone.

The Beholding is gone. There is no watching, there is no sharing, there is no enjoyment, there is no curiosity apart from his own, and his heart feels weak, tendons slit.

Hearts don’t have tendons, he tells himself, trying to amuse himself, but it hurts too much.

He has never felt so… less.

He puts his web-kissed hands over his mouth and tries not to cry, not to catch the attention of whatever moves in the dark (rustles and whispers and claws).

There is a weight to the darkness.

Standing is the hardest thing he’s yet had to do; every injury and scar has awakened and hates him.

Something moves, not far away at all.

A small, precious tug.

He is not alone.

He obeys.

Jon thinks, some unknown time later, that if the Web was trying to acclimate him to obeying its calls, this would certainly do it.

Darkness seeps at him, in him, under his clothes and around his tongue. It is not the absence of illumination; it is its own thing, enveloping, ravenous, a thing made to swallow suns and moons and mortal flames.

It makes him feel neutered, somehow, though that isn’t the right word—some secret part of himself, cut off from everything.

The Web’s tugs are infrequent. Twice, they urged him to walk into a freezing cold, viscous something that could never have been water, that came high to his chest, and he could not stop his noisy gasps as he made his way through.

He paid for it.

Something—

Some thing —

Came in the darkness, running toward him, unseen and with too many limbs, and a tiny, tiny tug urged him left just in time so it did not completely knock him down.

But it severed one of the webs. It galloped on, making sounds only nightmares make, a cavernous chortle because it was playing and he was damned and it was going to come back.

That single web is gone, gone, gone. Jon fights with everything he has not to cry out in horror.

There are webs left. But it happened so fast.

Tug.

Shaking, Jon follows.

Close calls keep coming.

Can they actually see him? Do they actually want him?

No, they want his fear, and they’re getting that in buckets. They are every closet-beast that ever scared a child, every imagined scrape from underneath a bed, every creak on the stairs that wakes an adult with heart racing, struggling to remember if they locked the front door.

They are the tendrilled, hideous thing that stalked Benjamin Hatendi to his death, that allowed him the falsehood of safety under his covers for months before tearing his flesh and whispering, crisp and clear, the blanket never did anything.

They are everything humanity has feared since peering from fire-filled caves into the unknown night.

Each time a monster reaches him, they snap a web.

And every time, they cause him pain. Not big injuries; nips, swipes, drive-by-nibbles. Teasing.

He knows they will soon take much more.

They are building his fear.

He’s tried not to bring attention to himself. Tried not to make sounds. Discovered it is not natural for him to make no sound. He is, he’s now realizing, a deeply vocal person.

The darkness clings to him, makes his clothing heavy, makes his feet sticky and tired. He is bleeding from a thousand tiny, tiny cuts.

He checks his webs, closes his left hand around them.

He won’t let go.

Something knocks him completely down and it shreds him, claws his back, gouges his shoulders and his spine, and he screams.

When he comes back to himself, his back is burning. He is shaking; gasping. Possibly in shock.

There is blood, gone cold and tacky.

He is not being healed, fed, by the Beholding. He’s being sustained by the Dark, because they keep their victims for years.

For one moment, he fears he cannot stand—that he has no strength left.

Save Michael. Stop the Unknowing. Save everyone.

He has to.

Has to.

Does.

His steps are uneven, and he cannot make them quiet. An unfortunate numbness has taken over his right arm; he feels with his left, and discovers all the webs on that side are gone.

Terror rises; he tries to tamp it down.

There is a deep, blood-scented chuckle, somewhere behind him.

Is that Mister Pitch? He has no idea. He can’t know anything. Whatever it was, it meant him to hear it.

Jon refuses to run.

(Not that he could.)

He wonders how time dilates in here, if it’s an illusion like in Michael’s corridors. Michael apparently kept Tim and Martin in there for two weeks, but when it let them go, they’d hardly been gone any time at all.

Not for the first time, Jon wonders why it let them go.

He wonders if it’s because they’re his friends.

(No. That’s just self-indulgent. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Sims.)

Three webs remain—

And all three tug straight down.

Jon stops.

Hears his clothing dripping, can’t recall if it’s from horrible fluids or his own sweat. Very carefully, kneels.

There is a book at his feet. Innocuous; thin. Nubbly leather, slightly warmer than it should be.

He tries to grip it with his right hand, but that hand no longer obeys him. Jude Perry’s damage has finally taken hold.

Will that hand ever come back? Jon doesn’t know.

Clumsily, he opens his shirt, tucks the book inside, buttons up, all with his left hand. Awkwardly, he tightens his belt so it will be secure.

He knows the web to this book has been severed.

His heavy breathing brings another beast.

Jon wakes with his face in something cold and wet.

He startles, slightly spraying himself as his breath disturbs it, and manages to sit up. He feels ragged; something has gone to town on all of him, everywhere, every inch, even under Michael’s book—everywhere except behind Annabelle’s blindfold.

He wonders if he should have just asked for a damned catsuit of the stuff.

Couture spider-silk, fashionable protection for the worst of fools, he thinks, and almost laughs.

But he does not laugh. He has learned his lesson.

There are two webs left.

The Mother is patient, or Annabelle is. They don’t tug until he begins to move again.

The book bruised his ribs when he fell; he’s going to have a very interesting pattern there, if he lives.

Water splashes on his right side, but every time he tries to shift left, the web tugs him over again.

There must be something worse on the left.

Keep walking, he tells himself.

Keep walking, as he holds his breath so the things roaring far and hissing near will hear neither gasps nor whimpers.

Keep walking, he thinks, as tears slide down his face, and he realizes he has dried, crusted blood all over, and that he has soaked the blindfold through.

He doesn’t take it off, of course. He’s not stupid.

Something is coming.

Something taking its time, walking barely faster than he, practically pacing him, gaining just a little, and whatever it is, it is singing some horrible tune in a voice so low it makes his nerves ache, an eager and jaunty thing that Jon knows (not knows, but is told by his fear) has something to do with butchering.

It’s Mister Pitch, because Jon has the book.

If they knew who he was, they’d already have killed him.

If he draws attention to the webs, they will both be gone.

Mister Pitch is catching up, an inevitable reckoning.

Jon cannot stop his fear. He cannot be unafraid; he does not want to suffer, to die.

If he fails, everyone will pay for it—they need him at the Unknowing.

Don’t they?

He realizes he’s beginning to wheeze, his lungs betraying his location.

(They already knew where he was, but now he knows they know, and that is enough.)

Something stabs him from behind.

Sharp, going in, right where he thinks his kidney might be, and then vanishes like smoke.

Hurts. So much.

More than he ever thought anything could.

Jon shakes, seizes. The pain short-circuits him, sends him into brief disconnection.

Burning inside; bleeding internally. He would be dead, if the Dark did not want him alive for his fear.

The book is warm, and he clutches it against his skin, relishing the solidity of it, the other-ness.

It is not of the Dark, this book. It is a reminder that there is life outside of this world. That he hadn’t dreamed it.

He is the Archivist. He will not forget.

There is one web left.

Jon almost laughs. It’s like all those shows, bombs counting down and stopped on the last second, but this is not a show, and if this web snaps, he does not think he can find his way out.

How long has it been?

He is hungry. He is thirsty.

And suddenly, he realizes this place has changed.

There is something like sand under his feet. He bends down (wobbles), touches it.

Sand?

Oh, no.

He knows what realm he’s in.

Der Sandmann, the thing that drove Algernon Moss to blind himself to escape it. A tall being, edges invisible in the darkness it brings with it like living shadow, spewing coarse black sand from its mouth as it comes. In the original German tale, it would throw that sand in the eyes of naughty children, which would then bleed, and it would take those eyes away for food.

In reality, Moss knew it had come for him (nevermind that he was grown and married), and believed it had put him in its sack and was carrying him away.

It must have been, because Moss had blinded himself with its sand, and been set free. He’d written that it hurt, worse than anything in the world.

Jon reaches up, touches the blindfold. It is still there, still secure.

Surely, Jon’s eyes are safe.

There is a sound coming toward him, a gentle hiss, the falling of sand along the floor.

Tug.

Jon moves.

Faster than he dared before, not foolish enough to run, but too afraid to keep his cool, driven by the sound of falling sand and the imagery Moss put in his head, though he hadn’t even read the damned statement—just listened to Martin’s recording.

Faster.

Tug—

His legs are cut out from under him.

A dog? A wolf? A monster pig? Who knows? It was hot and fast and bit at him as it went by, sweeping him off his feet and down hard.

It knocks him out, for a minute or two.

And the single web is still there.

It’s a miracle, a damned miracle, and he cradles that hand to his chest—it’s the one connected to his mutilated left pinky.

He is grateful that the Spider, aware of his less than optimal fingertip, made this single strand a little more secure.

Tug.

Please don’t break, he begs it, elbow pressing the book to his skin, right hand useless and dangling. Don’t break, don’t break, don’t break—

His foot goes through a crust of ice into the shock of snow, and he falls.

Jon tumbles down an icy slope. It is deep snow, but light, absolutely fluffy, and though he is cut by the icy crust he breaks through, he hardly feels it at all.

He feels only joy.

The Eye has him.

Jon lands on his back, gasping, not from pain but from a floodworks unleashed, power channeling through him and tutting at all his new wounds, getting to work on his stabbings and scrapings and tears, and he lies there, in a him-shaped, sharp-edged hole, getting very wet as his clothes soak up the snow.

But that’s not the big thing.

He feels like him again. So much more complete. So much more, period.

Also not dying, not chased, at least not by anything that could hurt him that way again.

He feels his kidney reforming, and it is a weird, uncomfortable sensation.

He can remove the blindfold now. He knows. Shaking (and with a right hand that finally obeys him), he slides it up. It is stiff with blood and damp with tears, but it did its job, and he stuffs it into his pocket.

He’s out. Out of the Dark, and into someplace very cold. Funny, how even the middle of the night can seem so bright after such a terrible darkness. Green sky, washed with black.…

Jon sits up in ice-crusted snow, shivering, his mind coming online slowly as if recovering from catastrophic failure.

He takes out the book.

How the hell does he use this?

The final web is gone. He knows it was removed on the other end, rather than by his fall.

The Mother kept her word. He’s completely free.

He clutches the book. It is warmer than he is, now.

Leitner books are never stable, never safe, rarely easy to understand. If he reads it, he could be sucked in. If he opens it, it could do nothing, or it could erase the one trapped inside. There’s no way to know how to use it without knowing how to use it, and—

Why doesn’t he know how to use it?

Oh, good, it’s one of those objects.

Salesa probably sold it to Elias and told him how. That would figure.

Jon will not risk Michael’s survival, so he keeps the book tucked in his shirt.

Against his skin. Which he doubts Michael can feel, but Jon needs the contact. He suspects his own dreams will take on some fun new components tonight.

He stands, slowly. Unsteadily; he’s still tired, hungry, thirsty. It’s taking a lot of power to heal him, and the bill always comes due. He’s hungry in other ways, too.

There are no city lights.

There is an aurora borealis.

“What?” He says, his booting-up brain finally realizing what all that green is.

Jon squints, focuses, and the Eye tells him where he is: Norway.

Fucking Norway. Because why would any part of this be easy?

Jon checks his pockets. The phone is there.

It is badly cracked, has no signal, and works just long enough to inform him that it is now eleven AM back home.

He was definitely in the Dark longer than an hour.

Also, Elias will probably want him for lunch.

He laughs. “Too bad,” he says. A lot of people are going to be disappointed today.

Jon starts walking.

It is frighteningly cold, and deeply unpleasant, but he doesn’t feel like it’s harming him. He can move and feel his toes; he’s breathing all right, and his face doesn’t feel like it’s cracking.

Though his clothing is going stiff with ice, still carrying whatever liquid that was in the Dark.

He never wants to go back. “It was awful,” he informs the book, though Michael probably can’t hear him, but it doesn’t matter.

The Beholding flows through him.

Did it miss him?

He can’t tell. He also can’t care right now.

But he does listen.

Wait. This wasn't just Norway.

It is an island, Spitsbergen.

It is also half a mile from a research station in a small, currently unoccupied town called Ny-Ålesund.

The Spider got Jon out half a mile from the Dark’s chosen ritual location.

“Why would it do that?” he mutters, secretly glad to be verbal again.

But the ritual failed, hadn’t it?

Why was he here?

He knows which way the research facility is, but… it’s hazy.

Not hidden. Just… obscured.

Their ritual failed, but the Eye helpfully reminds him what Manuela Dominguez was working on for that ritual—a dark sun, an impossibility, a masterpiece of ridiculous physics that should not work and only did because she had help from the Lonely and the Vast to power it.

His heart sinks. If it’s still there…

He can’t leave it. It’s like a nuclear bomb, waiting to be used.

“So much for one apocalypse at a time,” he tells the book, still too happy to have found it to feel embarrassed.

He’s not going back into the Dark. It shouldn’t do any harm to just… look.

Their ritual failed. Their prophet, Maxwell Rayner, is dead. Basira’s people killed Rayner—with Jon’s advice as key. He’s very glad that they did.

The People's Church of the Divine Host was just in London, when Rayner was trying to raise up a new prophet and transfer his consciousness to a child. How guarded can this place be?

“I may be doing another stupid thing,” he tells Book Michael, and then hits on a solid excuse: he needs a phone.

There should be one in Ny-Ålesund. Somewhere.

“I think Elias might really shoot me after this,” says Jon, so happy to have the book that he isn’t thinking clearly.

All he can see is the green of the night sky and the dark line of the horizon, but that’s okay. He knows which way the facility is, and begins to trudge through the snow.

(part fourteen)

#tma: au #tw: violent #tma fic #tma au #jonathan sims #johnathan sims #psychological horror #and eat it too

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forbidden-sunlight · 2 months

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yandere!Alastor with Violet Evergarden!reader scenario: A Wendigo's Violent Love Part Two

Warning: aged-up!reader [in early to late twenties], violence, OOC, spoilers for the first season of the 2024 show, possessive and obsessive behavior, Alastor is in denial of his feelings, possible angst.

There may be possible triggers in this story.

If you do not feel comfortable venturing any further, please hit the back button on your phone or computer and read something much more pleasant than a possible series of unfortunate events.

You are responsible for your Internet consumption!

Reblog to support content creators! ❤️

Part One

Part Three

Salutations everyone, good to be back on the air~! :)

I understand it’s been a while since I wrote anything, but due to how busy I’ve gotten in real life, updates will be a bit slower until perhaps the summer. Nonetheless, I am committed to writing the best Hazbin Hotel fics for the community so that everyone can enjoy them to their heart’s content!

Special thanks to @witch-of-the-writing desk for collaborating with me on this chapter and helping me bring these fantastic characters to life on the page, and @vikkirosko for being an awesome beta reader alongside @illuminaresblog.

So with that being said, sit back, relax, and let's see what's going on in tonight's broadcast with Hell's one and only Radio Demon!

The reconstruction of the hotel included the kitchen being entirely remodeled.

Gone were the cabinet doors that hung from its creaky hinges, the marble floors that never shined bright no matter how many times Niffty scrubbed them, the mice’s squeaking and an ice box that couldn’t fit all of the foodstuff to feed several people. Dark matte cabinets held the dining ware and bowls, stacked up in neat little rows and protected by glass doors on either side of a large wrought iron stove top and the range hood. The cedar countertops glowed under the lights, stretching from the island in the middle of the room to the small dining room table stationed on the right side. Copper pots and pans were suspended in the air above the island, so whenever it was time to start cooking, Angel or Lucifer would have to pull out the ones needed and put them away after the meal. The icebox was now bigger, stainless steel with a bottom drawer to place frozen items in.

Overall, it was a massive improvement from the previous one with additional space and a little footstool for Niffty to make the midday meals. Alastor…he was usually in charge of the evening ones, though the others have recently started to contribute to making their own dishes. The successes of those evenings varied, though they all tasted delicious to you.

Niffty had all but pushed you into a chair at the dining table as soon as you entered the kitchen with Husk. You watched her tiny frame skitter across the marble floor, plating stacked sandwiches held together with toothpicks stabbed through the middle and potato salad and two other side dishes before it appeared in front of you. She must have prepared some tea for you as well, seeing an ivory teapot and a cup already filled to the brim, steam rising and emitting a fragrant aroma that tickled your nose.

You thanked her graciously for the meal, even though you were quite sure that you were not going to be able to finish it all before you had to leave for Alastor’s radio station. Twenty minutes was not what Charlie would qualify as a proper lunch break.

The tiny housekeeper repeated the same ritual with Husk though she directly handed his plate to him before she gave you an annoyed look that clearly said, finish your meal, all of it, and got distracted with the sight of a roach and began to chase it down with her needle. Husk merely shook his head and sat down next to you on the right side of the table. He picked at his food, clearly not in the mood to eat because his mind was on something else. However, you did not pry. Vaggie had spoken to you about respecting people’s privacy in your first week of arriving at the hotel; just because someone doesn’t seem happy, it didn’t mean you had a right to address it. Talking about it might help, and sometimes it doesn’t. If anything…just let the sleeping dogs lie.

You eyed the clock. Ten minutes left, and you were only halfway through the meal. You ate the sandwiches, and only had a spoonful of the potato salad. You were about to take another bite from a different side dish when Husk spoke up, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth.

“I saw what happened in the greenhouse.”

You blinked. Husk….he had seen the confrontation between you and Alastor? You carefully lowered the spoon down the plate, tapping against the porcelain. “There’s nothing to worry about, Husk.” You replied calmly, your attention entirely focused on the meal in front of you. “He will not harm me. He simply wants to talk about my performance on the job.”

“That’s bullshit.” Husk hissed. “We both know it ain’t just ‘cause he’s the facility manager of this place, or that you’re slackin’ off, it’s ‘cause he hates it when people question his authority!” He slammed a fist against the table, causing the silverware and glassware to wobble momentarily before righting themselves again. “[First Name], I saw. I know what he did, and you really have no idea who you’re gonna be alone with in what, five minutes?”

“Seven. And I know who Alastor is. He is a serial killer, a cannibal, and an overlord who broadcasts his carnage on the radio.” you said, raising the tea cup to your mouth as you took a languid sip, placing it back down the saucer a moment later with a clink. You looked at him. “He is also in a weakened physical state. He will not admit that he has not fully recovered from the war.”

“I swear to God, do not make me go to the princess and Vaggie about this, because I fucking will -”

“Telling them what he did will not change his tactics. He will simply find another way to intimidate me.” You cut off. “You know him better than anyone else, Husk. He is clever, manipulative, and will do anything to get what he wants.”

Husk shot a baffled look at you, eyebrows raised and yellow irises narrowed slightly. “You really don’t see how he looks at you, do you?”

You blinked. “As an enemy? Yes.” Hostility, anger, shock, humiliation. You had seen those expressions many times on that battlefield when you charged across No Man’s Land with the Major’s battalion, cutting through the enemy lines with anything in reach and at your disposal. A weapon of war, a loyal dog to the Major. You watched Husk’s face fall into disbelief, then aggravation before he slapped a paw across his face. You tilted your head to the side. What was wrong? Why was he upset? Is it something you had said? You watched the bartender stand up from the table, walk towards the lower cabinets, crouching down and pulling out a hidden bottle of whiskey. He uncorked it, and took a swing from it before turning back towards you, frowning.

“Ya might have been a soldier, ya might have things that would turn shit white and ya not be scared of Alastor…but you should be. He’s been gone for seven years, and no one knows why, but I can say with certainty that he’s much stronger than before. If you’re gonna talk to him, just….just don’t mention….he’s no different than I am, all right?” That was all he said before almost bolting towards the door, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

No different than what Husk is. You thought, picking up both of the half-eaten plates from the table, throwing the reminder in the trash, washing and rinsing them off under the tap before setting them down in the dish rack. What does that mean? Alastor does not drink nor does he gamble. Husk is under his commanding unit, a soldier. Your brow furrowed. Did Husk….knows something about Alastor that he doesn’t want others to know? How did Alastor rise to power so quickly and overthrow the overlords who had been dominant in Hell for centuries?

You would have to think about this possibility later, because when you looked at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, you realized you were already late for your meeting with Alastor.

Shadows were handy little helpers to have, Alastor notes. Not only could they provide protection to the staff when he had other matters to attend to in the Pentagram but they were excellent spies. To be his ears and gather all of the delicious secrets he could uncover from enemies that were actually some semblance of a threat to his plans, or just because he was bored and liked to keep tabs on the latest bits of gossip. He loved to share this information with Rosie over tea-time when the subject of their discussions was not revolved around the ornery old bitch, Susan.

Although they have proven themselves to be useful time and time again, these little helpers were also sentient and created their own discord, much to the frustration of their creator. As much as you can say you’ve been keeping a distance from Alastor, he unfortunately can’t say the same. His shadows as of late have found themselves almost constantly attached to you. Through darkened hallways to under your leaves at the greenhouse, they were always at your side. Ready to step in and assist you in any way they can, even if he won’t lift a finger.

Regardless of how annoyed he has been with them recently, they had repeated word for word of your conversation with Husk. They know you are late but have said that you are walking towards him and not from way to him, whispering how you were turning right at the end of the corridor and about to come across the staircase leading up to the radio station. They adored you, much to his annoyance. It had already been difficult to even comprehend the idea that he had feelings for you, and his shadows, unfortunately, reflected the darker parts of him that he wished to be locked up for all eternity. The weaknesses that were a threat to his own goals.

He could not act like an altruist or a lovesick fool. He hungered for power. He craved freedom. Nothing should stop him from carrying out what he wants. If he wrangled the truth out of you, to know that you despised him and did not care about him in any capacity….he will be satisfied.

Will he though?

His train of thought was soon interrupted by a knock at the door. Putting on his best smile and straightening out his bowtie, Alastor walked across the room and opened it. He looked down, and saw you staring at him. Your appearance wasn’t as ruffled as he had suspected it to be from being late for an appointment, just a few [Hair Color] strands loose from the hairstyle you wear every day ... .but he supposed he can let it slide this time. He’d rather not hear Niffty complain to him about how you aren’t eating your meals.

“Well, well, there you are~! And here I was wondering if you had forgotten! Come, come, take a seat!” He said, gesturing to the couch sitting adjacent to the soundboard where he sat. He did not even want to look at you, not at this moment. He could feel the shadows purring in delight under his feet, no doubt staring at you with such adoration that it made him gag. He reigned them with a pulse of his power just before a slippery fellow tried to crawl towards the couch and perch over your shoulder.

He took a seat, and so did you after smoothing out the skirts of your dress. You looked at him straight in the eye, spine straight and gloved hands folded neatly in your lap.

“So, you are aware as to why you are here, yes~?”

“...I am.”

“And why is that?” He pressed.

“Because I questioned your authority. You tried to frighten me, and you had failed.” You replied. “In my defense, you were in no position to exert yourself when you are still possessing an injury that you will not speak about to the others. I have no intention of saying that to anyone here. I only ask that you do not harm Charlie or the others here in the hotel, or I will keep the promise I made to you less than an hour ago. You will be killed by my hand or I will die trying. People keep secrets because it is necessary for their survival, and the others around them. How can I be sure….that you will not raise your hand and strike us down as soon as your wings are unclipped?”

Alastor’s eyes widened slightly as a wave of high-pitched radio static left his teeth and bounced off the walls before he quickly recollected himself. Goodness, always the blunt one, weren’t you? Inhaling sharply through his nostrils, he made sure his grin stretched all the way to his ears, never showing you what is really going through his mind. Annoyance. Frustration. Adoration. Amusement.

“Well, those words are the very reason why you are here, my dear.” He stood up from his chair, slowly walking around the soundboard, running a finger across the polished wood. His eyes were fixed on yours and you did not look away. Good. Keep your focus on him and nothing else.

“By meddling in my affairs, even if it was unintentional on your part, is putting the rest of the hotel in danger. I cannot be compromised under any circumstances, lest I anger the one whom I have an agreement with.”

“The one who is responsible for your rise in power?” He blinked, stopping in his steps for a moment. Ah. You caught on without him having to spell out to you. Unless dear old Husk had said something to you? No. The shadows have told him that he merely mentioned the seven years that the Radio Demon was gone, nothing beyond what everyone else already knew.

He nodded, swiveling on his feet and because he felt like it, a jaunty little spin before he sat on the coffee table, right in front of you and crossing his legs with such elegance that it would make a French girl jealous.

“Indeed. And trust me when I say they are much more powerful than Charlie’s dear father. That is to say, not even Lucifer can protect you or anyone else from what is about to or could happen should I be compromised. And I know how much you care about the staff here, even sweet little Niffty. Which is why…I want to make a deal.” He held out his hand towards you. “Keep what has happened at the radio station and anything else beyond these four walls to yourself. Never share what you know, not even to Charlie. In exchange for your silence, I will not harm anyone here in the hotel unless we know for certain that they are a threat. Well?” He tilted his head to the side. “Do we have a deal?”

You stared at his hand, then raised your own to your lips, carefully tugging off the glove with your teeth until it fell into your lap. The adamantine skeletal fingers curled around his own, solidifying the deal between the two of you. Alastor felt a burst of power course through him, felt the stitches on his mouth and eyes tugging, the walls turning emerald and the shadows danced around them in celebration. Then the magic subsided, yet the warmth, the burning sensations from your prosthetics seeping through the leather gloves did not. A chirping of radio static left his mouth upon feeling his hand being squeezed to an almost painful degree. When he looked at you, he saw emotions swirling in your eyes that he had not seen from you yet.

Anger.

Disappointment.

Resentmentment.

These were emotions he had caused. Him, the one who was holding your hand tightly because he made a simple deal for yourr silence, and not her soul. So why does he feel conflicted? He had gotten what he wanted, to push you away from him, to banish these uninvited feelings from his chest. But this deal did not give him any satisfaction. It caused him…pain. The kind of pain that he cannot explain. It was not the pain he felt when he missed an opportunity to have an excellent dinner, and not even the pain that…that Adam had given him.

For whatever reason, he could not stop himself from bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss across the knuckles even when the angelic steel instantly burned his mouth upon contact. When he realized what he had done, he pulled away as if he had been struck again by his drunken father and promptly left his office, disappearing into the darkness and subsequently from the hotel altogether.

He did not like this. He did not like these feelings. He did not like how he never had the opportunity to ask him if you cared about him, loved him…yet why did your opinion matter? Why did he want to hear you say, out of your volition, that you love him too? To a man who is supposed to feel nothing at all?!

Times like this, there was only one person who could provide light on this precarious situation without daring to judge him. The Pentagram’s most delightful, daring, and dangerous overlord of Cannibal Town. Rosie. His oldest and dearest friend.

He supposed it had been long enough since the two of them had tea together, hasn’t it?

Alastor inhaled a shaky breath, allowing himself to materialize on the streets near the Jazz District and smiled brightly as if he wasn’t having an existential crisis, humming a merry tune under his breath that made nearby demons tremble in fear.

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