Alastor led you away into the forest, and you followed behind him closely. You didn't exactly have the power you had in Hell here in the Overworld, so you felt disgustingly vulnerable in this dark, twisted little forest, like a murderer could jump out at any second and slaughter you.
You stared at the back of Alastor's head, at his fluffy, thick brown tresses that hardly reached the base of his neck; his hair was shorter here than in Hell. Then you realized — he's the murderer in the forest you need to fear.
Has he killed people? You began to wonder endlessly about it as he led you last shrubbery and fallen logs and protruding stumps. A few times, you almost tripped over veins of branches invisible to the human eye, covered by heaps of dead, late summer leaves. You determined that he probably had, most definitely in Hell, but even more certainly when he was alive in the Overworld. How else did he come to Hell and rise to power so quickly?
A certain little voice arose in the back of your head. You have too, it said. Many, you have killed. You shivered and pushed it down, trying to ignore it. You had tried to forget about that side of you up until this point. You had pretty much forgot you were serial killer when you were alive on Earth when you were in Hell. The hunger you had for blood...
No, you thought. No, that wasn't me... I didn't do those things. Were you going crazy? You did do those things. You killed dozens of innocent people, particularly women, in your climb to the top of the ballet scene.
I didn't do it, you told yourself, but the little voice returned, screaming, yet whispering in your ear: But you did.
You tried to push the thoughts away, but the eerie atmosphere of the forest and the reminder that someone scarily just like you was leading you away to his old personal home in the Overworld was a constant reminder of the terrible things you had done while you were alive here.
You wonder what he would think of you if he knew you had killed so many people... Would he praise you? Would he be disgusted? Jealous? What would he say...?
"We're here," said Alastor, and without you even noticing, you had arrived at a creepy, clearly abandoned estate. It was a two-story brick house with a chimney and hardly any windows. The lawn was overgrown and unkempt, going to your knees, and there was a cobblestone pathway trailing out from the steps to the door.
"You lived here?" you said. Your voice sounded strange in the silence of the forest. Your eyes latched onto a squirrel that was collecting nuts atop a tall tree just behind the house.
"No, love, I lived in a tree stump," said Alastor with a cocky simper. He turned his head back to look at you, his hands folded behind his back. You deadpanned. Did this motherfucker really just get sarcastic with me...?
"Fuck off," you said.
He only chuckled, and it was this interaction that made you notice how different his voice sounded without the filter of radio static over top it. It was clear and melodic, yet deep and low and reverberating. You had a hunch that he was a fantastic singer.
You followed Alastor to the front door. He grabbed a spare key from under the mat and stuck it into the keyhole, but the keyhole fell off the door and clattered to the ground.
"Well," said Alastor, his voice full of humor.
"Just push it open."
"What else would I do, my dear?" said Alastor, and then he proceeded to push on the wooden door. You stared burning holes into the back of his head. The fuck was he being so sassy for?
"Y'know, sugar," you said, irritated. "You're just proving my point."
You entered the threshold, Alastor holding the door open for you. You stepped in first and he shut the door behind the two of you. The floorboards creaked as you entered through the foyer.
"What point?" said Alastor, the smile he wore loosely on his face evident in his voice.
"My point that being in the Overworld with you would be absolutely insufferable."
"Hah," said Alastor simply.
The two of you entered the living room. The place smelled dusty, stale, and similarly to the forest but thicker, in a sense. Every time you took a step, a dust cloud floated up into the air. You sneezed a few times.
"You know, my dear [Y/N]," said Alastor suddenly, rummaging through drawers in the living room. You stood idle by, hardly paying any notice to him and instead observing the place he used to live. "For such a big, bad, intimidating Overlord, you sure do sound like a kitten when you sneeze." He smirked and looked up for a second. "Which makes sense, I suppose."
You didn't even know what to say to that. Your face glowed a bright red.
"No, I don't," you countered.
"Oh, but you do," replied Alastor. He squatted down and pulled open a bottom drawer, searching through it as well. His hands latched onto something and he gripped in his hands, sighing and standing up.
You, on the other hand, we're looking at the walls. There were picture frames of vintage photos of Alastor and what you can assume to be his colleagues on his walls, along with candleholders and the occasional window framed by thick burgundy curtains. What you noticed most of all, however, were the many deer heads on the walls.
You approached the nearest one to you, the one above the fireplace in the living room — he really did have a beautiful home; you guess it's because in his life he was a famous, likely very rich, radio host. It had a golden plate on the wooden slab it was attached to, which read Alastor's name and a date on it: Nov. 22, 1926.
You were so engrossed in the elk head that you hardly noticed when there was a figure behind your. You felt a cold, rusted blade pressed to your cheek. You froze.
"One of my better kills, if I do say so myself," said Alastor lowly in your ear, his voice gravelly and deep, the sound making your spine tingle. His hand was secured around your waist, his touch almost ghostly. He was cold, very cold.
The blade on your cheek felt like ice. He ran it down the side of your face, breathing into your ear. You couldn't move. You didn't want to move, yet your mind screamed at you that he was dangerous, that you should. Was it because of your human instincts telling you to get the fuck away from him because you didn't have your Demon powers anymore?
"I remember spotting it in those very trees we just emerged from," said Alastor in your ear. You could feel his taller body press against your backside. "I was younger then. I wanted to try to kill it without a gun."
"You..." you breathed, hardly understanding him because you were so distracted by his body pressing into yours, and it felt so fucking good — Fuck! What is happening, what is happening, what is fucking happening?! "...you killed an elk with your bare hands..? How..?"
"I'm very..." he trailed off, his hand gripping your waist so tight you're certain it would bruise. It was so painful you yelped out loud, but you couldn't move, no... You couldn't move because he had a fucking hunting knife to your face. "...fast."
God, why did he have to sound so suggestive?
"Tell me, [Y/N]..." continued Alastor, after noticing your intense silence. Before he finished his words, he brought his hot mouth to your earlobe and nibbled down on it, swirling his long tongue around gently a good one or two times. Oh my God... Your heart thumped in your ears, and you felt as if any moment Alastor would just tear your throat out then and there and drink from you... "...Have you ever...?" He didn't finish.
"What?" you said breathlessly, and it unintentionally came out as a pleasured mewl from the feeling of his tongue and mouth sucking and biting and nibbling on your earlobe detaching so suddenly so that he could speak. "Have I ever what...?"
"Have you ever killed a person before?" he breathed, and you he was so close in your ear you could feel his teeth graze you when he grinned. "Do you know how amazing it feels?"
His hand slid from your waist up your abdomen, and then gradually, up to your breast. You inhaled sharply, but you couldn't stop him. You didn't want to... but you also did? You couldn't think straight. It's like your mind was now the foggy forest you landed here in — open, silent, eerie, misty...
"I do," you blurted without even intending to, feeling so strongly like you needed to prove your dominance in this tight situation that you weren't even thinking before you spoke.
"Oh?"
"I know what it's like," you whispered, "to have warm blood on your hands, your body, your face..." He shifted behind you, and you could feel something hard pressing into your back. "...I know how fantastic it feels to watch a fucking whore fall to your feet as you twist a blade into her chest... I know what it's like to drain the life out of her pathetic eyes..."
Alastor chuckled in your ear, a closed-mouth chuckle coming from the throat. "Interesting. Very interesting, little fawn."
Fuck. You couldn't believe you just said that. Was it even you that just uttered those words? That side of you... You wanted to forget she existed, forget all the shameful things she has done. But the pleasure of killing was reminded by Alastor, by his sinister words whispered so seductively into your ear.
It's like he was tainting you. You thought you couldn't get any darker, but here he was, distracting you and himself from your true purpose here in the Overworld and reminding you of who you used to be.
"You know, my dear," said Alastor. His hands ran down your chest, down your stomach, and then he held a hand over your mid-region, so so so close to your core. You shifted around uncomfortable, but not much, in fear of the blade still held to your cheek. "I never realized how... delectable people tasted until I came to Hell..." He licked your earlobe, his long tongue running up the skin. "...I could show you sometime, maybe... If you would like."
Then, abruptly, he sliced your cheek open with the knife. It was a small nick, but it was enough to draw a good amount of flowing, hot, red blood.
"Fuck!" you exclaimed in shock, pushing him off you and turning around to look at him in fury. "Did you just-?!"
He chuckled deeply, and then approached you, backing you into the fireplace. You were helpless here without your powers, and he was tall, lean and strong, and he was a man. You had no strength over him. You couldn't overpower him even if you tried.
Then, he cusped your face with his hand and rubbed his thumb over the bleeding wound he had made on your face. He swiped over it, and it stung like a bitch, and then he licked the blood off his thumb.
What the fuck?
"Mmm," he moaned in delight, closing his eyes in pleasure. He cleaned every drop of the burgundy substance off his hand, sucking and licking and drinking. Butterflies swarmed your stomach violently, and your heart beat so hard you thought it may fly out of your chest and cause you to drop dead. "I'd have to say, little fawn, you are simply the best I have ever tasted."
What. The. Fuck.
Wait. Why were you into this? You could deny it — your undergarments were soaking wet, and your vision was cloudy and half-black. Your eyes were half-lidded with unwanted lust, and you could not help but feel helplessly attracted to this absolute monster of a man.
Then, Alastor took the hunting knife to his middle finger and sliced it, drawing blood from the digit. It was thick and red and it poured down to his knuckles. His hand quivered. He wore a small smirk on his face. You couldn't help but stare at him, unable to remove your gaze from him.
"What is it, darling?" said Alastor, his smug smirk growing ever-the-wider. "Curious? Give it a try."
His body went flush against yours, his broad, flat chest smushing your breasts. His breath fanned your face and you could feel his erection on your stomach. Oh my... fuck...
Alastor slowly raised his hand up and put his bleeding middle finger into your mouth, forcing your plump lips to close around the digit.
"Suck."
You let out a muffled moan, the taste of irony, yet strangely sweet blood coating your tongue.
"That's a good girl..." he cooed in delight.
"Mmphmm..." you moaned into his hand. It was pleasurable, the experience, though you would never admit it in a million years.
"That's it.." said Alastor, his voice low and his head hanging beside yours, your head touching. "That's it. Keep going.."
You did as you were told, drinking from him like some sort of animal. And it tasted good — he tasted good. It couldn't be very comfortable, you were sure, for Alastor. You could envision the stinging, white-hot pain going up his hand right now from your mouth latched and sucking around his finger.
That's when he whimpered in your ear. A quiet, barely audible whimper that was whispered hotly into your ear. Oh my fuck oh my fuck oh my fuck. He then let out another closed-mouthed moan, a small "hmmph" sound of pleasure.
Fuck. He was a masochist. Of course the sick motherfucker was a fucking masochist.
"Fuck... [Y/N]..." Alastor whined lowly in your ear when you suddenly dug your canines into the wound inside your hot mouth. "Shit."
You hardly ever heard Alastor curse. He was a gentleman, and despite his infuriatingly sarcastic and arrogant personality, he was a delicate man when it came to his words. It was charming. But right now... oh, he simply unfolded under you and melted right into the palms of your hands without you even initiating it.
Is this actually happening right now? you thought breathlessly.
After another pleasurable minute of this, Alastor removed himself from you, and you relinquished your hold on his hand. He panted, breathless, and his signature smile had been replaced by a look of need and want and lust. Fuck fuck fuck. You couldn't think straight with him looking at you like that.
Then he grinned — a wild, sadistic, triumphant grin.
"Still think it's going to be an insufferable time with me here, my love?"
"Very," you spat with narrowed eyes. Yes, you may have had a moment of weakness with him, but that didn't mean you hated him any less... right?
"I doubt it," Alastor replied, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear. He gestured his head to the door. "Let's go retrieve my old microphone, now, shall we?"