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Chaos and a heated argument was not on your list for that day. And yet here you are—apron soaked in broth, hair covered in flour, and face full of spices. All because a certain radio demon thought they could meddle in the affairs of your (self-proclaimed) culinary expertise.
It took all in your willpower to not tear yourself apart—to not tear him apart. No. You were going to salvage this.
Frankly, you shouldn't be so worked up as you are. It's just a potluck. A simple potluck… that Charlie had been planning all week for. That's right. This is for Charlie. This has to be perfect, instilling a sense of togetherness among the residents and staff of the hotel. And nothing spells togetherness more than food.
… that, or your pride just won't let you make something passable at best.
And so there you are in the pantry, scouring the shelves desperately for the one ingredient you swear would top off the feast you’d miraculously whipped up in the span of an afternoon. It’s almost ironic that you managed all that, but somehow can’t find a singular additive.
What was it called again? What did it look like?
The cogs in your mind screech as they attempt another round of recollection. You’ve only got an hour left, but the blasted man—your little red-clad nuisance—is not making it any easier for you.
You tense when you feel him slither up behind you. His body is just barely pressing against yours, but you can feel the icy air and faint static that coincides his presence. With a resigned grumble, you mutter,“I got it, Alastor.”
He responds with a condescending chuckle that rumbles in his chest. “Darling, it's obvious you don’t.”
“I said I got it,” you huff, standing on the tip of your toes in an attempt to reach the top shelves. It's futile, but you're not admitting it. Over your dead body. “So why don't you scram and be a thorn on someone else's side?”
“Oh, you are so adorable when you act like you're capable of things clearly out of your reach,” he snides, clearly ignoring your last remark. And, although you can't see it, you can almost sense the mocking grin plastered on his stupid face as he adds, “—figuratively and literally.”
“Shut up,” you grunt as you push a few boxes and jars out of the way, your eyes squinted in your struggle to scan the shelf through the dim lighting. This pantry could really use a new lightbulb.
“Oh-ho!” Alastor hollers, thoroughly amused by your blunt and frankly boorish reply. He bends slightly, his breath now fanning the junction of your neck and shoulder. “Finally ran out of ripostes?”
The warmth is a delicious contrast to the draft pantry that makes your skin prickle—much to your chagrin. “Shut up!”
Alastor grins at the palpable vexation in your voice. “I will once you tell me what damned thing you're looking for.”
You can feel your eyebrow quirk almost instinctively. Why the hell would he choose to help now? You have to resist the urge of twisting your neck 180 degrees just to shoot him a look of incredulity before croaking from the absurdity of Alastor offering his assistance. Instead, you huff in response, “I forgot what it's called, I just remember what it looks like.”
Alastor can't help the guffaw wracking his towering form which he has to steady by anchoring his hand to the shelf—faintly brushing your little finger. The only thing that douses the fire blooming on your cheeks is the haughty remark that comes immediately. “Who's a lousy cook now? It seems you may have been embellishing your self-proclaimed mastery in the kitchen; biting off more than you can chew? How pitiful.”
Albeit the mockery dripping from his voice, you can't help the shiver threatening to straighten your spine. Your bones buckle ever so slightly with the familiar sensation you swear is unwelcomed only because it's with him. You veil the mild tremor in your voice with another vexed groan, “Al, move.”
You shift, adjusting to reach deeper into the shelf with an odd level of determination to avoid further brushing against his arm—or any part of him for that matter. This pantry is definitely not made for two people. That much is clear… besides the issue slowly making itself known between your thighs.
“Just tell me what it is so we can get this over with,” Alastor huffs.
“I can handle it,” you are quick to respond, maintaining some semblance of the civility threatening to slip from your grasp. As if to emphasize the point you’d long lost, you adjust your position, your arm reaching as far as you can into the darkness, clinking jars and shuffling boxes to feign progress in your clearly hopeless endeavor.
“Darling, it's clear you can't so how about you—stop squirming.”
“How about you move over?”
“Stop—”
“No, you stop.”
“Darling, STOP.”
Your muscles lock instantly. But it's not from the gravity of his command. No. Imposed demands from the overbearing, overindulgent deer man are not alien. It's the slight tremble in his voice that catches your attention. A crack in his pristine facade. Something firm presents itself against the plushness of your rump. It could be anything… Lord, for a moment, you prayed that it be something else… but the involuntary throb makes it undeniable. It doesn't take you a second longer to realize what it is. You want to move away, screeching bloody murder, and then apologize profusely.
… but that proud part of you tells you that this thorn on your side—or, more accurately, on your ass—doesn't deserve it. You don’t want to relent. You won't relent.
“Oh? Stop what?” you ask, voice saccharine with an obviously faux innocence.
You bend down, searching the lower shelves and inadvertently applying pressure against the foreign object writhing against the fabric of its confines. Alastor knows his shadows could simply warp him out of this unforeseen predicament… but his prudence reprimands him that such a retreat would be the textbook definition of cowardice. That is exactly what you want. But, oh, he won't give you the satisfaction.
“Darling,” Alastor starts, his pitch dropping to a gravelly point that rumbles his chest and reverberates across the air of the confining pantry. “If you don't stop,” he attempts to make it sound like a warning, but the momentary hitch in his breath when you brush against him once more does not help. His free hand flies to your hip, steadying you with a grip he only realized made things worse when it was too late. Dipping his head down, he practically growls into your ear, his resolve manifested in a fullness he never dared think possible. “I won't be responsible for what will happen.”
You seal your fate with a defiant grind.
**********
It's five forty in the afternoon. Twenty minutes before the long-awaited potluck, and the Hazbin Hotel slowly finds itself alight with preparations. Residents stir within the walls of the establishment, rummaging for necessities and striking conversations in the lobby as they wait for the official commencement of the function.
Deep within the hotel, the kitchen pantry, itself, is abuzz with its own kind of party. One charged with a heady mix of indignation and carnal desire its two sole guests refuse to acknowledge despite their undeniable circumstance.
A shaky whine leaves your lips as Alastor slides himself in and out of your wet cunt through the small partition of your clothes. Your arms rest on the fourth tier of the shelf as you scramble to collect yourself—the sensation of his girth, pulling and pushing on your insides—subjecting you in the thick haze of a pesky need only Alastor could satisfy.
You try to remain quiet as Alastor fucks you in a steady pace. The only signs of life behind the closed pantry door, your ragged breathing, the sound of skin slapping together, and the occasional gasp of each other’s name.
Something about holding you in this position—helpless, powerless—feeds the heat in Alastor's stomach. He dips his head down to nuzzle and nip on your neck, roughly—playfully. You try in vain to suppress a moan, “Al—”
“Shhhh...” Alastor coos against your skin. “Quiet. You wouldn't want anyone to find us like this, would you?”
You whine. Whether it is out of protest or agreement, even you are unsure.
“Is this what you wanted, darling?” Alastor purrs against the shell of your ear with harsh thrust.
Yes. “No,” you pant.
Alastor hums, amused by your attempt to lie even as you clench deliciously around his cock. He can sense the truth underneath. But he wants to hear it. His teeth graze the expanse of your shoulder he had exposed with a hasty tug of your top. Sharp rows dig down on your skin, drawing gasps from his canvas, and sprouting crimson rivulets which he eagerly laps with his hot tongue.
He resumes his taunts, “You wanted to rile me up? To tease me? Push my buttons? But you didn't think about the consequences, did you?” Hisses punctuate each question, a clear indication of the pleasure rocking his body with each measured thrust. But he manages to rein himself in for a jab he deems necessary. “Always so impulsive.”
You open your mouth to retaliate, but all that comes out is a moan which you quickly try to muffle with a hand. You take a moment to recover before your next attempt. “You… ass… hole…” you grunt defiantly in between pathetic pants. “You… ah … start—... —ed… it...”
A chuckle reverberates from Alastor's chest, taking pleasure in your incorrigible resistance even as he's practically splitting you down the middle, even as your augmenting slick drips onto the cold tile floor. His eyes train on the view of you beneath him—the tensing of your muscles underneath the fabric of your top, the faint rustling of your hair… and the waves that roll your skin with each delicious thrust. He couldn’t help the urge to slap your ass just enough to elicit a pleasured hiss from his quarry—a sound that tugs further at his toothy grin, exposing his blackened gums. “And yet you respond so well, my dear.”
You let out another sound—a cross between a hiss and a moan—when you feel his hand caress the welt he’d inflicted, the sting all too real… and all too good to admit. Lips pressed into a thin line, you attempt to save whatever fragments of your face are left. But the shiver that raises bumps along your flesh when he slaps the same spot is all the dead giveaway he needed to keep going.
Alastor hums, his body bending over, molding against yours like the final piece to your jigsaw puzzle. His thrusts adjust to a quicker rhythm, his cock no longer dragging in and out of your entrance in favor of frotting against your warm, pulsating walls. He lets out a low growl as his brain registers the sensation that came with the change.
A similar noise manages to slip past your lips, your head dropping on your arms when you notice the position—and the sudden, growing feeling that wasn’t there before. Something switches in the mechanisms of your psyche, and your jaw slacks open. “F-Fuck. Alastor —” you gasp when the tip of his shaft brushes against a spot on your walls.
Fingers try desperately to grasp the smooth surface of the shelf, in search for an anchor against the tides of pleasure washing over you. It’s a futile effort. But you don’t care anymore. Not when he’s rutting into you like his power depended on it. And definitely not when you feel his hand slide underneath your clothes to feel himself pushing against your flesh with each pound.
“Yes, darling. Just like that.” Alastor murmurs against the shell of your ear, voice trembling in his blatant attempt to rein himself from losing all sense of decorum.
Your eyelids flutter halfway as you feel yourself slip into a state of disorientation. Sounds people are paid to make, fill the pantry, mixing with the wet squelches originating where you find yourselves connected. Tingles blaze across your flesh as his thrusts grow frantic, erratic. The fibers of your body feel taut everywhere and the coil in your core twists to the maximum it could.
“Oh—Al!” You let out a final, pathetic cry. Your walls tighten around him. And for a moment, all you could see is white. All you could feel is him, and the warmth of his seed spilling into you.
Alastor has to bite his tongue to suppress a wanton moan—choking it back behind reserved staccato pants. His hips don’t stop, chasing his high until it wanes into nothing but a faint buzz in his body.
It takes you a minute to compose yourself, your breathing calm, though your flesh remains thrumming with the aftershocks of your release. You brace yourself with your arms, lifting your head up and shifting your hips to pull away—only for Alastor to clamp down on you with a vice grip, nails digging so hard it’s baffling he hasn’t drawn blood. A shaky whimper makes its way past your lips, your head craning to finally look him in the eye. The blasted man is back wearing the same smug facade he had earlier—frankly, all the time. It’s infuriating.
And yet why do you feel a spontaneous splash of heat painting your cheeks? Why do you feel the overwhelming need to melt under his calculating gaze?
You shake your head—internally, of course—and roll your eyes. But Alastor simply lets out a soft chuckle, as though he could see straight right through your pretense. “Come now, darling. You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy that.”
“I didn’t,” you lie. (No shit, Sherlock.)
Grasping your chin with a surprising amount of care, Alastor taunts. “My dear sweet darling. You are many things, but I would have never taken you for a liar.”
Your eyes widen a fraction, the heat in your cheeks expanding in scope at the unnerving gentleness of his touch… the way his velvety voice rolls off his silvery tongue, resonating through the air—through your trembling bones. The way he can call you out in such a way that makes you want to bite back, combust, and fuck him simultaneously. But all that you could manage is a curt, convictionless huff. “Are you done?”
Alastor’s grin widens, exposing more of his gums. “Not quite.”
In a heartbeat, you find yourself twisted to meet him sideways—one arm braced against the shelf, while your free hand clings to his coat for dear life. Black tendris had manifested out of nowhere and unceremoniously tugged your bottoms off completely. You open your mouth to spout feigned protests, but all words die in your throat when Alastor lifts your leg as he thrusts back in with a reverberating growl.
“Ah—Alastor!” You let out a yelp as you register the feel of this new angle. Fuck. Yes. You can’t deny it anymore. You’re enjoying every bit of this. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and your eyes grow half-lidded as you finally set your moans free. “Oh god, Al. Yes...”
Alastor grunts in response, his grip on your leg tightening as he slides his cock out until the base of the head and slams it back to the hilt. “Jesus. Fuck, darling,” he hisses leaning down to nuzzle your neck. “Are you always this snug?”
You want to say something. Anything. But all that rolls of your tongue is an incoherent mess of syllables, lodged in between pathetic whimpers and lewd moans. A familiar coil begins to twist in the pit of your stomach, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through your system with each welcomed thrust.
All forms of inhibition are now tossed out the imaginary window—that Alastor makes clear when he conjures more of his tendrils. The hand on your leg is replaced by a ghostly shadow, holding it in place, while his greedy hands busy themselves. Alastor's tongue darts out of hiding, slinking about your neck and shoulder, as he grasps and squeezes every inch of your flesh. You whine at the feel of his wet, hot tongue, making your skin prickle and your core buzz with thrill.
The tentacles move with precision, hooking around the top half of your clothes and pushing it up just enough to expose more of your needy flesh. A ravenous growl reverberates from Alastor as he cups your breasts, squeezing and massaging, his sharp nails teasing to break skin.
You moan in response, your tongue rolling out when you feel a tendril slithering up your stretched slit—gathering slick and then swirling deliciously around your swollen clit.
“That's it, darling,” Alastor purrs, punctuated by a harsh thrust. “My good girl. Will you come for me, darling?”
You nod frantically, earning a pleased groan from Alastor, his cock writhing in excitement against your walls, making you dance on the edge. “So… so close…” you pant, your eyes trying and failing to focus on Alastor's face, still proud and yet subtly laced with the ecstasy coursing his veins.
“Good girl. Let go for me, darling. My dear, sweet darling,” he growls against your ear, his thrusts intensifying and the shadow teasing your clit growing insistent.
As if on instinct, the coil snaps. “Al!” you cry out, your eyes shutting as you let yourself fall over the edge.
Alastor's orgasm follows shortly, his hips rutting into you until strings of his seed paint your walls white once more. He grabs a fistful of your hair and, without thinking, crashes his lips against yours, your tongues colliding in a messy heap of pants and whimpers. He clings to you like a lifeline, groaning unabashedly at the sensation of you clenching around his cock—milking him dry and filling you past the brim.
With a final thrust, Alastor stills, his body hunched over and pulling you close. For a moment, you simply stay there, relishing in the feel of the unexpected warmth of each other’s company.
After a while, Alastor pulls away, coaxing a soft mewl from you. You look up at him, eyes tired and yet bearing an obvious plea for more. “Al…”
Alastor chuckles, his fucked-out expression schooled into its usual one of unwavering decorum. “Later, darling,” he purrs, planting a kiss on your forehead which leaves either of you feeling both fuzzy and puzzled.
He reaches up to a tucked corner on the shelf and pulls out a small jar of seeds. Your eyes widen in incredulity at the familiar sight and the fact that the blasted deer man had known its whereabouts for god knows how long.
Alastor simply grins triumphantly. “We have a potluck to attend to.”