Welcome back! Lots of updates on the blog through this month, and a few will be off the usual schedule of Sunday (and Wednesday). If you don't want to miss an update, be sure you're subscribed to my website for emails. You won't get anything outside of alerts when I've updated my blog. :)

Chapter 10: Food Fight

Grace roused sometime close to midnight—to her best guess, anyway, after Alastor had at long last fallen asleep beside her. Unable to doze again, she sneaked out of his bedroom in favor of wandering the hotel aimlessly.

The hall sconces were dimmed throughout the building, providing sharp contrast to the flickering in one of the small alcoves off the common area. Another night owl like Grace must have been indulging in some late-night entertainment.

Grace tiptoed by so as not to disturb whoever was there.

Kofax glanced up and waved Grace over enthusiastically when she paused in the doorway. “Graceland! What are you doing up and unaccompanied by your carmine captor?”

After a brief hesitation, Grace joined Kofax, sitting beside her on the couch. “One of these days, you’re gonna run out of alliterative nicknames for Al. Just use his given name, already.”

“Never, and I refuse—respectively.” Kofax snorted.

“Why not? Do you think by using it, you’ll conjure him as if he’s Beetlejuice or something?”

Kofax cocked her head at Grace, sobering quickly. “You actually allowed to hang out with me?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be that way. It’s not like he’s holding me hostage.”

“Mmm.”

Grace glanced at the television; an ad played for Voxtek CRISPR-based gene-editing ‘treatments.’

“Vox is dabbling in eugenics now,” said Grace dryly. “That’s comforting.”

Kofax sighed. “I’m just gonna keep bugging you until you open up to me, so you might as well just tell me what’s up and save us both the time and annoyance. You may be stubborn as all fuck but I assure you, I can be just as stubborn.”

“I think … I think I … might be seeing Al’s perverted version of what Grampa Bedgood called courting behavior?”

“How so?”

Grace regaled Kofax of Alastor’s conduct over the last several days, after which Kofax sat in silent contemplation.

“Yeah, that’s … not courting behavior.” She added reluctantly, “That sounds like mating behavior.”

Grace scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“No, seriously. Your rouge rogue is part deer … this could be his equivalent of being in rutting season. He’s from NOLA, right?”

“Yeah,” Grace replied. “I … believe so?” She promptly cringed that she still felt like she knew nothing about Alastor. Yeah, he claimed to find those poor frogs he tortured along the Mississippi but that river runs through like, what, ten states?

Kofax pulled up a rut map on her phone, which, to Grace’s shock and chagrin, was a real thing that actually existed—and for the most abhorrent of purposes. The fox reviewed the dates off to one side of the screen. “Look.” She turned the phone toward Grace and pointed. “December fifth through the eighteenth.”

Grace forced a chuckle. They were decidedly within that timeframe.

“Animal instincts can be a bitch and a half,” said Kofax. “I’ve got some myself that I don’t particularly enjoy. So, um … some bestie-to-bestie advice? If I were you, I’d take every possible precaution and steer clear of him for the next week or so. Rutting bucks are aggressive and with RD’s typical demeanor, I can only imagine how much worse it could get.”

Grace leaned back against the couch cushions. He couldn’t get any worse than she’d seen him lately. Although the stalking and thrashing through his bayou recently seemed excessive and worrisome—even for him. “I’m fine. He’s fine. Everything’s fine!” She added flippantly for good measure, “I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He can’t hurt me irrevocably. He won’t hurt me irrevocably. I’m too valuable to him.

If, that is, he’s still sane enough to recognize my value.

Way to scare yourself unnecessarily, Grace.

Hur dur dur.

“Hey—” Kofax cleared her throat. “Charlie’s really cranking the a/c tonight, so … can we snuggle? Please?”

“I—I don’t know—” 

“I’m cold and—honestly?—a little touch-starved lately.”

It was pretty frosty in there. If it got much colder, Grace’s nipples would slice right through her bra cups. Not to mention that it would be nice to be on the receiving end of affection that wouldn’t result in having to heal some sort of wound. After marked hesitation, she scooted over and said, “Gimme some of that cover, K.”

Kofax draped it over Grace’s shoulders and leaned in. 

Once the ads concluded, Kofax unmuted the television in time for Katie Killjoy to announce, “Today is December eleventh. Do you know what that means, Tom?” But before Tom Trench could reply, Katie answered on his behalf: “Abso-fucking-lutely nothing! Triple digits forecast for Pentagram City for the interminable future! While you’re sweltering at midnight, just remember: this weather is God’s punishment for the gays!”

Kofax shifted in her spot, slipping an arm around Grace’s shoulders and resting her hand atop Grace’s breast.

Grace glanced down at it, her eyebrows darting up. “Um …” She laughed uncomfortably. “Whatcha doin’ there?”

With a sheepish smile and a tiny shrug, Kofax replied, “You’ve got more meat than I do. It’s comfy.”

“And … it’s not yours?”

“I’m just borrowing it. Let’s call this … platonic groping.”

“‘Platonic groping.’” Grace replied incredulously.

Kofax’s gaze snapped up to something behind Grace, her eyes widening and face draining of its color.

Grace turned to see what caught Kofax’s attention and seemingly frightened her right into a different ring of Hell.

Alastor stood in the entry of the alcove, silhouetted by the hallway wall sconces, his slitted, radio-dial eyes aglow and his horns racking. “Take your hand off of Grace’s chest,” he growled, “before I take your hand off of you.”

Yet before Kofax had the opportunity to follow instructions—and before Grace could guiltily slip out from beside her—Alastor snapped his fingers and whisked Grace magically back to his bedroom.

The moment his shadows dissipated around them, he snapped, “Run.”

“What?”

“Run, Grace!”

Their last chase lasted 45 minutes. 

This one lasted 45 seconds—if that—before Alastor snatched Grace by her waist and pitched her against the nearest bald cypress trunk hard enough to make stars flash before her eyes. For a moment, she hoped those were lightning bugs and not the symptoms of a concussion.

He trapped her against that tree, planting his feet hip-width apart between the cypress knees emerging from the water. His palms pressed into the fibrous, grayish-brown bark on either side of her shoulders, rack of antlers on full display. Grace had never seen them so expansive. They were breathtaking; beautiful and horrific.

Not that Alastor had ever been in his right mind, but he looked exceptionally out of it at the moment. More touched in the head than his baseline lunacy. A whole new level of insanity. Like he’d attained psychotic nirvana. The lights were on but only crazy was home.

He breathed heavily, adjusting his stance to wedge his thigh between hers.

“I want something from you, Grace,” Alastor said between deep pants, “but I can’t figure out what.”

Grace maintained his crazed stare, attempting to be the sane to his insanity. Her voice steady and soothing, she assured him, “We can figure it out together.”

“Even if it’s terrifying?”

She smirked. “Especially if it’s terrifying.” Hope I don’t regret saying that!

“I’ve lost my appetite. I scarcely sleep anymore, not even when you’re in my arms. You’ve been consuming every thought and I can only think of—” He exhaled hard, glancing down in the minimal space he’d left between their bodies.

Her gaze followed his down to his tightly tented trousers.

Grace’s eyes widened and lips parted. She trembled, shrinking back against the tree as much as it—and Alastor—afforded her.

Alastor shifted in his spot, rubbing his thigh against her pussy through their clothes.

Her pulse jumped, breath coming harder and louder.

Then he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her clean off the ground and cutting off her airway entirely.

Even though she knew he wouldn’t kill her, fear overwhelmed all reason. Her eyes watered as she tried prying his hands off her neck unsuccessfully.

Grace came to moments later as Alastor lowered her back to the ground, kissing her all over her face and lapping up her tears with long sweeps of his tongue. “Your cheeks are such a lovely color when they’re flooded with your blood.”

She gasped, taking several deep breaths now that she could again. You like my skin flooded with blood, do you? She sunk her teeth into her lip hard enough to pierce it.

It was every bit as painful as when Alastor bit her but far less pleasurable.

He watched with rapidly dilating pupils as blood pooled between her lips before he closed in on her and licked them clean. Then he pressed his tongue between them, seeking more red nectar. So briefly, the action turned to deep kisses.

When he took her lower lip between his, Grace could feel him drawing the blood from her as he suckled on it. With his mouth against hers, he murmured, “There is nothing in this afterlife as exhilarating as knowing you belong to me, sweetheart.”

She was terrified. She was nauseated. She felt small and fragile. And she was wildly turned on.  She detested herself. “I love being yours,” moaned Grace, daring to allow her eyes to drift closed. “Take me, Radio Demon, any way you want me.”

“You’ll be sorry you offered that,” he warned, his voice low and staticky.

At that warning, her eyes flew open.

In that same unnerving way Alastor ghosted from place to place and made garments appear from nothingness, he vanished their clothes with a snap of his fingers.

“Hey!” she yelped once she recovered her vocal cords. “I was wearing those!”

“And they were in my way. Did you want them back?”

She lowered her lashes and exhaled, “No, thank you, Radio Daddy,” although she sincerely doubted he would entertain any other response.

Alastor continued sucking on her lips, his body encroaching on hers until there was nothing left in her field of vision but him; he’d grown enough in stature that his erection jabbed her lower abdomen.

She’d taken him on in this state—and larger. She knew she could handle it even if she preferred he not push her limitations. And yet, knowing he’d likely do the exact opposite, Grace couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “Please, no bigger.” 

And instantly, she regretted the request.

“No?” he asked with a taunting smile and wicked glint in his eyes. He lifted her face by the chin with the side of his index finger. “Didn’t you swear to help me figure things out? Especially if they’re terrifying?”

Oh, fuck. Well, R.I.P. my lady-bits. Grace swallowed hard, nodded. Turned her biggest, most pleading gaze on him. “I did,” she whispered, hoping that somewhere in his deranged head, there might still be some morsel of mercy even where sanity lacked.

In silence, he caressed her thighs, then wrapped his hands around them and hoisted her up against the tree, repositioning her so that her thighs rested against his forearms and her calves were up against his chest. Grace had never been the most flexible. Actually, in life, she was the least physically flexible person she knew. This position was murdering her hamstrings.

Once he had her where he wanted her, he thrust forward—not nearly as hard as he could’ve but less gently than she wished. Her head tilted back, horns carving two deep gashes in the cypress bark. Between the tree and Alastor, Grace had no place to go and nothing to do but ride this out.

Mercifully, after the first few thrusts, he repositioned her; she didn’t dare hope it was in response to the grimace on her face. It was doubtful he noticed her discomfort and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t care to make any accommodations for her. 

He continued supporting her by her thighs but at least let her calves dangle comfortably at his elbows and then went to town on her, thrusting so hard she couldn’t help but grunt under the force of each.

Her back was burning but she spared no thought as to why, wrapping her legs around his waist in a feeble and unsuccessful effort to force him into being more gentle with her.

When that failed, she panted between his thrusts, “Slow down—please—” 

But Alastor either ignored Grace or her words weren’t even making it through to him.

His angle of approach coupled with the positioning of his fur were conspiring against her for a rapid and explosive climax.

She clung to him and, succumbing to his insanity amidst her orgasm, clamped her teeth into his shoulder.

That succeeded in stopping him momentarily. 

He seethed, his black-sclera gaze darting to her face. Whatever she knew of Alastor was gone. In its place: a completely feral demon that used her shoulders as its personal chew-toy, biting her without restraint in tandem with each of his forceful thrusts.

Chomp chomp chomp chomp CHOMP!!!

At long last he drove as deeply into her as he could and stopped there, his whole body quivering with release.

As Alastor’s heavy breathing slowed, Grace caught and held his gaze.

Gasping silence stretched within the minimal space between their bodies.

Somehow she managed to smile, resting her chin on his shoulder as she wrapped him in a hug. He held her in place, adamant against withdrawing. 

Motion caught her eye; his tail swished gently from side to side.

AaaaaaAAAAaaaAAAaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaa!!!!!!!

Exhausted at last, he retreated, letting her slide down the tree.

There was an agonized shriek that Grace didn’t even recognize as her own voice at first; bald cypress bark had embedded into her back and the slide down the tree merely shoved it deeper into her skin like it breached sinew and muscle, burrowing in between spinal vertebrae.

She collapsed to her knees in the swamp water, twisting and contorting, trying frantically to scrape out the bark. There was no way for her to reach any of it.

Alastor watched in smiling, bewildered silence as the pain brought Grace to tears. He then reached toward her.

“Don’t touch me!” screamed Grace, her voice overlayed with an odd static.

He stepped back, his ears flattening to his head and his eyebrows crimping together.

She continued her fruitless endeavor of removing the bark through body-shaking sobs. When it was becoming clear her efforts were accomplishing nothing but exhausting and upsetting herself further, she stopped to try catching her breath, barely suppressing the urge to vomit.

“Lie down, Little Fawn,” Alastor instructed softly, the filter off his voice.

“Are you nuts?” Grace gasped. “I can’t lie down like this—”

“On your stomach.”

Fear and agony paralyzed her. 

Alastor bent forward, extending his hand to her.

Instinct flooding her with an unexpected rush of adrenaline, Grace hissed and snapped at him with her teeth.

Undeterred, he held his ground with arm outstretched. “Grace.” 

She blinked, momentarily distracted from her pain by the way he’d said her name—stern but with something that sounded suspiciously compassion-adjacent. Her pause afforded him the opportunity to pull her up gently by her forearms and guide her to their bed.

“My legs are filthy, I’ll wreck your covers—” Grace protested stiffly.

“Our covers can be washed. Now lie down.”

Grace stared at him through her tears.

“Please.”

She swallowed but complied reluctantly.

Once down, Alastor plucked a piece of bark from her skin and Grace cried out. That hurt almost as badly as if she’d rolled over and writhed on the mattress with the bark stuck in her back.

He picked out another piece, that one more painful than the first, as if he’d ripped it out along with a length of nervous tissue from her spinal cord.

She buried her face into the bedding with a lengthy wail, her most recent meal threatening to follow it past her lips.

Alastor sat beside her on the edge of the bed, letting her catch her breath. When he resumed the bark extraction, he approached it with a markedly more gentle touch. It was change enough that Grace knew it had been a deliberate choice. 

For some reason, he didn’t want to exacerbate her injuries.

To reward his apparent concern, Grace did her best to hide the continued pain as he removed the rest of the embedded bark. Once the final piece had been plucked out, he snapped his fingers, conjuring something cool and damp that soothed her back. She twisted in her spot with a hiss of pain to see what he’d applied to her open wounds. The last thing she wanted was to have to heal infection. She could do that, of course, but it would be a preventable bitch-and-a-half. “What’s that?”

“Linen,” he replied simply. “With a thin layer of honey.”

“What—” Grace blinked. It dawned on her slowly that he’d created his version of an antibiotic-coated bandage; a home-remedy like the ones his mother likely used on his scraped-up little knees and knuckles. “Oh. Oh, wow.” She glanced back at him, her eyes wet, anew. She breathed, “Thank you, Spots.”

He waved off her gratitude before tucking his hands between his bare thighs. “Rest, my little fawn.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“I …” He glanced away from her and took a deep, ragged breath. “I have the most dreadful feeling that’s not the end of this madness.”

Come back Wednesday, deer friends, for some delicious aftermath and more of Grace's past mistakes coming back to haunt her.