Influenza A has struck within my household (and was the reason my daughter was at the hospital for last Wednesday's update). It hit me last and let me tell you ... this is utterly dreadful. I don't have the energy for much of anything so I'll keep this prelude short.

There is guest art in this post that I commissioned from Alastor Smiles Art that was based on/inspired by the spice in this chapter.

I hope you all have a wonderful, safe, and most importantly healthy New Year.

Chapter 17: Crisis Morning

On New Year’s Eve, Grace joined an intimate get-together at the hotel that included Niffty, Kofax, Cherri Bomb, Angel Dust, and Husker. Between the six of them, they’d demolished four bottles of champagne many hours before midnight.

It wasn’t entirely clear how the New Year’s Eve entertainment had been proposed to begin with but instead of watching the annual Sinner-Throw off the top of Vee Tower, the group ended up gathering around a television to watch one of Angel Dust’s newest adult movies about which he’d recently been boasting nonstop.

To Grace’s dismay, it had an actual plot and redeeming cinematic qualities: a female-presenting private investigator portrayed by none other than Angel Dust had been hired to track down some ancient relic through a series of high-contrast black and white settings to steal it back from an archetypical gentleman thief who, of course, tried to fuck Angel’s character into convincing them to let him keep said ancient relic.

It was only after the third gratuitous sex scene that Angel’s co-star finally showed his face on camera.

Grace blinked. 

Then blinked again to try clearing her vision. She rubbed her eyes vigorously. That co-star looked obnoxiously familiar.

The longer he was on-screen and talking—around a horrendous cough that sounded like he was hacking up a lung or three, which was an interesting choice for a porn movie, to say the least—the more familiar said co-star became.

Grace stood from her spot nestled between Kofax and Niffty, slowly approaching the television before kneeling in front of it. “Oh … no—” she whispered.

“Grace Period?” Angel said softly, “You okay? That’s … not the kind of thing I usually hear during my movies.”

“That’s—that’s Travis!” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth.

“Who?” everyone behind Grace asked in unison.

Grace replied numbly, “My husband.”

That got a variety of stunned responses but one voice and question stood out. 

“You’re married?” Kofax cried.

Grace’s face felt numb, her whole body feeling as if she’d been doused with ice water. “I was when I was alive. He killed me.”

“So his real name is Travis, huh?” Angel said. “He’s always gone by Dick Cumlander.”

“That’s stupid,” Grace growled, not even trying to hide her animosity toward him.

“I’ve always thought he looked kinda like a broccoli floret.”

Now that Angel mentioned it, Grace could see the resemblance. Dick Cumlander, the porn actor formerly known as milquetoast husband Travis Piece-of-Shit, had a surprisingly round head, his skin a sickly charcoal gray. He had a ton of hair that looked permanently styled into tiny bantu knots of mostly red with the occasional accent of tinier orange and yellow bantu knots.

In Grace’s silence, Angel asked, “What’d he do? Choke to death on a broccoli? He coughs. A lot. Do you know how many times I had to film three of those sex scenes because he literally kept coughing his dick outta me?”

Grace was certain she would vomit; she shot to her feet. “I—I can’t. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” On her rush out of the room, she barely managed a, “happy new year, guys,” with a wave over her shoulder.

Grace was ending the year in a supremely shitty mood. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t figure out what was bugging her so damn much. She fled to Alastor’s room on impulse and for a while—she wasn’t sure how long—she sat in one of those armchairs by his fireplace, knees drawn to her chest and face pressed to her knees.

As the hour grew late, Alastor materialized unceremoniously by his bedroom door.

He approached Grace in silence and stopped before her.

“Not now, Al,” she whispered, lifting her head just enough to see the fire in the hearth. Flames don’t ask silly questions. Flames listen and don’t judge. Flames understand. Flames were the only things Grace thought she could tolerate being near right now. Or maybe what she really desired was to be inside the flames; consumed by them and left in nothing more than ash and ember.

But Alastor didn’t leave. Because of course he didn’t listen to her. It wasn’t like he ever did. His modus operandi seemed to be doing the exact opposite of what she wanted at all times. 

“Move over,” he instructed.

Flames don’t insist on being where they’re not wanted. “No. I can’t—I just can’t with you—right now.” She couldn’t with anyone, but he was the ‘one’ insisting on being ‘can’ right now.

“Move over,” Alastor repeated. “Please.”

He shifted on his feet and the motion distracted Grace from the fire’s hypnotic dance. She glanced at him; his shoulders were rolled forward, hands clasped in front of his stomach.

His posture brought the word ‘humble’ to mind—or it would if it were anyone else standing like that, anyway. But not him. For Alastor, this was ‘humble’ adjacent.

It was clear he wasn’t going to leave her alone, clear he wouldn’t stop insisting she move. So with an agitated exhalation, Grace shifted on the seat. 

He settled in beside her and despite what she thought was pretty blatant ‘don’t-you-fucking-touch-me’ body language, Alastor pulled her into his arms.

He held her in silence. Almost like he knew she was upset. Almost like he knew that and was trying to comfort her.

Bit by bit, that ugly, gross, spiky feeling dissipated. Though Grace wasn’t eager to converse, at least she didn’t feel like scratching Alastor’s skin off and carving his eyes out of their sockets with her thumbs just for being in her personal space.

“I really just wanted to be alone,” she whispered, her focus on the firewood now.

Alastor replied, the radio filter absent from his voice, “And I just wanted to snuggle.”

Grace suppressed a groan.

Barely.

If she stared at the fire and kept the inner voice from saying horrible things—anything, at this point—she almost felt … well, at least not as awful as she had while watching Angel Dust’s adult movie. Not the way she had with that monstrous revelation that the man who killed her was now there, somewhere in Hell, with her. Working with one of her closest friends. Inside one of her closest friends.

She cringed, immediately expecting Alastor to comment on the physical shake of her body.

Instead, he said quietly, “I miss you, Little Fawn.”

Grace was practically on his lap. She craned her neck to glance back at him. Adjusted herself deliberately to demonstrate that they couldn’t really touch any more unless they were actively having intercourse. “What the fuck, you dingbat. I'm literally right here.”

The phrase had slipped out although she knew better than to say those words to him. She braced herself, expecting the dour ‘that was rude,’ or ‘Grace,’ and not especially being in the mood to play that game with him.

Alastor, however, brushed back the hair framing her face and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, staring at her lips intently.

That got her attention. She swallowed hard.

“I’m filled with concupiscence for you.”

“Con—wait, what? In English, please?”

“I — I’m feeling impure of heart.” Alastor faltered, his gaze drifting somewhere off behind her, probably to the self-same fire that had drawn her attention previously. “I … have an itch that needs scratching.”

Grace brandished her fingernails. “Tell me where, Deer.”

He took a steadying breath and met her gaze. 

She couldn’t look away, as if he magically entranced her.

“I would like to have sex with you, Grace. Now.”

Those sure were a bunch of words he just said. It took a couple heartbeats for them to actually register, then make sense to her. A few more heartbeats to even formulate a response when the obvious one should have been to just jump his bones without waiting for any additional invitation. But she dropped his gaze. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “I’m so sorry, Spots, I'm just … I’m not in the mood to be abused right now.” Not even by you.

Least of all by you.

“Oh, I can … not … do that,” he replied, with the least convincing tone ever, as if even he was unsure of his capabilities.

Grace met his gaze once more, but this time with impressive deadpan. Yeah. Un-fucking-likely.

“Please at least let me try?”

‘Please?’ ‘Please’ said not through clenched teeth as if it agonized him to ask politely? But like a real, genuinely polite request?

To Grace’s shock and chagrin, even the thought of non-abusive sex wasn’t turning her on. But after a few moments of silent consideration, Grace said, “I will stop you if you get rough with me.”

Sure, she’d thought that threat at him any number of times by now, but she was in such a bad way that she knew this time, she’d actually follow through with it. In fact, she might not only stop him, but additionally rip his ears clean off his head. Horns, too.

“I know you will. But I promise, you won’t have to.”

Mmm. We’ll just see about that.

Alastor snapped his fingers. Grace glanced around, expecting something. Anything. What magic had he done here? He then gestured for her to stand and, after she did, he followed suit. 

In silence, Alastor offered his hand. Grace studied it for a moment before placing her hand in his. Without a word, he led the way to his bed.

The bed she’d become familiar with over the last few months looked now like a scene straight out of a fairytale. The posts  which were sometimes present but more often not, had returned—the very same he’d used with his chain to restrain her. They currently had sheer cream-colored drapes blowing softly on a gentle breeze. Red rose petals were scattered across the cover; those had decidedly never been there before. Lightning bugs danced and flickered all around.

It took Grace’s very breath away.

Alastor watched her for a few moments as she admired the setting. He reached for the bottom hem of her shirt but hesitated. “May I?”

Grace blinked. “I—yes. Yes, of course.” She was stunned he wanted to undress her. Stunned he asked.

With her permission, Alastor lifted her blouse up over her head. She unzipped her skirt and let him help her out of it. He caressed her shoulder, fingertips grazing her bra strap, slipping beneath it and slowly lifting it away from her skin and then down her arm. He did the same with the other strap and stopped.

Grace guessed he had no idea what to do next so she guided his hands around to her back. “They’re just hooks and eyes.”

“So they are.”

“All you need to do—” The loosening of her bra band took the rest of her instruction away on a gasp. “Oh.”

Alastor had so deftly undone the hooks that Grace wondered if he’d used magic to help him along. That seemed a little too easy for someone who’d never done that before.

Grace slipped the bra down her arms and stepped out of her underwear before sitting on the bed and watching him while he undressed. Someday, maybe, he’d let her have that honor.

Once undressed, he slipped beneath the covers and pulled her under with him, drawing her close.

She glanced at him in silence, held his gaze expectantly. Waited for this whole sworn gentle approach to derail.

Alastor’s smile warmed beneath her stare, the outer corners of his eyes wrinkling in that utterly adorable way, his cheeks darkening as he repositioned himself and kissed her lips softly.

Grace awaited the bite. The frenzy to take care of an unwelcome arousal as efficiently as possible.

But there was none. Just soft kiss after soft kiss after soft kiss, each going longer, growing deeper. It felt like she was falling into a welcoming, dizzying darkness, being enveloped by the most addicting warmth.

He moved from her mouth to her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. Her forehead, and after her eyes fluttered closed, her eyelids, too.

When Alastor paused, Grace opened them again. His gaze was focused downward before he moved in toward her neck. She braced herself, trying to prepare for the searing pain that accompanied his teeth sinking into her flesh.

But no—it was once more the soft press of his lips. The tip of his tongue lightly tracing the line of her carotid artery. His fingertips found their way to her horns, tracing them from root to tip with a hint of pressure.

Grace moaned and shuddered; he was, without a doubt, going to break what last remained unbroken of her this night. “Oh,” she sighed. “Alastor—”

He retreated a bit then, whether due to his name on her voice or just coincidentally, and traded his lips for his hand.

Alastor caressed her, watching his hand as it traversed her terrain, his smile a mere memory on his face.

‘I’m reminded that your skin feels like silk.’

As if he could hear the echo of his own voice in Grace’s mind, Alastor remarked, “I think I might have been wrong about your skin.”

She whispered, “Oh?”

“I can’t decide if it feels like silk or velvet.” Alastor’s gaze lifted to hers. “Which do you prefer?”

Grace found it challenging to think let alone speak under Alastor’s intense stare; he had her utterly spellbound. “S-silk?” she managed to whisper.

He still held her gaze although the side of his hand swept her arm with a featherlight touch. “Then it feels like silk.”

She was trying to figure out what her opinion on the topic mattered, but it surely seemed like he based his decision off it.

“You’re a stupefying masterpiece of swells and curves,” said Alastor. “What is it about you that beguiles me so?”

Her heart racing, Grace’s fingertips traced the contours of his stomach, following his treasure trail down to his cock. To her surprise, he was already rock hard.

Unable to even begin answering such a question, she caressed it and responded with one of her own: “Why do you incite such a riot in my veins?”

His pupils were huge, breath hitching audibly as she gently encircled his erection with her hand.

For lack of anything more clever to say, Grace told him, “I think I can’t stand how handsome you are.”

Alastor slipped his hand between her legs at the knees, sliding it up her thighs. Fingertips brushed her pussy and he muttered between more kisses all over her face and down her neck, across her collarbone and settling into her jugular notch, “I love how soft you are everywhere.” He slipped the side of a finger between the lips of her pussy. “But especially here.”

She exhaled, “I love when you touch me like that.”

And with that hand between her thighs, he lifted her left leg and repositioned himself.

Grace practically choked on the sizzling air in the minute space remaining between them as he eased himself in. Just the tip.

A little more.

And a little more than that.

Bit by bit he closed the gap between them until he was in to the hilt, their chests pressed together and his forehead against hers.

The irony wasn't lost on Grace that the closest thing she'd get to experiencing Heaven would be via the sinful acts she committed with Alastor.

She had to focus on her breathing, matching his leisurely pace or risk coming in record time. She’d never felt so vulnerable and fragile, so coveted and cherished. Not in life, and decidedly not since death.

If she hadn't known already that she was in love with Alastor, this act would have been the nail in that coffin.

Intercourse with Alastor had always seemed to be the least objectionable way he could take care of those inconvenient erections he got from dominating her.

But this?

This was sex. 

This was wanting the erection, and enjoying having it rather than just handling the annoyance of an unwelcome hard-on.

This was intimacy at its most fundamental.

Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts.

You're in the Radio Demon's arms in the most romantic setting ever and he's making legitimate, tender love to you.

OK THAT'S NOT UNSEXY; THAT'S THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF UNSEXY!

Despite focusing on her breathing, orgasm was imminent when Alastor stopped abruptly.

He stopped, and not in a telltale ‘he’d come’ sort of way, nor even in a ‘deliberately withholding stimulation so she can’t climax’ sort of way.

Grace looked at Alastor as he stared at her with wide eyes, enormous pupils, and taking deep, rapid breaths.

Wha—oh, god. Oh, god! He’s hyperventilating? What the fuck?!

She tried to hide her panic as she put a hand to his chest. “Al? Are you okay?” Dumb question, dipshit. Clearly he’s not okay or he wouldn’t be hyperventilating, you stupid bitch!

And naturally, he didn’t answer. Even if he’d been inclined to, breathing like that wouldn’t make it easy to verbalize what was happening.

“Breathe through pursed lips,” Grace instructed gently, slipping her left hand between their bodies and pressing it against his sternum. “Focus on getting your breath to fill this part of your chest.”

To her surprise, he followed her instruction.

After a few moments once his breathing returned to normal, Alastor pulled her into a long, sweet kiss as if in wordless gratitude, and resumed his gentle thrusts as if nothing had happened.

How he maintained an erection through hyperventilating—and whatever prompted the hyperventilation—was nothing short of miraculous. That’s the magic of Hell, I guess?

“You—you can go faster,” Grace whispered between soft kisses. “Faster doesn't mean rougher.”

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you. I refuse to hurt you.”

“You've been well more than patient and gentle with me. Going faster won’t hurt me.”

He pressed forward once more. “Are you sure?”

Grace swallowed a small laugh. “Quite.”

After a brief hesitation, Alastor rolled onto his back, pulling her atop him.

It took a moment before Grace realized what he’d done. And although she straddled him, Alastor maintained control from beneath her, guiding her movements with his hands resting loosely on her hips. No squeezing, no nails biting into flesh and drawing blood.

After just a few more rapid thrusts, his back arched sharply, his eyes squeezing shut and brows pulling together, mouth more clench-toothed grimace than smile. His muscles contracted through his jaw and chest, down his torso.

And then Grace heard a whimper escape his lips.

She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

Alastor blinked several times before his gaze settled on her, filled now with abject humiliation.

“Oh my god,” whispered Grace. “That was adorable! I love—” she caught herself before finishing the phrase and corrected herself—“that! I love that.” Smooth save. “Thank you!”

She leaned forward, working her arms beneath him to embrace him tightly. It took him a few moments to return the gesture. They embraced like that while Alastor caught his breath and his heartbeat slowed.

Grace attempted dismounting, apparently a little too soon for Alastor’s preference.

He grunted his displeasure, his expression a vision of sheer over-stimulation.

And so she remained straddling him a little while longer until his cock fully relaxed and slipped from her.

“Are you sure you’re not actually an Angel?” he murmured as he gazed at her.

Grace laughed wryly. “I’m anything but. I was called a succubus more than once in my lifetime. And I’m sure I’m even worse than that now.”

She reclined on her back beside him with a lengthy exhalation. He hyperventilated during sex. Can’t say I’ve ever had that happen before.

“I’ll never stop believing you deserve better than me, Little Fawn.”

She turned her head toward him. “And I’ll never stop telling you that’s a load of shit. Why, Alastor. Why do you think I deserve better than you?”

“I’ve always been deranged.” There was a pregnant pause.

Grace didn’t interject.

Alastor continued, “But whether it was the cause or completely unrelated, my father made beating me a hobby. I would try to run, and he’d always catch me. I tried hiding and he’d always find me. Took me a shamefully long time to realize it was because he was a hunter who excelled in tracking.”

She thought back to when Alastor learned about her son. ‘That’s a peach of a name.’ Grace winced.

“The day I ran into him here … I can’t say I was surprised to see where he’d ended up considering how he treated my mother and me. But before I tore his soul to pieces, he said something that’s haunted me since.

“He knew how I died, details nobody who wasn’t there could have possibly known about. He knew I’d been shot by a hunter while burying the body of one of my victims in the woods. He knew it was no accident.”

Grace was too terrified to ask how his father had known that. She had the most dreadful feeling she knew the answer already. In her silent reluctance to inquire further, Alastor answered for her:

“He knew I was a serial killer. He told me I was an embarrassment, that I’d brought shame to the family. How, exactly, I shamed our family, I’ll never know, considering he was the only one who’d ever figured out what I had been doing. He told me he never loved me and that he considered having killed me a good deed, his way of atoning for being the reason I existed in the first place.”

Alastor held Grace’s gaze and said in no uncertain terms, “He was the hunter in the forest and his aim at my forehead with a rifle was no accident.”

Grace was fighting a losing battle against her tears. “That’s horrible!”

“He killed me, so facing him here, I returned the favor in a way only I can.”

Good! You may think you were always deranged but I’d bet dollars to demons he’s the reason you are the way you are.

Alastor asked cautiously, “You’re not going to tell me what I did was unconscionable?”

“No,” Grace said with a sniffle. “I’m not. Because it’s not unconscionable. It’s—” Vengeance? Justice? She took a moment to consider the differences between the two; the outcomes were the same. In life, Grace would have called what Alastor did vengeance. Instead, now, she decided, “It’s not unconscionable. It was justice.”

He gazed at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. That expression seemed to be getting more and more frequent. At some point, she’d really have to figure out what the hell it meant. She could ask him, of course, but she knew how that would go; so why waste the breath only for continued disappointment and frustration?

“What?” asked Grace quietly, trying to hide the circumspection in her tone.

Alastor repositioned himself in bed, then pulled her back into his embrace, first smoothing her hair down and then gliding his fingers through its strands. “Don’t think I’ve missed that you never pursue me. You can initiate these encounters, you know.”

She wanted to. More than almost anything she could think of. “I can’t,” Grace said with a sigh. “Rejection hurts too much.”

“I won't reject you.”

Oh, how I wish I could trust that! Grace whispered, “Liar.”

There was a chuckle that she felt from his chest more than she heard it. “I won’t. On my honor.”

With marked hesitation, she asked, “Alastor?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

He exhaled slowly and pressed a long, soft kiss to her shoulder. “It felt good to finally share that with someone. I’m so glad it was you.”

Chapter 19: A Very Happy Ew Year

See you back here tomorrow, my deer friends!