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Show and tell day happens every other Monday with a completely different theme, and this Monday was no exception.
Yes, themed. Give sinners an activity without guidelines and their shows and tells suddenly go off the rails. Bonkers amounts of sex and gore. Who could've foreseen?
As such, today's theme was a very succinct, “show us a picture of yourself from your living days, modest enough for every audience, and tell us about when it was taken, in great but appropriate detail.” Simple enough, right? And especially easy for you, of all sinners. Not a day went by where you weren't snapping photos of someone or something from your day, and you'd always gone the extra mile to get your favorite photos printed out. Albums upon albums of pictures of you and your friends decorated your apartment before you died, and surprisingly, they came with you.
Because ha ha ha, joke's on you, you won't be seeing them again! Have fun living in the past, idiot!
Or it has something to do with you being some sort of photographer demon. It used to be frame by frame snapshots, but nowadays you've got it down to a videography art of sorts. Anything you see, you photograph. Anything you photograph, you recreate, correct, and project into life.
Anything, and anyone.
Show and tell time rolls around and you show the group a picture of a cosplay you did a few years back, and tell them about the convention. It's easier than showing and telling them about the not-so-done-up sides of you, and they don't mind, assuming they're paying attention.
You pay attention though.
Boy, did you fucking pay attention.
Enigma that he is, Alastor found it in his heart to bring an old sepia-toned photograph of himself, circa 1927. Born 1891. The math maths. The math mathed so well that you didn't really hear all the details about the “tell” of his show and tell, but if you ask, he'll probably repeat himself later. Certified yapper and all that. But you only had one chance to commit his photo to memory, and even though you've never missed the mark, you want to be sure. You
need
to be sure.
And fuck, were you sure.
Your fingers thread through his hair, tufts of brown threatening to curl out from his well-kept look with every twitch of your hand. You need him there. Need him to keep his beautiful face low, neck tilted just enough so he can kiss and lick at you with whispers of a touch.
“That's good,” you whisper from your perch on your bedside, legs wide and welcoming as you hazily stare down at Alastor's human frame. His thin, lithe fingers delicately dig into the tender flesh of your thighs, perfectly pink lips peppering kisses up, and up, and up… God, your wispy moans meld together brilliantly with his smooth, cocky giggles. You'd get snippy with him if it weren't for those half-lidded, whiskey brown eyes of his. Staring up at you through his enviously long lashes as his tongue darts out for another taste of you.
Projection or not, you still feel sensation. The hot cascade of frisson down your back as your neck dips back, mouth heavy with a languid groan. The wet tip of his tongue skating across your damp slit. The jolt of ecstasy bolting through your veins when he finally laps at your clit. Just once, content to tease, drawing circles around and around. Kissing eyes of a smiley face on either thigh and drawing a molasses slow smile over your pussy.
“Cheeky bitch,” you half-heartedly grumble through an open mouthed smile, panting in silent pleas for what you know is guaranteed. Alastor only laughs in retort, getting to his knees in full and hoisting up his sleeves with a precise tug. A deep smattering of starry freckles cover his russet skin, and for a moment, you debate spoiling yourself. Having him disrobe entirely. Join you in being completely naked, fucking you in full so you can get the full picture.
But they didn't take nudes back in the day, and you don't wanna ruin the immersion. At least, not rampantly. You'd ask Alastor, but he wasn't the type to know. (“People did disrobe, yes, dear. How else were we to bathe? Ha!”)
So Alastor - your Alastor - simply adjusts his sleeves, and dives face first into your cunt.
Your toes curl, moaning in delight as he tongues at your slit in full. Ever diligent, he leaves no skin untouched, dipping into your dripping wet cunt, probing around with his mouth, making sure he gets to taste every single inch of what you have. What you are.
What was left of his chivalrous persona crumbles to dust. Swift, strong hands, callused yet plenty smooth, yank you up by the hips, legs thrown over his shoulders. His palms can't decide where to roam, so they split up, one rubbing and gripping the plump globe of your ass while the other teases its way up to your breasts. Your nipples respond to every pinch and rub, dazzlingly light shivers roaming down your torso, fueling the fire, pushing you closer to your limit. Your lips run dry, frozen open in a constant wave of heavy breathing and sensual moaning.
Alastor would never be this sloppy. Alastor would never groan into your throbbing pussy or write his name across your clit with his tongue. Alastor would never allow for lewd, grandiose, squelchy wet noises to happen anywhere near him, let alone his lips. Alastor would never lock your thighs over his shoulders the moment they begin to shake and twitch.
Alastor would never, never,
never,
steal the most wanton, slutty glance from where he kneels at your feet, and whisper such a depraved yet simple command.
“Come undone for me.”
He'd probably deal with his glasses getting wet and foggy. New Orleans gets hot and humid, and hey, so do you.
You take direction perfectly, muttering a string of curses as your core muscles twitch, your pussy clenching around the tip of his tongue until the contractions force him out. Your orgasm hits hard, your hands grappling for reprieve around his neck, fingertips unintentionally grinding into his tender skin as each pulse of hedonistic indulgence beats through your body.
And still, he giggles. Because he's your Alastor, he grins up at you and mouths the words “good girl,” cheeks glittering with pearls of sweat and slick, the heat of his skin feeling plenty real to you as you wipe down the bridge of his nose.
“Messy eater,” you tease.
Your messy eater, because he's your projection, and you give fake life and fake love where you so please. As you gently scratch his scalp, mirroring his smile, you can't help but wonder if this was a bad idea.
You know it was a bad idea. It's Alastor, dummy. You know how you feel about the guy. Everyone else might be clueless, but you live in your head 24/7.
“Alright, alright,” you concede with a sigh, “I should probably snap you out of here, lest I get too attached to a knock-off version of you.” You pat his head. “It was great. You eat pussy like a champ, and you're drop dead fucking gorgeous. I'll see you again, even if it's a bad idea. Now go on, shoo, back into the mental photo album with you.”
You snap your fingers.
Alastor doesn't fade out.
You blink, and snap again.
Alastor doesn't fade out. He just kneels there. Smiling.
“Uh…” You try snapping with the other hand. Nothing happens. Oh, God, nothing happens. Absolutely nothing happens. He, just like all the other projections, is supposed to slowly fade into nothing and go away until you want or need them to come back. Doesn't matter who or what it is, anything you photograph and bring to reality gets Thanos snapped right back out without issue. Except for this guy.
You do what any rational person would do, and flip the fuck out.
“Okay, buddy, here's the deal.” You pull your shirt on. It's backwards. Oh well. “When I do this,” you snap, “you're supposed to disappear. Poof, gone!” Much like your pants, where the fuck are your pants, god, you can't find your pants because your shirt is on backwards and Alastor is still here and it's throwing you off. Doesn't help that you've yet to move from his shoulders. Is it a Freudian slip if it's body language? “So go! Poof, gone, okay. One, two, three, go.”
Snap!
Alastor blinks, ever smiling.
“Okay, my guy, you have to understand.” You hold your hands together in prayer that your fake, not disappearing, still here Alastor will finally comprehend how serious this is and comply with your demands. “You aren't sentient. You,” you gesture, “are a construct. I,” you gesture back at yourself, “give you sentience. When I take away your sentience, you go away. When I do this?” You snap, and nothing happens. So you snap with every single word. “You're supposed to go away!”
You throw in a fifth snap. In your panicked state, you made “to go” a single word. Alas, this isn't a video game puzzle, and the number didn't matter. Alastor is still here, and still smiling.
Utter devastation settles into your shoulders, panic surging through every wire of your brain and body. There's an Alastor in your room. A human Alastor, in your room. Huh, why do you have a human Alastor in your room? Because I wanted to fuck human Alastor and he gives great head. Yeah, that'll go over well with Charlie, or Vaggie, or Lucifer forbid…
“In a bit of trouble?”
“Alastor?!” You jump out of your skin and off of his shoulders, scrambling to cover the rest of your naked body with a blanket, because modesty matters right now. Really, it might. “How are you talking without my say so? What the fuck? You, you shouldn't able, that…”
“Eloquent.” Human Alastor smiles, because that's what Alastors do, and oddly examines his hands and arms. Pausing to clean his glasses. Alastor's wiping your cum off his glasses. You didn't tell him to do that. “You've missed a few scars, but I suppose that's to be expected.”
You stare. Gawking. Absolute terror thrumming through your heart. “Okay, so… explain. Now. Please.”
Human Alastor hums, and you see them. The finer details that were never there. The beauty mark on his neck, the scars he'd just mentioned on his arms, and that smile…
“It's rather simple, dear.” Alastor smirks, and tilts his head to the other side of your room.
“That photo doesn't belong to you.”
Ohhhh shit. Shit shit shit shit
shit
.
“My photo, my construct.”
Alastor. Radio Demon Alastor. In the demonic flesh. Lurking precisely in your blind spot for god knows how long, taking measured strides to the foot of your bed. On everything you love, in full honesty, you really, truly had no idea he was there. Too wrapped up in your head and around Alastor's to even pay attention. Too busy getting off in what you thought was the privacy of your own bedroom. With more than a little help, sure, but no one was supposed to know. Especially not him.
“Oh.” You murmur, stealing a glance at the fake Alastor, and then the real one. Fake, real. Fake… real… “Hold on.” You jerk upright, stiff as a board and angry as someone who just found out about a very important loophole in their demon powers. “Copyright infringement?!” You screech. “In Hell?! Are you fucking serious?!”
“Identity theft, reproduction and distribution,” Alastor casually lists off with a shrug.
“Coercion,” Human Alastor adds.
“Oh, zip it. Like you give a damn about laws,” you sneer. “Murder, assault, theft, menacing, murder again, that whole prohibition thing, probably arson, grand theft auto, fuckin’... Hypocrite. And besides!” You throw up your arms and immediately scramble to keep them in your lap. There's a slim to none chance that the radio demon didn't see your whole pussy out on display, and if that's the case, you'd like to keep it that way. For now. “It's
Hell
! Who gives a flying fuck about laws?! You literally eat and kill people daily. That's illegal in every continent! The fuckin’ penguins had a council meeting in Antarctica! Hey, we shouldn't eat or kill each other, right? Right. Go off, emperors. Come on!”
Alastor visibly swallows what you hope would've been a pity chuckle. He stops right at the foot of your bed, leaning over, staring down at you like the filthy little photo stealer you are. You find it odd that he hasn't asked the constructed version of him to leave; it's well within his power now, and probably already was without this silly little loophole.
“I seem to remember our arachnid friend showing and telling us all about the ABCs this morning, don't you?”
Oh. The ABCs. The ABCs hit you like a semi-truck full of additional ABCs made of stainless steel and titanium. You fucking love the ABCs too.
A B C. Always. Be. Consenting.
If you don't ask, he can't consent.
No consent means stealing and replicating the photo. Which means copyright infringement. Which is a crime that only ever matters if you're caught. You know this, because you're dutiful in using your VPNs, and stopped paying for games between the ages of 10 and 34. Never got caught, ergo, it never mattered.
In short: You're in trouble because you got caught.
The construct consented because of course it did, so hey, you abide by the ABCs where it matters. And you didn't steal someone's artwork! Just their entire visage. But it was for personal use! No money was made, just a huge mess of boundaries and bodily fluids.
Besides! You made the construct, and it wasn't entirely accurate, so it's not
totally
stealing, right?
…
“Right?” You squeak.
Alastor glares. All things considered, he's taking all of this surprisingly well. You'd be pissed if you were him (take note), so why isn't he in full tilt? Dial eyes, long antlers, tentacles everywhere, Eldritch limbs… not even a single tiny imp friend running amuck in your room. No destruction of any kind to be had.
You connect the dots right when his smile quirks.
“Ahh, now you see our little conundrum!” He stands upright and saunters over to his kneeling human counterpart, twirling his mic and rocking on his toes as he ponders over his options. You hope they aren't murder-y. That'd suck. “Yes, I can make this dapper gentleman disappear just as easily as you,” he nudges you with the mic, “can bring him back. And since I can't always be around to keep an eye on your… proclivities–”
Oh, okay yeah, he saw. Neat. That's fine. He looks positively disgusted, but it's fine.
“--I can only imagine what you'd be having my visage do in my absence. So…”
You gulp, dread seeping into your bones.
“Let's make a deal then, shall we?”
If bones could break under the duress of anxiety, you'd have a full body cast and total paralysis. A deal with Alastor. One of the last things on your list of things to do in your afterlife. It had its caveats, yes, but this is not the sort of deal that would meet those very specific criteria. You highly doubt this will be a “fun” sort of agreement.
“Tell you what,” he hums, snapping his fingers to… spawn a chair so he can sit down next to the other Alastor. Bro's still kneeling and has drying pussy juice on his chin, and Alastor just sits right on next to him without batting an eye. “Since you've been dealt a decent hand in this, as you've so explained, I'll be willing to hear you out. Just this once, though! Wouldn't want you to be outright spoiled now, would we?”
“I mean–”
Human Alastor shakes his head. The limit of generosity in action, you figure. Save your quips for another day, then.
“Your terms, dear? And do be reasonable.”
Human Alastor licks his lips.
“I've given you quite a lot already.”
As far as you see it, you have three reasonable options:
One, you agree to never spawn any form of Alastor ever again for as long as the deal's active, and in exchange, he doesn't kill you.
Two, you agree to a set number of hours with an Alastor construct per week, and in exchange, you'll do him one safe, harm-free favor per week.
Three, you bring out an Alastor construct whenever you want, because they're your demonic sinner powers and you deserve to use them, and in exchange, Alastor can use you, so long as he ensures your safety.
Ideally, there would be a fourth, one where he can guarantee you love and safety and acceptance despite who you really are, but as generosity has its limits, so does the art of the deal.
(Five: you cite laws on breaking and entering and tell him he has you catch you in the act of copyright infringement without also breaking laws in the process, and eventually agree that laws don't fucking matter in Hell, he's just pissy that you can do something neat with a copy of him and jealous that it wasn't him.)
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Whoever made up the term “a happy medium” has never needed to bargain with Alastor before, and you envy them for it.
Minutes pass, and oh, how you yearn for silence. A moment's reprieve between arguing over details and stipulations, defining and re-defining words as if the two of you have full blown law degrees and corporate contract experience. In the few, fleeting seconds where you think he may have his guard down, you'll try to snap Human Alastor out of existence, but he never so much as blinks. Just a permanent fixture of the middle ground, kneeling between you two with a languid smile and an ongoing refusal to wash off his face.
Would be kinda hot if he weren't just, y'know… there. Playing dead-eyed mediator to your bickering divorce lawyers. Worse, he's the kid in this situation, and you and Alastor are the two shithead parents who can't pull themselves together long enough to–
“Pay attention.” Alastor taps your shoulder with his mic, a screech of feedback bursting in your ear. “As it stands, we've agreed that you'll keep what’s yours, but you've yet to tell me how I'll be benefiting from this arrangement.”
“I said we'd be BFFs,” you say with an exasperated sigh. “Do you want a friendship bracelet to seal the deal? I'm good at stringing various beads together.”
Judging by the stern, no-nonsense slant of his brow, and the ever so faint glow of a shiny green thread twisting at the corner of his mouth, Alastor might be getting tired of your constant deflection and off the wall, out of pocket dodging. You know things are serious when he's not shaking his head or patting yours in a dismissive pet-like manner. Hell, sometimes he'll roll his eyes and entertain you with a pity laugh. Call you his little hotel jester and ask what ruse-laden persona you've put on for show today. You know. Play along.
You sink into your nest of blankets and sheets, head thunking into the wall with a satisfying thrum of regret and defeat. Human Alastor has the audacity to snicker at your pained expression, and your snap snap snapping only feeds into the sadistic joy etched in his face. You've tried, at various points, to edit his features in ways big and small, from mannerisms to eye color, and nothing works. You can't even add an extra freckle amidst the galaxies adorning his skin.
It's official. You're stuck between a rock and a hard place; not a single undo button in sight.
“BFF can be defined as ‘best friend forever,’ or, ah… ‘Beneficial favor fulfiller.’ Is that fair?”
The world may never know. Alastor plays his cards close enough to his chest that they may as well be stitched into his skin. Stapled and soldered, really. Getting to know him has been damn near impossible, and your usual go-to bag of tricks don’t seem to affect his iron will in the slightest. Ask anyone who their favorite band was growing up and you’ll know their entire roster of high school crushes and flubs by the end of the conversation. Ask Alastor if he has a favorite jazz tune, and you get a history lesson on the origins of jazz and stories about the parades put on by the social aid and pleasure clubs of New Orleans. Fascinating, yes, but Alastor himself was conveniently absent as a character in every story. Vague details about his job, his “second job,” and leisurely activities available in spades, but you’ve never once gotten the man to say “my favorite color is red” or anything remotely self-identifying.
His thoughts on your role as Beneficial Favor Fulfiller would be real fuckin’ nice right about now though.
“I’m not gonna budge on the other stuff.” You settle into a crossed-arm, disappointed mother sort of stare; the one you have down to a fucking art. “You aren't getting my soul, you aren't getting my powers, and you aren't putting any sort of limit on what I can and can't do with said powers.”
Alastor's offered all three of these as alleged resolutions, although he's yet to understand that a proper solution would involve two slightly disgruntled parties; not just one person getting completely fucked over in the least pleasant way. Honestly, you understand his struggle. You don’t have a degree in business or finance either. And while you might not understand the ins and outs of a fair and square deal, you do know that Alastor’s preferred method of working in simple absolutes leaves much to be desired. You've seen him make small caliber deals before. He drives a hard bargain: Give me what I want, or I'll kill you and take it myself.
He swears on all he loves (which doesn't offer much assurance) that his grandiose overlord-tier deals involve far more actual negotiation by comparison, but you're skeptical.
“All I've asked is that you never make another replica of myself, past or present. But you insist on keeping this version of me around for…” Alastor twirls his hand in the air, grappling for a suitable, gentlemanly word of his time that doesn't send you into a fit of giggles. “Personal affairs.”
You snort. “Yeah, who else is gonna help me keep track of my will and estate?”
“You know full well what I mean.” Alastor snaps a lengthy, weathered leaf of paper into existence, adjusting his monocle to better scan over the only set of terms and conditions you'll ever read in your life.
Minus your own, anyway.
“Regular favors may be a decent enough compromise.” A pen pops between his fingers. You'd make a joke about upgrading from the old quill and ink method, but watching him repeatedly click said pen as he double checks his work gives you pause. Oddly boyish of him, and endearingly so. Your eyes flicker to Construct Al, and as the image takes shape in your mind’s lens of an eye, your heart stutters.
You can't explain it, but picturing him so clearly in such a mundane, daily task almost makes him seem more relatable. Tapping the head of a worn pen to paper, brainstorming track lists and story formats, humming along to music in the background of his studio…
“What are you doing?”
You snap to attention, vision shifting out of fantasyland and into focus, just long enough for you to wish you were temporarily blind.
“Daydreaming.” You offer, clamoring to shove props and backdrops back into mental boxes and shove them into an approximately six foot deep hole. Seven, perhaps, so you'll fit inside amidst the dusty trinkets and embarrassing memories that'll undoubtedly keep you up at night for years to come. “And I can’t explain myself any further.”
If all of your daydreams come to fruition in the middle of your bedroom at all hours of the day without you even noticing, you don’t wanna imagine the horrors that these walls have witnessed. The idly working Alastor you’d cooked up mere moments ago sits kitty-corner from your bed, dated wooden desk and all, just tapping away at his paper. A quick survey confirms the re-utilization of sex doll Alastor, no less, and now you’re floundering for multiple explanations for questions you’ve never needed to ask.
“So homeboy won’t dissipate into thin air when I tell him to, but if I let my mind wander for two seconds, he’ll plop himself into a slice of life silent film circa 1926.”
Alastor winces at your refusal of 1920s slang. 'Bruno' and 'grifter' don’t have the same vibe, and calling a guy a 'goose' just makes you giggle like a silly billy.
“Well,” he hums, “the simplest explanation is often the safest. I’ve only focused on maintaining his presence. What he does would then be up to either of us.”
Now, you
could
play nice and tell Alastor that you've been trying to play dress up with his clone for the last fifteen minutes,
or
you could keep this to yourself and pretend you have some sort of leg up on him.
“Your mind wanders to the quaintest of places!” Alastor shifts his attention back to you and the menacing piece of parchment, deft and precise flicks of his wrist outlining the way you'll be living the rest of your life. “What a delightful glimpse into your simple little mind. I'm flattered dear, really.”
God, what you wouldn't give to go back in time and have two legs up on him. You match his sarcasm with a lazy middle finger, peeking over his shoulder to make sure all remnants of antique furniture have shifted out of existence. To Alastor, this is nothing more than a ha-ha-funny, point and laugh kind of situation. You, however, can't swallow the deranged sense of chaotic anticipation crawling through your chest.
None of that should have happened.
Two criteria need to be met for prop making: Your power, and an image. If you don't lay eyes on it, then you're shit outta luck. Makes for many a disgruntled client - usually the ones who can't fucking read your terms of service - but it's never bothered you. You simply don't want what you've never seen; leaves nothing for you to miss.
“Will you just give me your terms, please?” You double check your watch. “This is taking too long.”
“Ah, yet another one of your mysterious obligations, I presume?” Alastor hardly spares you a glance, scratching away at every inch of both the contract and your infinite freedom to live life in Hell to the fullest. “One final clarification, and there we have it! A deal with yours truly, down to the letter. Ha ha!”
Haha, yeah, letters and words, hilarious. Ignoring the sting in your hand to slap fake Alastor upside the head becomes damn near impossible, because the world does
not
need someone to feed Alastor's ego with little snickers and giggles whenever he makes mid-tier puns, but you refrain. You're calm, you're collected, you're ready to take a deep breath and try to appreciate the doodles in the margins, pretending he put them there to lessen the blow of what's to come.
Here's the deal!
By signing this contract, you agree to the following:
You, the beneficiary, will retain all rights to your soul henceforth. Your powers shall be limited on the grounds that I, Alastor, allow for one hour per week of time spent with any re-creation of myself, OR, the equivalent number of hours you spend on completing the favor clause.
My favor(ite) clause thus states:
You will be available for at least one favor of my choosing per week, up to 10 hours per week. Additional time spent completing favors will count towards completion hours on the basis of hours worked versus hours spent idle. Favors will not be routinely scheduled or guaranteed, nor will they involve risk to your overall well-being. You can and will be called upon to use your abilities; ergo, I also require ongoing skills training and proof of progress on a weekly basis.
Failure to abide by this contract for either party will result in the nullification of this document and the following consequences:
The beneficiary loses ownership over their soul with no guarantee of safety.
I will be indebted to the beneficiary.
“Absolutely not.” You snatch the pen from his claws, furiously making corrections, clarifications, and flat-out cuts to the document, because what the fuck? “One hour per ten hours of work breaks labor laws-” you jerk upright, pen ominously positioned towards his chest, “-and don't you dare argue otherwise, and you need to give me a heads up on when you want these favors done so I can plan around myyyy… obligation schedule.”
Saved.
“And if I have to train, you're training me.”
“What was that, dear?” Alastor cups a hand around his ear, leaning in with a strained chuckle and a smoldering fire in his glowing crimson eyes. “You can't possibly be suggesting that I be the one to help you to help me! Why,” he chuckles alongside an invisible audience, “that would defeat the purpose! A spectacular waste of time! Helping me to help myself, how utterly silly.”
“Train me or I'm hitting you with a train. An angelic steel train. Repeatedly.” You pass over the contract, your trembling fingers betraying your tough gal persona, but you press forward. You gotta keep going. Do it for the sex. For champion pussy-eater Alastor, who once again manages to chill in the background like a mannequin straight outta uncanny valley. “And then I'll take your gooey remains and feed them to Jammy and Lila.”
“Pardon?”
“Two of the alligators you probably have in that rancid bayou of yours. Named them when you weren't looking. So train me, or you're roadkill.”
Alastor, for once, doesn't have a single quip locked and loaded. Firing blanks from the tip of his tongue, ricocheting off of your manic gaze and your subtly twitchy fingers hidden behind crossed arms. You're betting the farm on this wild card joker play where most others would fold, and he hates it. You've watched Alastor practically sunbathe in the fevered cries of his targets, and that stretch of teeth underlining his eyes right now lacks all semblance of his usual hubris.
You didn't just bring a knife to a gun fight, you brought the plastic cutlery from the local coffee shop. And you're wielding it
confidently.
You must know something he doesn't.
“Very well.” Alastor grits through his teeth, hastily revamping your deal to make the agreed upon changes and get this charade over with. New hours, same flex time, paid trainings and continuing education, bam, new contract. He hands it to you after signing it himself. “Final offer.”
You squint at the fine print defining what training entails. If metaphysics and gym class had an especially violent baby with a voracious appetite for pain, it would be this training incarnate. Can't win ‘em all, you figure, and with a few autopiloted turns of your wrist, it's done. Contract secured. You shake on it for good measure, if only because you insist on making it feel like it's on par with everyone else's deals, and Alastor finally gets to his feet with an accomplished stretch.
You check your watch again. Dude's slow as Christmas. You're gonna have to book it to work if you give a shit about being on time.
“Since you seem to be in such a rush, why don't I give you a hand, hm?” Finally, Alastor ushers the copycat out of existence. You feel bad for the poor fella. Custody battles suck.
“Could you give me a lift instead? Probably faster.” Modesty be damned as you, you toss your blanket shield from your lap and patter over to your closet, snatching up the first clean items you see. You'd be quicker if you hadn't tripped over the leg of your pants, but that's Alastor's fault. You made him laugh, which makes your heart feel all funky, which ruins your balance, because you love and hate how many ways Alastor tugs at your heart without even realizing it.
You can never pinpoint when it started, either, and perhaps that's what bothers you the most. No single snapshot of time that you can point to and emphasize that ah, yes, this is what made you fall, this is why you're head over heels and ridiculously goo-goo eyed on the inside, why your head's just one big middle school notebook full of doodles and scribbles of his name in glittery red ink. Why your actual journal as a 30-some year old documents every interaction that makes you feel something, anything, whether he's around in body or mind.
You really need a new hobby.
Or more jobs–ohh, beneficial favor fulfiller now, never mind, work is fine.
Work, fuck, right, you need to explain work to Alastor so he doesn't ruin anything. After the nausea of shadow travel dies down, you pull Alastor off to the side before too many clients can see him through the giant front window. Cliche as it is, the series of narrow alleys weaving between each business will have to do for now; the faint scent of cancer-causing chemicals and GMO smoothies doesn't hit too hard, and the concrete underfoot seems mostly dry. No one on this side of town really cares for hiding places, anyway.
“Pardon my saying this, dear,” Alastor straightens his bowtie, “but perhaps a little more effort would be worth your while next time.”
“I know what I'm doing,” you sigh, hand threaded through your hair with an intrusive urge to tug it all out. Implants are only two blocks down, and wigs even closer, so you'd be fine. Narciss-city has a penchant for all things luxurious, especially when it comes to beauty standards and overall appearance. Personally, you think a rich person's version of Hell would be them having no wealth at all and having to share the streets with, gasp, the lower classes, but for the latter, this was simply their Hell on Earth. They're used to the snobbery, and the snobs finally get to have their own little shitty section of land all to themselves. Bougie boutiques line the near streets, every patch of grass stays spray painted year round for the aesthetic, and the condos have weekly HOA meetings to make sure residents can have their power trips whenever they please.
The corruption this side of the pentagram is fucking nuts.
“Don't touch anything, and do
not
ask my client questions. Got it? Got it. Good talk.”
Simply Sanguine lives between a homeopathic smoothie bar and the most passive aggressive jeweler you've ever met. An aggressively tinny doorbell signals your arrival, and the moment the floating shelves of overpriced shampoos and hair masks come into view, Alastor winds up to complain. You shush him with an open hand and wave politely to Ruby, the manager and masseuse, gesturing to the black door on the back wall.
“Is he staying?” Her gaze flickers over him, just once, because the set of acrylics she's painting are far more important than any tacky old radio demon would ever be. “Not that I mind,” Ruby gestures you closer, “but the older gal getting her color done just caught her beau in bed with like, six other sinners earlier today. Came in
screamin’
about how jazz really was evil all along, turns men into monsters ‘n’ shit. One look at him and we're all over socials.”
“Did she find him at a jazz club or something?”
“With a group of swingers,” she nods.
“That's fucking hilarious. No worries, he's shadowing.”
The room itself stays pitch black without lights on, void of any other doors or windows, simple sets of inlaid bulbs placed strategically in the ceiling. Illuminating the countertops offers just enough lighting for you to dip into cupboards and go about finding the right paperwork, your typical camera selection, and a few battered photo albums you usually keep in a false cabinet. Without the contents of said albums, anyone sorting through your stuff would assume you're just a starving artist if the photographer variety.
You'll apologize for ignoring Alastor later. You're known for prompt replies and easy conversations; the moment someone knocks on that door, you're up and in full blank faced customer service mode. Today's client is no different from the last, just as guarded and reserved, simply handing you a set of photos.
“What are you looking for?” You ask, still scanning over every last detail you could possibly make out in the weathered photographs. The ink quality leaves a bit to be desired; finer details, zippers and nails and background decor, are a smidge too fuzzy to perfect, but simple enough edits as they are now.
“Guy in the first photo.” The sinner, an imp dressed down in a rather fine suit, shoves his hands into his pockets as he talks. He oozes confidence, but it's demure, calculated. “Need him lookin’ like the fella in the second one.”
“Which backdrop?”
“Third one, but the weatha needs ta be like the one in the first.”
You can feel Alastor's eyes burning scars into your back as he watches this transaction unfold. Whether he's impressed or irritated, you're not sure, but he must find something about the work relatively fascinating. Just another Monday for you though. Turning to the pristine white wall on the far end of the room, you take a parting glance at the photos, let the lenses of your eyes focus, and blink!
Ah, yes, another classic back alley murder scene. Not the first and definitely not the last. And as always, you don't ask questions. You assume the would-be dead man here was meant to die at some point and simply didn't, and this guy needs proof of a job well done. Not your crime ring, not your assassins. You focus on tidying up the scene, rearranging some of the raindrops out of focus, pooling a little more blood around the guy's head…
“You want that guy's foot in the shot?” You flick your head to half of a pointed black loafer on your right. Just because something's photographed doesn't mean it's wanted.
“Get rid of it.”
Snap! Gone. You mess around a little bit more with the lighting overhead, flipping switches and turning dials until you've got just enough of that edgy nighttime vibe goin’, and double check all the prop placement.
“Adding anything, or is this enough?”
“Depends on what ya can do.”
You give him the ratty, beat up albums to thumb through, cherishing the glimmer of pride swelling in your chest when he mumbles about all the big jobs you've taken in your time. None of the weaponry or trinkets lining those laminated pages mean a damn thing to you; originally, it was an insurance policy of sorts. You take a photo of a piece from their scene as part of their payment, and in exchange, they keep your name off their lips. So far, so good.
It's also fun just to imagine what pieces of drama they might be putting together in the process.
Why's that glock in here? Did that bitch have one of their pictures doctored here? Fuck!
“You got anythin’ a lil more ah, delicate?”
“The shelf on your left has more non-incriminating stuff. Need something in particular?”
A ring, apparently. Marriage never strikes you as the most Hellish activity, but the Hellborn have their own lives to live, and sinners still have hearts and souls. Ergo, you sometimes doctor wedding photos. After the first one, you really came to understand why people charged thousands of dollars for that shit IRL. You prefer life on the murder scene.
As usual, the guy wants the photo shot with a phone. Static prickles at your skin the second you pick one up from the counter, and you have to threaten Alastor with the second phone to get him to calm down. Crime boss guy visibly stiffens at the sight of Alastor, and you have to improvise and say no, confidentiality is still ensured, Alastor doesn't care enough about you to pay attention to the details. Alastor confirms.
“Do you want a printed copy?” You slide over to your laptop, an off-brand non-Voxtech model so you can encrypt your shit without worrying about Creepy TV McGee every time you log in. Never crossed your mind until Alastor instilled the fear of Vox into your soul. Say the word “cult,” and you're out. Pair that with “he's power hungry and admittedly formidable,” and you're double out.
And, well, if he figures out how to get past all your fail-safes, he'll know you've had a hand innn… check the finished file count… oh, only 192 separate falsifications of the bad variety. That's not too bad! You must've added too many weddings to your original estimate.
“So, final total, plus one photo of your choice. That it?”
“Yup.” You take a quick pic of the dude's wristwatch, noting the initials etched behind the glass. “Just need payment and paperwork and you're good to go.”
As usual, the terms and agreements go unread. Mister guy has the decency to pretend to skim over the bullet points on secrecy and reprints, but all the mumbo jumbo about shared rights and permission to even keep the photo for personal or professional use? Apparently not important. You can't read his signature for shit, but the ink glows a lovely muted blue, so what's done is done. More importantly, you get paid.
Too much. Man can count to 15 when his life depends on it, and no higher than that.
“Keep it,” he waves your outstretched hand away, “I don’ think you understand jus’ how much you're worth.” He gives the room one final look around, scoffing in amusement at just how smoothly you operate. Entire set’s gone, and not a speck of blood or drop of rain in sight. “You do good work. Good location too. People fuckin’ hate this place.”
“Dude, same.” You grab the door for him and give him directions for the back door, just in case. The clumsiest part of the operation, certainly, but you've yet to have any issue.
Alastor patiently stands at the edge of your workspace, white knuckling his microphone. Blips of screechy feedback and staticky voices fade in and out, the occasional jazzy brass measure clashing with the mood.
“Dear.” Rage glistens in his tone, audible cracks of bones and joints ringing through your ears with each twitch of his muscles. Control, you realize; his fury has a friend. A BFF, if you will. A Barely Festive Furor. “Tell me,” his voice distorts behind a funnel of dead air, “how many times have you done this?”
Telling him to calm down won't help anything, obviously. When people tell you to chill the fuck out, you do the exact opposite; if Alastor goes batshit in your studio, you're gonna have to answer to a lot of disgruntled clients, an entire board of mess-hating HOAs, and the pissy older lady that got cucked earlier? She won't finish getting her hair done, and then what? You hate getting yelled at by older women.
A half-truth, then.
“At least 192?” You shrug, feet gliding backwards against the polished concrete floors, a single pearl of sweat nipping at the back of your neck. “Why do you ask…?”
Alastor contorts in impossible angles, his joints sharp and disfigured, eyes blinking in and out of their two forms. Credit where it's due, he's trying to keep it together, but trying doesn't exactly help your fight or flight response at a time like this. His head snaps to the left with a stomach-churning snap, an equally nauseating crunch following suit when he jams it back into place, his hands the size of his enlarged skull. Fuck, his antlers have grown too. The tips graze the ceiling. You like that ceiling. It's where you keep your lights.
“How. Many.” His voice runs deep, ragged breaths mingling with the latent, garbled radio cacophony still tuning in and out. Your ears perk up at the familiar tune, each weak little note trying to break the staticky barrier.
In the future, you hope to learn more about Alastor without having to piss him off.
“Could you, um, turn up the music first?” You titter. “I ah, I like this song.”
“Don't lie to me–”
“King Oliver, right?” God damn it, you've made fun of jazz one too many times. You force a breath, and poke at your cheeks in the cutest possible way. For someone who's on the verge of a panic attack, you do a good job. “When You're Smiling, from 1930.”
Oh, thank the hellish equivalent of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. A beat passes, a moment to process this tidbit of information before Alastor slowly melts back into his usual form. Tall, lanky, closer to normal eyes, and cute lil antlers, the ear-grating noises dwindling and transforming into a nice little moment of soft jazz and racing hearts. You collapse into your desk chair, congratulating yourself on having both finished and survived a marathon of terror, deep pulls of air filling your unsteady lungs. Reconciling with your near death experience is one thing; realizing Alastor's morphed form is your ultimate “hear me out” is another heart-wrenching core memory entirely. Fuck, dude. What a day.
You'd hoped the mutually calming music would be enough, but no, Alastor's fingers still choke the head of his microphone when he looks at you.
“Do me a favor, dear.” Alastor seethes. “Count how many of these little jobs you've had. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” you murmur, hands up and ready to flounder at his say-so. A pulse of sorts travels from your head to your chest, splintering off into bits of jittery energy that beg for use, for release, settling into a steady storm as you sift through files and folders. You adjust your shoulders and stretch out your neck, poking numbers into the calculator on screen. “Now will you tell me why it matters so much? It's not the safest line of work, sure, but it pays well, and I'm good at it. What's the issue?”
In total, all contracts add up to 269. Nice.
“You've read your own terms of service, yes?”
“Yeah, dozens of times.”
Alastor passes you a torn up form of yours, one he must've pilfered while you were working an honest job. How rude. “Your third point. Permissions.”
While you retain ownership of the original photos, I will have ownership of the new, final product in full. This will include all potential and finalized constructs, equipment, and collaborators. You will have full license to use the photo(s) as you wish, and are granted full rights and responsibilities that accompany that use. By signing, you agree to waive all ownership rights to me, and grant full use and licensure to you.
“Yeah, so can't share my identity without consequences.” You draw a little flow chart on what little paper remains intact. “They keep the original incriminating photos. I use the originals to make a new version. The new version is my own original, per the agreement.” You shrug. “Now I control what happens to all copies and the original.”
“Your wording, dear.” Alastor's patience thins. “You have ownership of the other party's product in full, which includes
what,
exactly?”
“Oh, teacher, teacher, pick me, I know this one! Finalized constructs, equipment, and collaborators.” You pat yourself on the back. “It's as if I wrote the damn thing.”
A deafening, sound barrier defying screech of his microphone blares through your studio. You shift into scolding mode, head whipping back around to face Alastor so you can demand earplugs and an apology, but his smile says otherwise. His smile reeks of rage and BFF, but the slant to it, the way his cheeks crease at the corners of his lips and underneath his eyes. Excitement. A sort of glee only Alastor can pull off, the kind that fills you with bits of concern for him, and pity for whoever he's about to deal with.
A flood of icy realization zips through your spine, branching into every nerve and crevice of your body. You thought you were honing your skills through practice. Repetition, self-imposed challenges, the entrenched desire to live out your fantasies whenever and wherever you so please.
“I meant…” 269. “I meant any constructs who might help with staging…” 269 reasons why redemption will always be out of reach. “I didn't mean…” 269 conscious victims strewn over your one warped conscience. “I didn't want…” 269 people to unwillingly sign over their souls to you.
“Now then.” Alastor looms over your guilty conscience, the weight of his smile and your ill-guided heart threatening to bleed into your moral compass. “About that favor, my dear.”
Alastor tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, enticingly cupping your chin to demand your complete attention. Your submission.
“How many souls do you own?”
You could try to lie. Give him a lower count, something closer to 100 or so. A tough pull, seeing as how he's noticed your frequent absences and “obligations” over time, but if you insist it's only one or two clients per day, it might work. Maybe then he won't be so keen on exploiting you, and if you're caught lying, it's not the worst lie in the world.
A lower number would be even safer in terms of self-preservation. You're a stellar liar. Living with your parents essentially made you an expert in that field. If you keep a straight face and try to glance over at your screen, you can say only a small number of folks agreed to that clause. The rest crossed it out and made different confidentiality arrangements. A bold lie, but he can't look at the contracts and check. … Can he?
Telling the truth might hurt in ways you can't begin to imagine. Gruesome training, more and more clients, and what seems like a guaranteed barrier to ever finding redemption. You'd have power, though. In numbers and in secrecy. Alastor might even fall for you if you're strong enough. Be more lenient with your deal, at the very least. Keep you at his side as his eternal BFF. There are worse fates, surely.
Or you could make a run for the singular door this room has to offer. The one blocked by both your desk and Alastor. There's a bit of distance, yeah, and the door itself is built to be on the heavier side, but what's the harm in trying? Bolt outta the studio, cut through Narciss-city, and gooo… back to the hotel…? Fuck.
Slapping him and telling him off may be the worst idea you've ever had, but it might offer some catharsis. Fleeting, temporary, guaranteed to fuck up your life, but that sweet sweet second of hand to cheek sting can be oh so tempting. Better left as a last resort, but hey, your life, your choices. Never said you made good ones!
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“What'd you do on your old radio show? When you were alive, I mean.”
Insomnia, day three of your hotel residency. Scooped up by the allure of a place to stay that didn't come with gunfights outside your window and explosions down the block. No creaky floorboards in your bedroom, a smidge of daylight whenever you'd pull back the curtains; a cozy suite to call your own, and yet, sleep evaded you, one night after the other. You'd seek solace in the dim parlor lights, a blanket in one hand, and a book in the other, and read until you felt ready to toss and turn in your own bed.
Adjustments were one thing, but a change in lifestyle was a whole different beast.
Your neighbors went from being a gaggle of stressed out addicts with stringy hair and erratic gestures to a group of sinners and royalty. Gone were the half-hearted waves and aggressive panhandling, trading violent white noise and flickering street lights for the hum of your bedroom fan and a foreign silence. No one asked you for spare change or harass you for nitrous and acid. Angel Dust offered nitrous at one point, and practically recoiled in fear when he heard you were one of those straight-edge scene kids from high school and had only grown out of half of that phase. Envy, you realized, was a hell of a drug. So was small talk. And the smiles.
Most smiles.
Niffty’s freaked you out sometimes.
Alastor's did not.
Even in the half-illuminated parlor, sharp shadows slicing over his angular jaw, bathed in film-worthy multitudes of obvious foreshadowing and symbolic evils, Alastor never scared you.
“Oh, what didn't I do during my broadcasts?”
“Kill people?”
“Haha! Heavens no, I simply reported the headlines after the fact! Quite the thrill, being adored and feared all at once. Ah… Music had its place in my hour. Jazz, of course. The well-loved and the up and coming stars of my time. Comedy segments were something of a dream of mine. My niche had been horror stories, though.”
“Like The Goldbergs meets Mystery House?”
A camera flashed with a bombastic click. The image once burned into your retinas fades, every hue drained of its life, it's completion. This was it, the day you twisted your concrete slated fate into a writhing pool of razor-edged teeth and watercolor waste. The day you traded your withered dreams for crimson and gold ribbons tacked into your heart. Blood spilled into your chest, leaking into your smile, the copper warmth tantalizingly smooth as it fell through your lips. Each syllable a breath of life, every giggle a dose of adrenaline to the manic hunger festering in the deepest parts of you, for you; for him.
You wanted more.
Radio is best served in moderation, he'd said, but you were already addicted. You sought him out every night, there, on the weathered couch in the crypt where you fell in love with the nightmares. He fed you stories to fill the cracks into overflow, the vines in your defenses choked to death by all the new growth, the seeds of need rooted to your body in full. He snacked on your brain, sorting through holly berries and lemons amidst the stone fruits; bit by bit, you were savored, cherished, intoxicated by the way his lips quirked whenever you presented him with another layer of you. Thank you gifts, you'd said, for giving you something to look forward to every night.
You loved his private radio show. You loved the stories to the point of sharing theories, enamored with the grin that said you were close, but not quite there. You loved the music, not for its sound, but for the work of art it painted across his face every time the tunes crackled to life. Above all else, you loved the headlines, hooked on the breaking news every time he'd speak not to history, but to himself. The rare moments of fine print wrapped in a verbal web of vivid life. A map lodged in a bottle, the flakes yours to collect, to decode, to frame where the void once stood.
You found yourself in his mother's garden, surrounded, flanked by glorious blooms and proud vegetables. There were stains on his knees, dirt under his nails as he helped his mother pull weeds. So many weeds.
“Your dad made for some damn good fertilizer.”
The laugh track made you giggle, but the delay, the beat he needed to process what you'd just said… that was your favorite song of his, always, then and now.
Alastor recovered with a laugh of his own. “It seems my talent for captivating an audience goes deeper than I'd known!”
Insomnia, day 33 at the Hazbin Hotel. Your room is on the third floor, a house for your swollen soul, the roof the promise of redemption, ever lingering, always watching. You took pictures of the ceiling above your bed, watching it stretch to heights beyond your reckoning, the golden gates winking out of sight; out of mind. You stopped reaching for them, and yet, you kept taking photos. Every day, the camera flashes.
Every night, you are home.
—It's true, what they say.Home is where your heart is.“269.”Alastor ponders your answer.The smile smirks. The hand on your chin swipes up the length of your cheek, his clawed thumb grazing your lower lashes with measured, agonizing precision. The palm of his hand leaks familiarity into your skin, oozing into your cheeks, your hot blood a porcelain pink.You cannot take this back. You can't leave. You don't want to leave.
(Soprano screams. Thundering gunshots. Leaky faucets. Blood puddles. They melt. Into greys. Forming treasure. Your key. Your insomnia. Your radio. The host. The smile. Your voidm Your naivety. Your smile. His smile.)
You have too much to lose.“269.”Welcome home.