Chapter Text
The tower stank of neon heat and static. Charlie could taste Vox's ego in the air, like burnt sugar and ozone. Her claws curled against her palms as she kicked open the next door, snarl tearing through her throat. The demon form always came when she was afraid for real. When someone she loved was in danger.
She didn’t know how deep they’d taken him.
She didn’t know if she was too late.
The lights in the tower pulsed with Vox’s heartbeat, blue and frantic, screens flickering like a tantrum waiting to happen.
Alastor sat tied to the chair, breath shaking, jaws clenched so hard something in his teeth creaked. His pupils kept slipping, expanding, contracting, trying to lock, trying to anchor on something. His hands twitched against the bindings. His chest rose too fast.
The potion was already crawling through his veins.
Velvette’s voice still echoed: "Just let him look at you first. That’s all it needs."
So Vox stood in front of him, close enough their foreheads could touch. He leaned in.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Just look at me, sweetheart.”
Alastor squeezed his eyes shut.
So tight his whole face trembled.
Vox’s smile broke at the edges.
“Look. At. Me.”
Alastor’s antlers twitched violently. His body jerked like wires under high voltage. A whimper escaped him. A whimper. He bit it off, but it was too late.
Vox’s eyes widened.
“You’re actually fighting it?”
The potion was burning him alive, veins sparking like a radio out of tune, and still Alastor’s jaw was locked like a creature caught in a leg trap that refused to scream.
“I—won’t—” he choked.
Vox’s face twisted. Ugly. Furious.
“You don’t get to choose. That’s the whole point. I win. Just look. At. Me.”
Alastor’s breath hitched.
His eyelids fluttered.
He was losing.
Vox leaned in, triumphant—
The door slammed open.
She burst into the room.
Alastor sat tied to a steel chair bolted to the floor, legs bound, wrists bound, chest heaving. His eyes were slammed shut. His antlers twitched like an animal on the edge of panicked flight. Vox towering over him. Almost too intimately close…
“ALASTOR!”
Her voice hit him like a gunshot.
Alastor’s head whipped toward her so fast the chair skidded, bolts screeching against metal, so fast something in his neck cracked. The ropes bit into his shoulders, dragging his skin raw, but he didn’t even flinch. His breathing hitched, sharp and too loud.
His eyes fixed on her.
And something inside him snapped into place.
“SHIT!” Vox muttered, voice cracking with fury. “No—no, no, NO!”
Charlie ran to him, claws shredding the restraints in frantic jerks. “What did you do to him?!”
“No.” The word crawled out of him guttural. “NO—NO—HE —YOU—”
Alastor collapsed into her arms like gravity had finally found him again. His fingers dug into her waist like she was the only real thing in the world. His breathing steadied, deepened, softened.
Peaceful.
Happy.
Vox’s voice shredded itself raw.
“HE DID THAT ON PURPOSE! He fucking forced himself…NO!”
But Alastor was already leaning into her, body collapsing toward her warmth like gravity was suddenly a choice he was making. His nose pressed into her collarbone, breath hot, desperate.
Vox slammed his hand against the wall. “Velvette’s love potion. And do you know how it WORKS? The first person the target sees—”
Vox’s laugh was hysterical, choked. “He would rather break his own mind than look at me—”
Charlie stopped untying, dropping the last of the one’s at his feet.
Her arms tightened around Alastor instinctively.
Alastor nuzzled into her throat, seeking warmth, scent, safety. A low rumble rose from his chest. Not a purr.
A claim.
Vox stepped forward—but froze.
Because touching her would break the deal.
He gestured wildly between them.
“He’s obsessed with you now.”
Charlie froze.
Alastor nuzzled her like a starving animal.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Vox bared his teeth in something too vicious to be a smile. “He saw you. And Vel’s little brew is no harmless crush. Princess, he’s going to be all over you for seventy-two hours wanting to do the horizontal tango until his antlers fall off. Good luck with that, bitch.”
Charlie didn’t answer.
She just wrapped an arm around Alastor’s waist and pulled him toward the exit.
He followed with no resistance, only clinging, trying to crawl closer like he could fuse himself to her. His cheek pressed to her shoulder, nose trailing up her neck. His fingers tightened around her hips, trembling.
She stops, and turns, Alastor growls a moment, but his deadly smile returns as she states the next three words…
“He chose me.”
Vox flinched.
Not at the words.
At the truth in her statement.
Charlie turned then, dragging the radio demon away.
And Alastor followed, obedient and desperate and hers.
Vox stood shaking, screens across the city flickering into glitching, static-white rage.
“What a joke,” he whispered. “You’d rather destroy yourself, tear your mind apart, and look at the Princess of Hell, than love me.”
They got out of the tower.
And as the city’s hot wind cut across them, Charlie realized something else.
He was bleeding from his chest.
“Al—Alastor, you’re hurt.” Her voice stumbled, cracking. “The Extermination. Adam—did he—why didn’t you tell me?”
He didn’t answer. His mouth was at her throat. Licking. Savoring. Like a starving predator that had just found prey made of moonlight and sugar.
“You could help,” he murmured against her skin, voice a low, broken purr. “Make it all better for me. Couldn’t you, my dear?”
Charlie’s knees nearly gave.
This was bad.
This was so, so bad.
But she tightened her grip on him anyway, dragging him toward the hotel, her pulse jumping like a trapped bird.
“Okay,” she whispered, half-panicked, half trying to stay calm. “Okay. Alastor. We’re going to fix this. Just—just hold on. Don’t—don’t lick me right now—”
His tongue was already dragging slowly and deliberately over her throat.
She shivered violently.
“We are so fucked,” she whispered, eyes wide and shocked…
Alastor’s laugh was low, breathy, hungry.
“Exactly, darling,” he murmured, lips brushing her jaw. “My thoughts exactly.”
And he followed her willingly, tightly, hopelessly devoted.
Like she hung the moon.
Like she was the only star he could see.
The walk back to the hotel was mostly torture.
Mostly for Charlie.
Because Alastor wouldn’t let go.
He had one arm locked around her waist, the other tangled in her hair like he thought she might slip away if he loosened his grip for even a second. His face was buried against her shoulder, breath dragging over her skin in slow, shaky pulls. He wasn’t talking. Just holding. Clinging.
Like a drowning man clings to the surface of the water.
When the doors slammed open into the lobby, Charlie tried to step forward.
But Alastor moved with her, perfectly matched, perfectly attached, like they were magnetized. His long fingers slid down to lace with hers as if that was the only way his body remembered how to walk.
The lobby went silent.
Husk looked up from the bar, froze with his cigarette halfway out of his mouth.
Angel choked on his drink.
Vaggie stood halfway up from the couch, wings puffed in alarm.
Niffty gasped like she had just seen the most romantic wedding proposal of her life.
Charlie held one hand up.
“Everyone. Calm. Nobody panic. He’s—he’s had Velvette’s love potion. We just need to—”
Alastor growled.
Not at them.
At the room existing around her.
He turned his face slightly, pressing his cheek against hers, gaze sharp and threatening over her shoulder. Anyone who even looked too long at Charlie got his sharp, demonic teeth.
Angel raised both hands. “Whoa. Okay. That’s…oh fuck. So he’s in the ‘kill everyone in the room but my girl’ stage of things. Got it. Love that for us. Very sexy. Very murder-deer.”
Husk leaned back. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t move fast. Don’t smell like fear.”
“Why would we smell like fear?” Vaggie snapped.
“You are fear,” Husk muttered.
Charlie tried to pry his arms off.
“Al? Sweetheart? You’re safe. We’re home. You can let go now—”
His hands slid to her hips, grip tightening.
“Don’t,” he said.
Just that. One word. Low. Almost soft. But with a tremor like a snapped violin string.
Charlie’s heart cracked and scattered.
He was scared.
Not aroused. Not dominant.
He was terrified to be without her.
She cupped his face, lifting it so their eyes met. His gaze was wild, pupils blown huge, breath coming fast.
The others held their breath.
“Hey. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
His chest rose like he was trying not to cry. Trying not to release breath. Trying not to fuck her into the floor…
Angel leaned close to Vaggie. “Damn. He is usually pretty weird, normally. But this is like…an animal in heat….”
Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s a love potion, not love. Totally different. Infinitely worse.”
Charlie took a slow breath. “Let’s get you to your room, okay? Then we can fix this.”
Alastor didn’t even think.
He picked her up.
Just scooped her into his arms and held her like she weighed nothing.
Charlie made a noise halfway between indignation and flustered panic.
“Al! I can walk!”
“No.”
That was it. That was the argument.
He carried her up the stairs, steps smooth, steady, frighteningly quiet. His antlers were larger than normal. His fingers slid under her knees, holding her close to his chest like a bride being whisked away.
The entire hotel watched them go.
Niffty whispered, “I’m writing fanfiction about this immediately.”
Angel Dust nodded, “I’m so reading it.”
Husk threw a bottle at his head.
Upstairs, Charlie finally got him into his room and shut the door behind them.
She turned to speak—
And Alastor was already there.
Pressing his forehead to hers.
Shaking.
“Don’t leave me,” he breathed. “Please. Don’t go.”
And any fear she had melted.
Because this wasn’t lust.
This was panic.
This was someone who survived on obscene power and loneliness and believed that if he let go, everything good would vanish again.
Charlie lifted her hand, threading fingers behind his antlers, guiding him into her arms.
“I’m not leaving,” she whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”
And his whole body finally relaxed.
Slowly.
Like he was learning how to breathe again.
His room was dim. Radio-static quiet. Charlie guided him to sit at the edge of the bed, her hands steady even while her pulse hammered.
Alastor held on to her hand like it was oxygen, but he tried—really tried—to form words.
“It’s the potion,” he murmured, voice rough, broken in a way she had never heard. “I know it’s the potion. I can feel it.” His fingers pressed to his own chest like the heat inside was burning him from the ribcage outward. “It’s—moving. Like electricity. Like hunger.”
Charlie sat beside him, slow, gentle. “I know. I know, Al. This isn’t… exactly your usual behavior.”
His laugh was a small, helpless sound. “No… ordinarily… I am a man of restraint.”
She gave him a sympathetic look—
Then she saw it again.
The wound. Right above his ribs. The one from Adam’s blade. Torn, not fully healed. Slightly bleeding again from the strain of him being tied, struggling, dragged through that tower.
“Oh, Al…” Her voice cracked. She reached out.
He flinched—but not away.
More like his whole body jerked, overwhelmed, shuddering at the sensation of her touch. A sound slipped out of him, involuntary and raw—a whimpering moan that ended in his breath catching.
Charlie froze.
Alastor froze.
She blinked once.
Then, softly, she laughed under her breath. “Okay. You are… a bit fun when hormonal.”
His eyes snapped up.
The pupils are wide. Glowing. Hungry. His antlers grew, dark wood spiraling upward, a sign of his demon form asserting itself. He reached—slowly, but with intent—pulling her by her hips so she stood between his knees.
“Princess…” he breathed her title like it was a prayer and a threat and a plea.
She should have panicked.
She didn’t.
She looked at the wound again, brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to fix this…”
Except she didn’t realize she said that part out loud.
Alastor’s smile curled—sharp. This was the kind of smile that could topple kings and convince devils to kneel.
“You could kiss it,” he murmured. His voice dropped into velvet and smoke. “Kiss it… and make it better.”
She went very still.
Her eyes lifted to his.
He didn’t look mocking.
He didn’t look seductive.
He looked wrecked. Desperate. Hopelessly drawn to her.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Is that what you want… or is that the potion talking?”
His answer came as a sound—not a word.
A low, aching growl that vibrated against her skin through the air itself. A sound that meant yes and want and please don’t leave, and mine.
Charlie’s breath hitched at the same time her lip caught between her teeth.
She leaned closer, her forehead pressing gently to his.
“Alastor,” she whispered, voice warm, steady, grounding. “Tell me what’s you… and what’s not.”
His eyes closed.
And his hands—shaking—came up to her waist.
“Charlie,” he breathed, and it sounded like a confession. “It’s always you.”
Her heart dropped straight through her.
Because potion or not—
That part was real.
And they both knew it.
Charlie’s fingers traced the torn skin just above his ribs, light enough to barely touch. Alastor’s breath stopped mid-inhale—held in his chest like he was afraid movement might scare her away.
The wound wasn’t large, but it was deep. Angry. Bruised around the edges. The kind of hurt he would normally ignore, laugh off, hide behind a radio grin and a flick of his cane.
But right now—there was no mask.
Just him.
Raw. Glowing. Shaking.
Her thumb brushed the bruised edge, soft as a whisper.
Alastor’s head dropped forward, forehead nearly against her collarbone, a low sound spilling out of him—half whine, half growl, thick with need and pain and something fragile beneath both.
“Charlie…” he breathed her name like it was the only language he remembered. “Please…”
She didn’t speak. She just leaned in—slow, steady—and pressed her lips to his chest.
The contact was warm. Soft. Careful.
He gasped.
Actually gasped.
Like the air had been punched out of him.
His hand tightened at her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her coat like he needed something to hold onto or he might unravel. His body shivered under her mouth, muscles tightening and then melting all at once.
She kissed again.
Just a little higher, near the edge of his collarbone.
He made a sound this time—low, broken, hungry—and she felt it vibrate against her lips. His antlers brushed her cheek; he was leaning into her, closer, closer, like he couldn’t get close enough, no matter how much of him touched her.
Her lips lingered, breath warm against his skin, voice a whisper that barely existed.
“There you go,” she murmured. “See? I can help.”
His hands trembled.
One slid up her back.
Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
Like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t anchor her.
His forehead pressed to hers, eyes half-lidded and burning.
“You—” his voice caught and broke, softer than she’d ever heard, “you undo me.”
Charlie exhaled, shaky and quiet, her lips still an inch from his skin.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
Their breaths mingled. Warm. Slow. Dangerous.
He didn’t kiss her.
And she didn’t kiss him.
But the space between them felt like the moment just before lightning hits the ground.
The kind that changes everything.
The kind you don’t come back from.
The room felt warm, too warm. Not from heat, not the swamp that seemed to be in his room, but from the closeness—his body against hers, the soft press of fabric and breath and heartbeat.
Charlie’s lips hovered just above his wound, just above the skin that trembled for her. She looked up at him once. Just once. And that was all it took.
He leaned down.
Their mouths met.
Not careful this time.
Not tentative.
Needy.
His hand cupped her jaw, guiding her deeper into the kiss, lips moving like he’d been starving for the taste of her. Charlie kissed him back with the same urgency, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, closer, close enough to feel the tremor in his shoulders and the sharp drag of breath he couldn’t quite manage.
Alastor made a sound against her mouth—low, wanting, helpless—and the kiss broke only because breathing was suddenly difficult.
And then—
He moved.
With a suddenness that was instinct, not thought, he pulled her with him, shifting until she was beneath him on the mattress, his body braced above hers. His hair fell forward, antlers casting shadows over them both.
But the thing she saw first was the fight in his eyes.
His breath shook. His gaze locked on hers. His muscles were tight, not with hunger, but with restraint.
“Charlie,” he panted. “The potion… I can feel it… I’m losing—” His voice broke. He pressed his forehead to hers, shaking. “Please.”
She didn’t try to push him away.
She didn’t try to pretend she didn’t understand.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down to her—close, safe, held.
“Al,” she whispered, soft and steady, grounding him like a hand closing around lightning. “I know.”
His whole body learned to breathe again at the sound of that.
His head dropped to her shoulder. He nuzzled her neck, breath hot, kisses soft and desperate—not claiming, but clinging. Her fingers slid up along his back, slow, reassuring, tracing the trembling lines of muscle under his coat.
Charlie’s voice steadied, even as her pulse fluttered wildly. “You don’t actually want to… not right now. Not like this. I know.”
He let out a broken laugh against her throat. Bitter. Weak. Wild.
“You are vastly overestimating my self-restraint,” he murmured, mouth brushing the curve of her neck. “My dear, I have been given a highly volatile and catastrophically powerful love potion. I want to fuck you like a buck in heat. And it is going to get worse.”
Charlie gasped softly—at his words, at his voice, at the honesty of it.
But she only tightened her arms around him.
“We’ll fight it,” she said. “Together. Just stay with me. Stay you. The real Alastor. The one who makes choices.”
His breath hitched. His hand slid to hers, fingers interlacing. Holding. Grounding. Clinging.
He laughed again—low, tired, real this time.
“Seventy-two hours…” he whispered into her shoulder.
Charlie nodded, brushing her cheek against his antler as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Seventy-two hours,” she murmured. “We got this.”
He exhaled.
Not calm.
Gasping…
It was going to be a rough seventy-two hours.
The first few hours were quiet.
Alastor lay behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, his chest pressed to her back. His breathing was uneven at first—shallow, shaky—but it slowed as Charlie stroked his hair, her fingers combing gently through it until he melted against her.
She whispered soft, steady things.
“You’re okay.”
“You’re safe.”
“I’ve got you.”
And eventually, for the first time since the tower, he slept.
Charlie let herself relax too, her head resting against his arm, their hands loosely intertwined. It wasn’t peaceful—nothing about this situation was peaceful—but there was relief. There was contact. There was warmth.
For a while, it felt like the storm had quieted.
But then—
A twitch.
Barely noticeable at first.
Then another.
Alastor’s fingers flexed against her waist, slow, testing. A sigh left him—lower than a breath, almost a sound made in sleep. His arm tightened, pulling her back fully against him. Charlie stirred, not fully waking—not yet.
His hand slid, tracing the line of her waist. Over her ribs. Down her hip.
Gentle.
But hungry.
Charlie’s breath caught in her throat.
“Al…?” she whispered, still half-asleep.
He didn’t answer.
His lips moved against the shell of her ear, slow and warm. A soft kiss. Then another. The barest hint of tongue against her skin, tasting, savoring. His breath was shaky, strained, almost pained.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and need. “My darling girl… you’d look so lovely atop me…”
Charlie’s eyes opened.
Not wide.
Just aware.
She could feel it—his body, his breathing, the tremor running through him. Not force. Not aggression.
Hunger.
Feral, aching need.
The potion twisting every instinct he had.
Her hand moved to his, covering it. Not pushing away. Just grounding.
“Al,” she whispered, soft, steady, warm. “Hey. I’m here.”
His hand stilled—trembling under hers.
His forehead pressed into her shoulder.
A broken sound left him, half-growl, half-plea.
“Charlie… please… I’m trying—” His breath hitched. “I’m trying so hard…”
She turned in his arms, carefully, until they faced each other—bodies close, foreheads touching, nose to nose.
One hand cupped his cheek.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re fighting it.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I want you,” he confessed—raw, honest, shaking. “Every part of me is screaming to take you. To hold you. To never let you go. It’s in my blood. It’s—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Charlie’s thumb stroked his cheekbone.
“You won’t,” she whispered. “Because the real you is still here. And I am right here with you.”
His breathing slowed.
Just a little.
Enough to stay present.
Charlie pulled him close again, forehead pressed to his, their legs tangled, their hearts pacing each other.
“Seventy-two hours,” she murmured, barely audible.
Alastor’s breath shuddered out.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Seventy-two.”
And she held him.
While his fingers curled tight into the fabric of her shirt.
While his breath trembled against her throat.
While he tried—for her—to stay himself.