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Summary
If Alastor had to boast about just one aspect of his existence, he would, without hesitation, choose his ability to maintain control in every situation. Silencing his death and life impulses, especially those of death, making words dance on his tongue to better serve them to naive souls who drank his words like the eternal last drink of an alcoholic in denial—this was an exercise in which he excelled and to which he was equally addicted.
He always knew where he was, why he was there, and how he got there. There were no exceptions.
“I can't believe you're letting me do this.”
None, except one.
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The (short) story of Alastor's ironic craving for the intimacy he abandoned to his doubts and fears, and of Vox's feelings, burried so deep under layers of shame he can only express them through sex.
Or
How electricity and biting spiced up a sour situationship.
| Written for the BottomAlastorWeek 2024 (day one and two combined).