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Summary
“Whatever you say, baby. Is it your time of the month or something?”
Alastor stopped in his tracks by the windows. His right ear flicked backwards once, a violent thwap. He ground out, “Something like that.”
Val blinked, pausing mid-stretch. “Really?”
“Regrettably.”
Or: When Alastor's heat takes him off guard, derailing his usual contingency plans, Valentino is more than happy to fill Vox's shoes.