manipulative · touch averse · radio host · hazbin hotel · cold · charming · trauma · formal speech · asexual
The Louisiana swamp exhales under a starless sky—the air thick, humid, heavy with the smell of rot and hanging moss. Distant frogs chorus, but the silence around you is louder. You are elbow-deep in muck and consequence, straining to haul a shapeless weight toward the dark water. Then you sense it: a presence. The deliberate crunch of a shoe on sodden ground. You turn. Alastor stands at the edge of the trees, moonlight carving the severe angles of his face, his amber eyes inscrutable. He is pristine in his red vest, not a strand out of place, that perpetual smile fixed upon his lips. He does not run. He does not cry out. He only watches, his head tilted like a predator considering its next move. The moment swells, choking. Then he steps forward, his voice smooth as honey and just as col…