Alastor Would 100% Force You To Listen To The Entirety Of Everywhere At The End Of Time

Alastor would 100% force you to listen to the entirety of Everywhere At The End Of Time

This place reeks of death.

Escape - Part 2 to Per This Agreement

Alastor x Reader // word count 3.2k

In which your worst fear returns, and nothing about it (about him) is as you remembered

Tags/Warnings: noncon, blowjob, come swallowing, mention of substance use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms™️, Alastor poorly suppressing a mental breakdown, not a good ending for either party, angst with a side of smut

A/N: I see this happening before/during whatever the fuck happened seven years ago. Is it canon compliant? Only time will tell.

As always - 18+, read the tags, if you don’t like the tags then don’t go below the cut (or into my inbox). Thank you and enjoy.

It’s been almost a year. That all-consuming paranoia that haunted you in the aftermath still lingers. But it’s not as sharp as it once was. It even disappears sometimes, when you keep yourself busy, when you give yourself other things to think about (there are other ways to tune it out as well, but they don’t last, and leave you more of a wreck than you started). So you stay moving. Stay distracted. And the results? You have a job, a dingy apartment, a scattered collection of hobbies, and people who you might consider friends if you weren’t scared of bringing them in close. It’s enough to keep the worst of your thoughts at bay. Enough to keep you sane.

And yet, you know that he is coming back. He made it clear, on that horrible day, that your existence is not your own. That you will see him again. You’ve pictured this reunion many times - it pops into your head, unwanted, at the worst possible moments. When you’re alone, when it’s dark, when you’re trying to sleep. Even after you fall asleep. Some of your nightmares are so vivid that you swear you can feel that chain around your neck, even once you wake up gasping for air. Sometimes, after a string of bad nights, staying busy isn’t enough, and you look for other ways out. If you drink enough, you don’t dream. And of course, you don’t dream if you don’t sleep and all.

You slept well last night, though. It’s been weeks since the last broadcast, and for once, your sleeping mind has given you a reprieve from its horrors. The day was good, too. Full of the pleasant boringness of everyday existence, the empty chatter that almost makes you feel at peace. You went to work, and did not jump at any unexplained noises. You ate your lunch, and did not feel the urge to vomit at any point after. You walked home, and did not stop to buy the sort of poison that would help you forget. You turned corners, and did not fear what you might see when you did. You ascended the stairs of your apartment building, and unlocked your door, and thought of nothing but mundane things the entire time. It was an uneventful day.

It was too good to last. 

You step into your apartment, and immediately, something feels wrong. You can’t place it. There are no flickering lights, no ominous shadows on the wall, no faint, distorted voices echoing from places you can’t see. And yet, the feeling remains. You proceed cautiously through your home, and slowly open the door of your bedroom. Step inside.

And freeze. 

Alastor is standing motionless in the middle of the room, like he’s been staring at your door for hours, waiting for you to emerge. 

Running would be so pointless that it doesn’t even occur to you. In fact, absolutely nothing occurs to you for some time. For you to have any thoughts, you’d first have to admit that this was real.

His eyes register your appearance, but he doesn’t move or speak. Not yet. Your mind slows down - or perhaps time slows down, to give you a chance to see, to understand anything beyond your initial horror. And you realize, after your thoughts finally catch up with your eyes, that nothing is as you remembered. 

He looks different. He is different, in every conceivable way.

You remember him standing straight. Even when he bent down, his spine was rigid. Now, he is folded in on himself, like a marionette with half its strings cut. His chest visibly rises and falls. His ears are pressed back against his head. His hair is frayed at the ends, individual strands escaping his control, pressing out in every direction. He is still grinning, but it’s not cruel, or confident. In fact, it looks like it might slip off at any moment. And his eyes…

They’re wide. Expressive, a far cry from the sadistic calculation that had burned in them a year ago. In all the times you imagined this moment, you never imagined him like this. You don’t think you could have conjured such a desperate expression in your imagination, even if you’d tried. Something is wrong, and not in the way you expected.

Even the place where he’s standing is wrong. In your nightmares, he always appeared over your bed when you were sleeping, or materialized in your desk chair, his boots kicked up at the corner, a menacing grin pasted to his face. And he always had something to say. But here, in what is unfortunately your real, waking life, his silence stretches on, until it’s too much for you to bear.

“What do you want?” You hate the way these words curdle in your mouth, fall thickly from your tongue. You shouldn’t have to ask. In your dreams, he was always very clear about what he wanted. Revenge for your insolence, in one way or another. On the good nights, your soul is ripped at its seams, and you scream for all of hell to hear. On the bad nights, you’re torn apart in a different way, and no one hears you except for him.

He doesn’t answer you. Not immediately. Just inhales deeply, presses his clenched fists to his side. For no reason that you can think of, you take a step forward - the door slams shut behind you, and you hear the click of a key in the lock. You don’t bother turning around, or checking your pockets for your own key. Somehow, you already know that they’ll be empty. 

One of his hands rises into the space between you. His fist falls open, palm raised to the ceiling. It curls shut. 

This is exactly as you remember.

It plays out like your nightmares, in perfect detail. The golden chain unfurls, you take one last free breath before the collar snaps tight around your neck, and you lock eyes with him as your face falls. But you don’t struggle, this time. And he doesn’t move more than he has to. He drops his gaze, stares down the length of the chain, holds its end limply in his loose fist. 

It shakes and bends, capturing the small spasms of his hand. “I didn’t think”-

Your breath catches in your throat, at the same moment he cuts himself off. He sounds different. There is no filter over his voice, nothing for it to hide behind. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever”- Again, he stops. He seems to become aware that he’s speaking only once the words have left his mouth. “A year ago…I didn’t intend on following through”-

You wait. He’s not drawing this out on purpose. You almost wish that he was. That would make sense. Taunts would make sense. Arrogance, deceit - those would make sense. This does not make sense. This is not real.

He starts again, and this time, it sticks. “I’m suffering in ways that you couldn’t even fathom.” His eyes, dull, burned-out red craters, leave you no room to question him, although at this moment, you don’t think any kind of suffering is out of reach for you. “There’s a reason the airwaves have been so quiet for the past few weeks. This… thing that’s hanging over me…” His eyes narrow, fingertips scratch against his covered palm. “It’s stripping the pleasure out of everything.” Finally, he looks at you. Seeing your face seems to strengthen his resolve - he grips the slack of the chain, slowly wraps it around his hand. “And I’m sure you know…despair makes us resort to strange things, just to feel alive.”

You do know. And you want to scream that you know because of him. But for many reasons, your mouth stays shut. He already knows everything that you’re thinking. Everything you fear. He’s thinking about it, too.

“I can’t escape. But I can forget, if only for a moment. And I suppose that’s a form of escape in itself.” He tilts his head. “Isn’t it?” His gaze is fixed on the chain link protruding from his fist. Some battle rages in his head, with no sign of abating. 

The doorknob is close to your hand. So close that you’re beginning to think that fleeing is an option for you, after all. The Alastor you saw in your nightmares would never have permitted it - but he has little in common with the man standing before you. You eye the golden links flowing out from his hand. If you pull hard enough to make him let go, will the whole thing disappear? You don’t think it would take much to catch him off guard. Not in his current state.

Your stomach drops as his eyes flick upwards, catch you in the act.

“Oh…” To your horror, his ears perk up, eyes narrow in an all-too-familiar way. “No. I’m not that far gone.”

You stop, and wish you could force yourself to keep moving, just enough to cover your ears. The static is back in his voice, biting into you. You think he’s angry, like he was the time before. Or at the very least, he wants to be angry. 

Your mind escapes of its own accord. You see yourself, almost a year ago, in the wake of your terrible mistake. Wiping your tears away, dressing in the finest clothes you owned, marching into the street. Buying two things at a nearby secondhand shop: a radio, abandoned and cheap because it refused to turn off, and a baseball bat. It was a stupid idea, one that sucked up your money and left you sitting on your kitchen floor in a sea of broken metal parts, feeling even more hopeless than you did before.

But it felt good, while it lasted. Better than you’d felt in a long time. It gave you something to do with your misery, other than let it tear you apart. And for a few seconds of blissful destruction, your mind went entirely quiet. 

His voice drags you back to the present. “Even if you did manage to get as far as that doorknob,” he spits, “it would still be locked. I’m afraid that you’re trapped.” His grin stretches at the corners, and he bitterly laughs at some joke that you truly don’t understand. “We have that in common. But at least I still have a few places left to run.”

You don’t say a thing. Only let your hand fall from its upwards climb, back to the outside of your thigh. Limp.

“So few that I ran to you.” His lip twitches in something like disgust - whether at you, or at himself, you’re not sure. It stills quickly, and the mask of his smile hardens on his face. “Pitiful. But I can’t say that I regret it just yet. And perhaps I never will.” He clenches his fist tight around the ethereal chain, and for the first time since you set foot in your room, his eyes are alight, glowing exactly how you remember. “I certainly can’t turn back.”

Maybe this, the return of what you knew, is the only part that is real. Or maybe it’s the only part that isn’t. It goes on, either way.

A sudden tension on the chain pulls you forward, until you’re sprawled on the floor with only a vague understanding of how you got there. You look up, and see a gloved hand tugging sharply upwards. You scramble to your knees, because fighting with the metal band around your neck will result in you hideously gasping for breath until you surrender. You try to look away. To your surprise, he lets you, but you find your gaze returning to him before long. There’s no escape. He made that clear a long time ago. He can quell any struggle that you attempt, so it’s better not to struggle at all.

No way out…and yet, there is a hesitance in the way his hand leaves your face, a clumsiness in the way it falls at his waist. One last spark of uncertainty. It’s gone, after a moment - he clutches your chain harder, and quickly undoes his trousers, pulls everything down just enough to let his cock spring free. He looks at you in the moment that your stomach knots in anticipation, in the moment your face betrays your rage at being dragged down to this place. He sighs in delight, at that. But he closes his eyes as he urges you forward, as you let your tongue fall from your mouth, as you drag it up his length and close your mouth over the tip of his cock. He inhales sharply, but makes no other sound. His mouth has fallen open, revealing the sharp ends of his teeth. You wrap your hand around his shaft, meet it with your lips, stroke in time with the movement of your mouth, try to ignore the sound of his breath. You don’t know what he wants, what he likes - you’re not sure if he knows, either. All you can do is keep going, and pray that it will be over soon. Your eyes are closed. His breathing is louder than it was a moment before.

You’re not sure what, exactly, shifts. All you know is that suddenly, his hand is on the back of your head, nails sharp even through his gloves, curling through your hair and pressing into your scalp. His eyes have snapped open. They bore into you as he forces himself into your throat, as he makes you gag and sputter until you’re fighting against his hand, against the chain that pulls you tight to the base of his cock. You can’t breathe. Drool trails from the sides of your mouth, drips to the floor - and he holds you there, exhales raggedly as your struggles become increasingly desperate, until give out entirely.

There’s the clink of chain unwinding from his hand, and then the relief of being yanked back, of taking a deep breath - only for your stomach to drop again as he raises your face. You’re not sure when you started crying, but the tears are there, and he sees every one of them. Lifts a finger to wipe the freshest one away. 

His eyes are wide and shining and dark. Edging on black, the same color as the ill-fitting shadow that pulses out from behind him. He tugs at your chain, and his voice hisses out from the gap between his teeth, a low, ravenous command. “Smile.”

His finger pulls at the corner of your mouth, but you’re already obeying, pulling your lips back to show your teeth, arranging the drool-stained lower half of your face into exactly what he wants to see. His hand twitches. The shadow on the wall lets its mouth fall open. Then, his grip clamps down on your jaw, erasing your grin and forcing your lips open. He shoves into your mouth, thrusts relentlessly until all you have room for in your head is the clink of the chain by your ear, the pressure of his hand on the back of your head, and the taste of his cock on your tongue. The chain tightens, he holds you tight as you choke, his hand stiffens on your scalp - 

He gasps out an oath under his breath. His body shudders, convulses. His cock pulses into you, and his come releases into your throat, so deep that you don’t taste it. You don’t think about it. You prepare to fight for breath, once again, to be held cruelly and tightly until saliva pools in your mouth and spills from your lips. 

But you don’t have to. The moment after it happens, he’s already stepping away. Pulling in on himself, in a perfect mirror of the way you crumple to the floor beneath him. Another oath falls softly on your ears, this one the opposite of pleasure, panicked and accompanied by a different sort of shudder.

The chain disappears. You swallow hard. And with your spine curled in, with your forearms pressed to your thighs, you watch him. He dresses himself quickly, erratically, fumbling over the fasteners before stumbling back to fall onto your bed. To ruin it with the weight of his body, the curl of his fingers on your blanket. 

His breathing, unlike yours, doesn’t even out as the seconds tick by. It catches, releases, sputters. And finally, it becomes so perfectly slow and measured that you know, beyond a doubt, each inhale and exhale is a conscious act. He’s dazed, eyes lidded, his grin faint compared to moments ago. You get the odd impression that you shouldn’t be seeing him like this - that no one should.

“My mind went quiet, for a moment…” Again, he’s not really speaking to you. The static in his voice is gone. And that look on his face, the deadened eyes, the panic only betrayed in the jittering of his hands, has sprung back into place. “It wasn’t worth it.”

“No.” You’re not sure if you say it out loud, and you don’t care. Your mind detaches from your body, floats to the highest shelf in your cramped kitchen, the half-empty bottle of liquor that stands bitter and alone against the peeling paint of your wall. It’s never worth it. And yet, you know that it will be empty, before long.

He looks away from you. “There was a time…a time when I had rules...control…” 

There was a time when you had control, too. It ended when you met him, and it won’t come back. 

“Your soul…” His chest rises. Falls. Heavy. And slowly, shaking, he pulls his hands up from your bed. In one, he rests his face, the attached arm pulled close to his body, elbow pressed down into his thigh. The other hand unfurls in the empty air beside his head. From it emits a soft green light. “Have it.” The light streams towards you, connecting your body with the tips of his fingers, enveloping you with such intensity that you have to close your eyes. You gasp as it seems to pierce your heart, sending a jolt vibrating through your ribcage as it’s sucked into you, until the green glow on the other side of your eyelids has disappeared, and a strange warmth radiates inside you.

He’s let you go. You feel it, know it - but the relief does not come.

You open your eyes. He stands, turns away. Ears pushed back, fists clenched, spine rounded, moments from giving out entirely. And this is the last you see of him. He does not leave by the door. Instead, his image melts away, melds with the remnants of his shadow and retreats into some dark corner, out through whatever crevice he manages to find. 

Away from you. Away from the unswept bedroom floor that you’re curled upon, away from your eyes, which have become every bit as hollow as his own. You hate yourself for wondering what happened to him. But you hate yourself more for wondering if he’ll ever come back. Wondering what version of him you’ll see, if he does. ***

The broadcasts do not return. Not in weeks, not in months, not in years to come. But you never really stop wondering. Only pause. Only live, and escape the best you can for as long as you can manage. After enough time has gone by, you can barely make out his face in your dreams - but you always know it’s him. And they never go away.

is THIS your man? [shows an image of a malnourished injured exhausted man with big sad eyes looking up at the camera with blood smeared all over his face and mouth. and he is visibly trembling]

I would like everyone to know that the ungodly thing I’m gonna post later today was partially written on the property of a Christian University™️

Vox was absolutely off the rails in this episode and I am still cackling about it. Man sprung a rage boner, did a silly little dance, dropped a tongue reveal, and dipped