Hell en Pointe | Alastor ✓

chapter 7

You slowly looked up, taking in his iconic red clothing and immediately knowing who it was. You eventually made eye contact with him. "You," you said simply.

"You," he hummed tauntingly back.

You narrowed your eyes. "I see you more around here than anyone else, and from what I've heard from the other residents, you're not even here very often."

"It's funny, isn't it?" said his radio-static voice.

"It would almost seem like you were stalking me," you accused, trying to grate his nerves. Which, now that you think about it, probably isn't a good idea. Sigh. If you were just able to dance to get all this built up frustration out, you wouldn't feel so tempted to get sassy with him.

"And if I was?" he said.

"I would tell you kindly to fuck off."

"I'm curious about you, you know," said Alastor, taking a step back from your extremely close proximity and pacing around you, his staff hit the floor with a soft thump as he walked. "How does a mere girl like you become an Overlord in just a few months of being in Hell? And yet..." He stopped, grinning wildly and looking at you. You felt a little frightened, but tried to swallow it down. "...You're still a mystery..."

"I wouldn't call myself a 'mystery,'" you countered. Your palms were getting sweaty.

"Oh, but Overlords talk, dear [Y/N]," said Alastor. "They hardly know a thing about you except that you have an accent and a classy demeanor. Why, when I first heard about you I thought you were from my time, the way you were described by others."

"What, the twenties?"

"And the early thirties," he corrected with a wave of his finger. "Good times, I tell you, simply wonderful!"

"How would you know what Overlords say anyway?" you brought up. The atmosphere was dry and dusty, the burgundy wallpapered halls dimly lit and the carpet beneath you short and hard, with no cushion whatsoever. "It's not like you're one for social interaction."

"And how would you know?" growled the Radio Demon in delight. He seemed very entertained. "You hardly know me, love."

"Overlords talk," you smirked, bringing up his own words to throw in his face.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Still, I would begin to wonder if you're hiding something from me," thought Alastor aloud, his voice growing darker by the moment. He cornered you, slowly walking forward and pushing your back against the wall. You were forced to walk backward, but your cockiness did not falter — you kept your head held high and stood your ground as much as you possibly could.

"Hiding something from you?" You swallowed dryly. "Like I said, I'm not your friend. I don't owe you any kind of explanation for anything."

"Oh, please, little fawn," he said, tilting your chin up with his staff. His voice was low and sultry, his eyes half-lidded and that despicable grin wider than ever. Your nose scrunched up in disgust. "I own you." Then, tauntingly, he said, in a very obvious-like tone, "You know this!"

Alastor's radio-static words flooded your mind, bouncing around repetitively with no apparent escape. He was right. You did know that. For a fact, indeed. But there had to be something you could do to get out of it. You wanted your soul to be your own.

"I'm not yours to own, Alastor," you snarled, the tension from his staff under your chin and his menacing glare making the ears atop your head perk up and your spine lengthen. "You know that."