It's been a hell of a week here. Friday night, my little darling had a grand mal seizure that sent her to the ER and subsequently resulted in a multi-night stay at the hospital. (She's actually still there as of this post.)

So today's update in which I'm terribly jealous of my own damn OC has additional layers of envy for me. Never mind that they're in hell ... 'course, this kinda feels like hell for me, too, so what's the difference?

The difference is, Grace gets to do a thing many of us have dreamed about because we're all totally normal, right? Right??

The drawings in this chapter are some of the older ones I've done, yet they remain among my favorites. You'll probably be able to guess why. :)

Chapter 11: If Demons Were Disasters

It was now apparent the avoidance tables had turned.

Grace would have been happy to confront the Radio Demon about it, but was, at the moment, much happier to be left alone by him.

The last week had been the most peaceful, blissful week she’d had since before she died.

Storms had been rolling through Pentagram City for the last few days, and for the first time, Grace had the desire to do nothing but watch it rain. So after today’s exercise with the other hotel residents—make a promise to another sinner and keep it—she went outside onto the pool deck and watched the rain come down from beneath the safety of the balcony on the floor above her. 

Grace reflected upon the promises made that session. Kofax promised to help Grace the next time she needed something. Grace had promised Charlie she’d participate in more of these activities.

She rested against the railing with a content sigh; this would be the closest she’d ever get to being able to enjoy a good summer monsoon, again.

And either there was going to be a nearby lightning strike, or Alastor was somewhere in the vicinity.

The sky rumbled, followed by a quiet, staticky remark: “Why, exactly did you say you need protection, my little fawn? You’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself.”

Grace bristled. “I never said I needed it. I said I wanted it.” We haven’t spoken in a week and that’s how he greets me? Dick!

“It’s a nice day out, don’t you think?” He joined her at the railing, leaning on it beside her.

“It’s raining acid, Alastor.”

When he didn’t say anything in return, Grace finally deigned to look his way.

He was staring at her with a crooked smile.

“What?” she whispered warily. “What’s that look for?” Like he would tell her the truth? She almost scoffed at herself.

He sounded like a confused little boy, as if he didn’t understand what he was saying: “I feel like I should kiss you.”

Sure, Grace would have loved such things if they came from a place of sincere desire. Nonetheless, she couldn’t stop herself from replying, “But do you want to?”

She thought she saw him nod but maybe she imagined it because she desperately wanted for it to be true.

Nonetheless, she said, “Now listen here you handsome ghoul!” 

Alastor faced her, tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to calculate the best approach for such an endeavor.

“I already feel ways about you that I wish I didn't and that I'm certain you'll never understand. Even if you wanted to fake reciprocation, it'll only make me feel worse.”

He lifted her face by her cheek, drawing her toward himself. Grace’s eyes widened. There’s no way he’s doing this.

“I know you're a devious asshole but I think that's low even for your standards and if by any chance you actually want to try anything with me, I don't want you just going through the m—”

He kissed her.

It was easily the most platonic action Grace had ever experienced; he was just pressing his lips to hers. This was the kiss equivalent of a handshake.

It was so platonic, in fact, that it made Grace realize he’d probably never done such a thing before.

He’d definitely never done such a thing before.

Oh, shit. He’s gonna get bored.

He’s gonna wonder why he’s trying.

That it’s stupid and gross.

Because as horny as Grace perpetually was, as much as she enjoyed these activities, even she could understand how someone might find kissing to be stupid and gross. And when it was going as poorly as this was, it wasn’t hard to imagine it wouldn’t be fun for him.

He pressed closer to her then, angling his mouth over hers, as if something inside him had clicked. As if he’d discovered the value in this interaction. As if maybe … just maybe … he didn’t entirely dislike it.

And that was encouragement enough for Grace to hop up, wrap her arms around his shoulders and deepen their kiss.

She could feel him shift against her, his lips curling back.

And then her world bloomed in dazzling pain that whisked the very breath from her lungs.

Blood poured from her mouth. When she realized what happened, Grace shoved him away with every ounce of her strength.

“Al! God! Dammit!” She slapped her hands over her mouth to stem the bleeding; he must have bitten clean through her lower lip. For all she knew, he’d taken a good chunk of it with him. “You just used that as an excuse to bite me! How fucking dare you!”

He grinned the most devious smile she’d seen from him yet. “I couldn't help it. You're …” He inhaled, chest puffed up in satisfaction as he swiped her blood from his lip with his index finger and licked it clean with a long, prehensile tongue that tapered to a small, pointed tip. “Sweet.”

“Go, Alastor,” Grace scowled, still with her hand pressed to her mouth. There was so much blood; all she could taste was copper. That may be the only thing she’d ever be able to taste again. “Jump back into whatever rusted mug of swamp water you spawned from!”

Alastor’s ears lowered to either side of his head before going straight back. His sclera went black, crescent horns growing into wide antlers. Without another word, he stalked back inside the hotel.

Grace watched him go as she tried to catch her breath and slow her racing heart.

‘I couldn't help it. You're … sweet,’ played ad nauseam in her head, taunting her. Her pulse wasn’t slowing and now her face was heating up. It could have been caused by the effort to heal his bite, but she doubted it.

She pulled her right hand back, eyeing her blood-soaked palm before gingerly touching her lips with her left hand fingertips. No fresh blood.

‘I couldn't help it. You're … sweet.’

That was going to be her new torment in Hell.

The acid rain had stopped and now it was just ugly outside so Grace went back into the hotel.

Everyone was gathered at the bar by then, including Alastor, who was hunched over in his seat, his horns still antlering. 

They stared.

He refused to acknowledge her.

"I'm going to my room,” she announced without any further explanation.

She tried not to think about it.

She tried to read.

She even turned on her radio to listen to music.

Nothing could get Alastor’s voice out of Grace’s head.

This would be the worst earworm ever, even more stubborn than Peter and the Wolf and “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

“‘I couldn't help it,’” she grumbled mockingly. “‘You're sweet.’ Well you’re just a big lousy asshole.”

Grace changed for the night, resigning herself to staying in her bedroom. She selected a two-piece fuchsia satin pajama set that had remained unworn since the day Charlie conjured it, and settled into bed where she tossed and turned for a bit.

Maybe it was just too early to sleep. Or maybe she was too worked up.

Grace curled up on her side, pulling her blankets into a cocoon around her body.

And then that demon had the impertinence to ghost into her room.

“I see you haven’t learned how to knock yet,” she growled without turning toward the door. “Leave me alone.”

“I heard you’re having trouble sleeping. I thought I would stay the night … I’ll bet I could make you tired—”

Grace bolted upright in her bed.

“—of me. Tired of me. I’m annoying as shit.” He followed that with what Grace had come to learn was his fake laugh.

She growled, “I’m not in the mood for your stupid jokes. Why can’t you just go away?”

Alastor exhaled, silent for a few beats. “I actually thought you might want to massage my ears.”

Grace whipped around to face him, her eyes flashing. “Yes, Alastor! After you hurt me, I really wanna do something to comfort you.”

He stepped back, eyebrows darting toward the ceiling. “You do?”

“No!” She flopped back down, tightening her covers around her head. “That's sarcasm, you manipulative piece of shit! I know you’re old, but you don’t predate mockery!”

Grace could swear she heard the sound of a record scratching.

“I wasn't offering that for myself. I thought you’ve wanted to.”

She rolled over, eyeing him carefully.

Alastor continued, “They're … insultingly …” He was smiling and yet looked utterly disgusted. “Soft.”

Grace swallowed hard. In the ensuing silence, she sat upright. Then she pointed at the floor beside her bed with a command she knew in her gut he would never follow: “Sit on the floor.”

His ears went flat against his head but after a moment—and much to her surprise—he complied.

With him now so close to her, Grace noticed he reeked of alcohol as if he’d bathed in it and then used it as both aftershave and cologne. Jeez. If anyone else smelled so strongly of booze, they wouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone stand or converse so easily.

In fact, Grace had seen people drop dead in the emergency room from alcohol poisoning on a night of binge drinking who smelled less of alcohol than Alastor did.

She swung her legs off the edge of the mattress, dangling them on either side of his shoulders. Maybe it was a trick of the light or just the angle, but it almost looked like his cheeks matched his jacket.

Grace reached out to touch his ears, hesitating. He hadn’t destroyed her after she licked his chest. Certainly he’d find this less objectionable. And now that she thought about it, she wanted to ask him how that old wound was feeling.

Instead, she started rubbing his ears; not only were they soft, but they were softer than she anticipated.

Alastor remained silent. Not a word, nor a moan or any other little noise to hint at how this must have felt for him, for better or worse.

“Do you hear better with these?” she asked quietly. “Like … my, what big ears you have, Grandma!”

"Don't you hear better with yours?"

"No, not any better than I did when I was alive. Mine are just ornamental, I guess."

He hunched forward slightly but didn’t pull away from her touch. “Unfortunately,” Alastor sighed, “I do.”

“Why 'unfortunately?' I’d imagine having good hearing would be especially advantageous in Hell.”

Alastor craned his neck to meet her gaze; his face did, indeed, match his jacket.

“What?” Grace asked warily.

He settled back in, facing away from her. “It's hard to block out the noises of the couples in the hotel.”

“Oh—” That would be unpleasant for the average person. But asexual Alastor? “Ohhhhh,” Grace whispered. “Oh, you poor thing.” She paused her massage when she noticed a small, hard lump at the base of his right ear. “Hey, did you know you have some matting back here?”

Alastor replied immediately, “Did you know you're a massive pain in my neck?”

“Did you know you're an ancient asshole?” she snapped before she could stop herself. She held still, held her breath. Waited for his reaction.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I am.”

Grace exhaled quietly. She had to be imagining that he was more tolerant of her lately. Doubtful he’d take such words from Husk in stride.

She resumed rubbing his ears and after a few moments, felt something tapping against the inside of her left hoof. Grace leaned forward slightly to peer over the edge of the mattress. It was too dark to see anything in the space between his back and her bed.

“Alastor—”

He scowled audibly.

“Do you have a tail?!”

In a heartbeat, Alastor turned on her, pivoting to face her before pinning her down against the mattress with a hand over her mouth. His eyes were black and the antlers were returning.

She tried to wrestle free of his grip, attempted to say something but he pressed down on her lips so hard, she couldn’t form the words.

Nonetheless, he cocked his head questioningly at the noise she’d made.

How was someone so thin that strong?

“What?” he asked, removing his palm from her lips.

"I won't tell anyone! I promise!" Grace didn’t point out that the main reason she wouldn’t share that information was because of how much she liked knowing something about Alastor that—she assumed—nobody else knew.

“Damn right you won’t.” Alastor released her and following a brief hesitation while kneeling above her on the bed, backed off.

She went to sit up but got her head yanked back down. “What the—” Grace reached up over her head, groping the covers only to find her horns had speared and subsequently gotten stuck in the bed’s fitted sheet.

Perturbed, Grace motioned to her horns and asked, "Little help here?"

He smirked but acquiesced, leaning over her once more and sliding his palms up along her horns to push the sheet from them.

The feeling it gave her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, electric shocks zipping through her veins and spreading gooseflesh in their wake, even in places she was sure she couldn’t have such things.

She sat up slowly, breathlessly, while he watched in curious silence.

“No one's ever touched my horns before,” she whispered. Truth be told, she’d barely ever bothered with them, thinking of them like fingernails or hair. That definitely did not feel like he’d touched fingernails or hair.

He cocked a brow but said nothing.

“Get back on the floor.” Grace demanded, heat flooding her cheeks with the embarrassment of it all. If he’d lingered over her or caressed her horns a moment longer, he probably would have brought her to orgasm and not known how, why, or what had even happened. “Now!” she snapped when he didn’t react quickly enough.

To her surprise, Alastor returned to his position on the floor. She resumed massaging his ears. 

She wondered again if this act was doing anything even remotely favorable for him when his head dropped backward, plopping on the mattress between her thighs.

He had the most blissful, closed-mouth smile on his face and was breathing steadily. Deeply.

“… Smiles?” Grace whispered.

He didn’t respond.

“Baby Horns?”

He’d either fallen asleep or passed out. With how much he smelled of alcohol, Grace assumed it was the latter. She ran her fingertips through the hair over his forehead to test her theory. “My handsome Murder Muffin?”

Alastor didn’t react; neither his expression nor his breathing changed.

Grace considered kissing him, at the very least on his forehead. It was the only chance she had where she’d be guaranteed not to get bitten by him.

Rather than doing that, she gently maneuvered him up onto her bed, waiting for him to rouse. She pulled the covers up over him, slipping into his arms a small, red cat plushie she’d come to adore because it reminded her of him. He clutched it but remained asleep. 

Once more, Grace thought to kiss him goodnight.

Instead, she grabbed a spare pillow from the other side of her bed and excused herself silently from her room. As poorly as she slept, something told Grace that Alastor needed this rest more than she did.

She quietly made her way down to the hotel’s common area, relieved to find it vacant. She selected her favorite couch and curled up on her side, tucking the pillow beneath her head.

This place was supposed to help me. I had such high hopes to feel better, safe even! I know this is Hell but come on. I can't go anywhere else. It's too dangerous. My old apartment building mysteriously burned down so it’s not exactly like I can go back there.

But … being around him hurts too much.

Yes, she was feeling again. But these feelings sucked big, sweaty donkey nuts.

There was nothing else to do but cry herself to sleep.

Next week, Chapter 13: Putting Nesta to Shame

Stay sane, deer friends!