#please; won't you tear me open wide? ( the willing victim of a cannibal! ) ⟹ harteatiing ; alastor.

[antisatiric]

[ hand ]

Twain's been on plenty of dates with Alastor before, obviously, but this one feels like a different beast entirely. Only Alastor, he thinks, could get him to agree to something like this. He can't even imagine dressing up nice for anyone else, let alone going out to eat at a place where they switch out the silverware in between courses.

Alastor had picked out his outfit. Twain had thought about protesting, but Alastor actually had seemed to like the way he looked in it even if it had felt ridiculous. It still does feel a little ridiculous; the last time he'd worn something like this, he was somewhere around seven and his parents were still forcing him to go to church every Sunday.

All things considered, he's more than a little nervous waiting for Alastor. There's a part of him that's still convinced Alastor wants someone better at this whole thing than him, and that maybe this will prove to him that Twain really doesn't belong in nice clothes or nice restaurants. He really, really, hopes not. But there's always a chance.

The door swings open, and Alastor steps outside.

Despite his worrying, Twain can't help but grin; Alastor always looks good, but he's put in more than the usual effort tonight. This sort of thing suits him; Twain's always thought so, even before things got as personal as they have between the two of them. Alastor wears fine clothes as naturally as a person wears skin.

Twain even forgets to be insecure when he sees the way Alastor's eyes light up, looking over his outfit. He'd taken some extra time to put his hair up, and it's a little uncomfortable but he's starting to think it might have been pretty worth it, if it gets him that kind of look from Alastor.

In no time, there's very little distance between them at all. The night air between them is cool and pleasant, and for a second Twain wishes they could be outside for longer than the five minutes it's going to take to walk to the damn place. Just for a second, though, because he knows how much Alastor wants this.

Alastor offers a hand and he accepts, more quickly than he thinks would be appropriate if he were at all trying to come off as casual. Then he raises Twain's hand and—like he knows exactly the effect it's going to have on Twain—presses a quick kiss to the back of it.

"You look great," Twain says, trying unsuccessfully to pretend his heart didn't just flutter like it does in those overdramatic romantic scenes. "Really, I mean, you always look great, but—this is nice. Really nice."

And the thing is, he could have easily said no to Alastor about tonight's plans. It would have spared him a lot of worrying in the interim. But Alastor has a way of making Twain feel like he's worth something—like he's the kind of person who should be cherished, even if he doesn't believe it. So he'd thought, maybe it wouldn't be so bad with Alastor.

(He thinks he was probably right.)

kisses. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

"Doesn't mean shit!" Twain calls back cheerfully. "You can be familiar with somethin' all you like; that doesn't make it much better."

He's surprised with how well he knows the layout of the kitchen; he doesn't even need to ask where the cups are. It's the sort of thing that tends to happen when someone gets familiar with a place, but he honestly hadn't realized how long he's been over here doing this, or how often. It's easy to forget that endlessly bothering Alastor is a pretty recent addition to his afterlife.

This is probably a little too far. But he'd rather be a little out of his comfort zone than not do anything about Alastor's state at all.

"Oh, yeah, how could I forget! You're soooo evil an' scary. Kindhearted souls like me should run screamin' or somethin'. Just talkin' to you has really put a wrench in my redemption plans." Coming back out of the kitchen, water in hand, Twain rolls his eyes semi-fondly.

He places the glass down on the counter, reclaiming the seat he'd left. Then it occurs to him that he'd actually meant to also grab himself something to drink, but he's already sat down so he elects not to get back up.

"Well, go ahead an' condemn me forever."

" I am not in a state, " The overlord insists, tipping his head back at an unnatural angle to watch, upside-down, as his...companion ? enters the kitchen. " it's hardly my first jaunt around this particular block. "

Companion... is that what he is ?

Since meeting the man, Alastor has learned to hesitate on taking Mark's personality at face value. He's a menace, first and foremost-- even if he is an entertaining one. Someone who manages to jam himself beneath the Radio Demon's skin more effectively than anyone else has in decades. Alastor often finds himself at a loss in the face of the other sinner's demeanor-- especially where he, himself, is concerned.

And yet, he continues to let him through that door. Continues to sit here and read beside him, engaging in limitless chatter, fielding and avoiding Mark's prying with a strange sort of building comfort. And now he lets the man walk into his kitchen to bring him a glass of water, of all things.

" You certainly can be worried, it's not as if I can stop you, " The truth is, as much as he might loathe to admit that not all of Mark's actions are fueled by the desire to harass and frazzle him, he cares for people. Humanity means something to him that Alastor has never been able to see eye to eye with-- and as a result his general concern for others is not debatable. However... " I simply didn't expect that sentiment to extend to me. Also, I'd rather imagine that helping me might overall go against the hotel's values, but fine, I'll play along~. "

[antisatiric]

introducing mark hartley!! a slight redesign for an au i've developed with @harteatiing and which has exclusively consumed every waking thought of mine for the past several days!!

[antisatiric]

[ lean ]

Twain barely reacts as Alastor's weight settles against him, though his contented heart betrays his happiness just a little.

He always craves touch---if not skin to skin, then the pressure of someone else being close enough to him to feel it. Back when he was alive, it had been years. Then eight more of them in Hell with only passing, fleeting touches that were accidental. That didn't mean anything.

Every one of Alastor's means something, on the other hand. He's a little like a cat in that way, picky and capricious about who he grants the privilege to be so close.

So it's Alastor who initiates, most of the time, which works out because then Twain doesn't have any room to worry about whether Alastor's just humoring him. He doesn't do all that much he doesn't want to, though Twain privately thinks Alastor indulges him a little more than he lets on.

He almost opens his mouth to speak, but decides against doing so right away. It's a rare moment of quiet from him---of waiting before speaking. He doesn't usually like the quiet, but then again, usually it's quiet because he's alone. Alastor couldn't be more 'here' if he tried. There's no more tangible reminder of his presence than touch itself, and Twain can't help that all his focus is constantly on that.

Instead he turns his head a little, leaning it into Alastor's, positioned carefully so it's hopefully comfortable for both of them. Silence passes.

"Y'know, I..."

His voice doesn't slice through silence like a knife through butter or shatter it like any damn thing to a mirror. The words just end it, plain and simple.

I think I love you and it's scaring me. I could stay like this for the rest of my afterlife. I'm glad it's you and me here right now. I wanna kiss you more badly than I've ever wanted to kiss anyone. I don't know if I remember who I was before I met you; I don't know if I want to.

"... I care about you a whole lot more than I ever thought I would when we met."

safety. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

[ dip ] sender dips receiver at the end of the song

A less adaptable person would have struggled to keep up with Alastor, but Twain has the coordination to match him and no desire to lead the dance in the first place.

He wouldn't describe the atmosphere dancing brings to the room as energetic, but lively might be the right word. It's a jaunty little song, for those who think of things as jaunty. Most importantly, Alastor seems to be having a lot of fun, which heavily tints the already rose-colored glasses through which Twain views the scene. He's a mess in comparison, probably, but Alastor doesn't seem to mind.

He's good at leading, and the steps had been easy enough for Twain to pick up.

In some ways he's a little jealous of the ease with which Alastor takes to things like this that are a performance. In another life, Twain thinks he'd have liked dancing more than he did---which was basically never, unless he had a good reason to. It's fun, or Alastor makes it fun; which one of those is true doesn't really matter in the moment.

The song builds behind them, though, and his thoughts dissipate as easily as dust in the wind. Jealousy doesn't mean much of anything, because this is fun.

Then his world tilts on its axis, and the only thing Twain is held upright by is Alastor. No, the only thing that really means anything to think about right now is Alastor. Everything else is in the past or somewhere else, but Alastor is in front of him, smiling as much as he always does.

(Twain's still breathing, but it doesn't feel like it.)

All of time---or a couple seconds---pass in that position. Twain can't look away from Alastor's eyes, but he doesn't try anyway. Then he's upright again, standing on his own feet. He feels himself breathe heavily now that the movement is over, more exerted than he should have been for the effort he'd been expending.

Alastor has a way of making things like that happen.

"That was fun!" Twain exclaims, though something about his voice is off-kilter, shaky. "You're way too good a dancer for me, though."

dancing. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

[ first dance ] sender and receiver share their first dance at their wedding (Alice isn’t dead au!)

It doesn't feel like a dream.

No, Twain has spent most of his life feeling like he's living in a dream, drifting between one thing and the next with no real direction or set ending. Work had given him a place to land, and Alastor had kept him tethered there. He'd made the dream feel lucid. He'd given Twain a reason to stay somewhere; something to look forward to every single day.

(Twain had said as much in his vows. And, as a monument to his commitment, it's not even 'Twain' anymore.)

So Mark doesn't feel like he's dreaming when the beginning notes of music begin to play and the chatter falls to a complete hush, everyone else fading so far into the background he might forget they're there entirely. Instead, it feels real. Like this might just be the only thing that's real---him and Alastor.

Getting married. Having just gotten married.

He only remembers to move with the music because Alastor does, and because it's nothing complicated. Nothing Mark can't keep up with even at his most distracted; but it's more than a few steps above standing and swaying, because Alastor definitely wouldn't tolerate not dancing properly for their first dance.

And Mark likes it too, anyways, because putting on a show has always been something that's fun for him---only this time there's nothing fake about any of it.

There are a lot of things Mark could say. A lot of things he wants to, even, but he knows they can wait. And the time does fly by, because he practiced for the longest time he's ever practiced anything to be able to do this---to be able to give Alastor this. Every step is something he's committed to muscle memory because he'd wanted it to be perfect.

The dance itself isn't what matters anyway. It's what comes after---the music peters out, and the guests cheer, though almost every sound feels like it's coming through water, now.

Mark only wastes a second because he wants to commit Alastor's expression as they come to a standstill to memory; he rises to close the distance and kiss Alastor the second he's no longer satisfied just looking, because he's never wanted to kiss Alastor more.

It's the most real thing there could be.

dancing. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

may i have this dance?

"I dunno, Alastor. I mean, dancin' with you? I think I'd be a little outta my league."

When he looks away, it's playful, turning his head for show while still keeping Alastor in his field of vision. In any case, he's not wrong; Alastor is leagues above him at dancing just by virtue of lived (or un-lived?) experience alone. Twain can remember taking to dancing pretty easily as a kid, but he'd never really learned anything solid.

He knows Alastor is a good lead, though, and that Alastor doesn't actually care how shit he is so long as he's getting up and doing it. So he's really just being a little tease about accepting the invitation.

"Plus, I'd have to get up then, and I'm feelin' a little comfortable where I am now." He looks back at Alastor, then, one brow raised in clear challenge. "So, y'know. I've got a good reason to stay right here."

The thing about teasing like that, though, is that it requires a lot of self control. Twain can spare some normally; it's easy for him to badly feign disinterest when Alastor talks sweet---most of the time, neither of them are the type to give in even when they're doing other things.

But he likes this song. And more importantly, he likes the way Alastor looks, asking him. Sometimes, Twain knows he's too fucked to pretend otherwise.

So he takes Alastor's offered hand, using it to pull himself up. There's a moment where he considers dropping pretenses altogether---his face heats up and his smile feels painfully real---but he doesn't, throwing a sly glance to the side like he's still not completely sold on the idea.

"Better make it a good one," he demands, but he still has that same fondness about him. "Otherwise you'll be sorry for lurin' me outta my seat."

dancing. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

❛ i’m starved for you, morning and night. ❜

He means it.

Twain's responding smile is oddly serene and contented, all things considered, but in his own mind there's never been a better place or time. The depths of Alastor's feelings leave very little room for doubt, after all, so Twain has long since stopped feeling it. Why should the particulars---the violence, the shape of his obsession---matter at all when that one little thing is certain?

And he's just as bad as Alastor, really. He was the one who put every part of himself on a platter and shoved it into Alastor's hands. If Alastor's feelings are hungry and all-consuming, then Twain's sink deep and inhabit every inch of Alastor, shifting to fit his crevices.

"Lucky you've got me, then," he replies, in a way that seems almost too innocent. He reaches up, hand settling at Alastor's jaw; a tender touch.

There's something about being at Alastor's mercy that carries its own kind of power. Alastor is his own beast, sure, but those ravenous words are Twain's. The depths of his feelings don't belong to anyone else---and that satisfies something in him.

(And, heart picking up some worrying several beats per minute, he finds himself thinking about it again. His own blood and viscera staining Alastor's hands, the overwhelming feeling of love and pain and closeness and satisfaction and---)

(Alastor might not get the same thing out of it that Twain does. But Twain had asked, and he had happily obliged.)

"Like a rat in a trap," Twain continues, as though he isn't the one who'd laid himself out for the taking, today and generally. "Nothin' I could ever do about it now, right?"

He wouldn't say it if he didn't know the opposite was also true. He'd let Alastor do anything but leave him.

Intentionally coy, Twain offers him a light, soft kiss for his troubles. He baits and Alastor takes, usually; Twain takes to the role of the shy, blushing damsel a little too easily for someone who's anything but. Playing with Alastor's patience remains his favorite hobby even now, though the rewards for it are much better than when he started.

He smiles again when it's over, more loving than teasing.

"Don'tcha hold back on my account."

darker vibes. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

🥞  to  bring  my  muse  breakfast  in  bed. ( guy who got up extra extra early and fought through his intense morning sleepiness for this. )

He wakes up alone.

That hasn't happened in a long time; typically, he moves around Alastor's schedule, worming his way into its cracks. It means that Alastor is almost always right there in the bed next to him---that one of them can beg for five more minutes while the other can pretend to refuse. It's nice. Mark hasn't ever been a routines guy, but having one has been good.

It's why he's afraid for a split second when Alastor isn't there. It's not like it's never happened before, sure, but recently...

Well. Recently. This isn't really the place to be thinking about that kind of thing---not when he can hear Alastor in the kitchen, humming something only half-audible. The sound makes him relax, settling back into bed. The panic makes it hard to want to get up, but he can't exactly close his eyes again either, so he just listens.

Alastor had clearly been almost done, anyway. Mark hears his quiet footsteps approach the door, and then---

"Oh, shit!"

He can't help the surprised exclamation. Part of him had just assumed he'd been making coffee, but there's a full plate in Alastor's hands. An omelette, he realizes. Alastor woke up early for this. A wide grin spreads across his face as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, and for a second he thinks he might have just fallen in love all over again.

"Aww, didja get up early for little ol' me?" Mark teases as he reaches for the plate. He really is touched; the number of times he's ever had breakfast in bed before is zero, but it just wouldn't feel right not to prod a little. "Sometimes I ask myself how I got so damn lucky. You're really somethin' else."

It feels like an understatement. Alastor could do something as simple as say he loves him and Mark would look at him like he's better than the moon and all the stars, so something like this is almost beyond his out-of-proportion metric.

He rests the plate on his legs, picking up the fork given with it and twiddling it between his thumb and pointer finger. "Hope you made somethin' for yourself. You should get back in bed either way, but..."

affection. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

[ brush ] //we've discussed this scenario

It would be wrong to say that Alastor is delicate with his handling of Twain's hair---the word he's looking for is closer to methodical.

Twain knows he's tired, obviously. If there's anything he's learned at all about Alastor, it's that he's as close as he ever gets to a mess in the mornings. That had actually been one of the first things he'd noticed about Alastor that registered to him as cute; the misspelled responses to his good morning texts.

Waking up with Alastor hasn't made that apply any less, especially since it had taken about a day for Alastor to decide the way he brushed his hair was apparently unacceptable and practically banned him from doing it again. He probably knows enough now to not---in Alastor's words---rip all of his hair out, but he doesn't object to the routine because...

... Well. It is cute. He can feel Alastor's hands still for just a second as he tries to stifle a yawn before he continues running the brush through the tangled mess Twain's hair tends to become overnight. No one else has ever cared this much about the state of something as little as his hair except for him.

"I can always take over if you're tired," Twain offers, eyes flicking up to meet Alastor's through the mirror. The teasing is also part of the routine, although there have been times where Alastor has just about fallen back asleep in the middle of it. "Provided you trust me enough, anyway."

You know, he'd said on a different unimportant day, I think I can manage my own hair.

He never says it that directly anymore for a reason. It just hadn't occurred to him at the time that Alastor didn't mind. That he enjoyed it, even. The biggest thing he's had to adjust to since moving in with Alastor is the idea that Alastor might just want to do these things for him, unprompted, and that he's alright to let it happen.

Huffing out a silent, monosyllabic laugh, Twain looks back down again at his own head, Alastor's hands still running a brush through it.

"... I really love you, y'know."

intimacy. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

[text] This forced open my third eye and I saw the devil ( alice isn't dead verse !)

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > yeah thatll happen

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > not my fault sometimes thats just tha way things work you actually have a non zero chance of seeing the devil every breath u breathe amen or whatever pretty sure thats how the religion works idk i didnt pay attention

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > omg when i was younger

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > i used to use like a nightlight

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > and my brother would tell me if i kept using it after i got like too old for it it was like

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > bad cuz the devil could like SEE you or some shit idk i was like 5

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > anyway i didnt believe him so like the night i turned 6 im pretty sure i still needed the light on which in retrospect it was super annoying to him coz like 3 of us shared a room atp

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > anyway when i turned 6 like NIGHT OF my birthday he shows up with this spirit halloween mask and like HAND OVER MOUTH drags me kicking and scratching in2 the woods by our house and then left me there and i never slept with a nightlight again

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > im actually starting to think my brother maybe wanted me dead

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > anyway the point is i actually thought that was THE REAL DEVIL from like the bible until like 4 months ago it always rly confused me why the devil would just abandon me in the woods instead of like. idk eating me or something

[ To: alastor ✨📻✨ ] > what were we talking about

texting. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

Shadowy limbs wrap themselves around Twain's chest in an embrace but don't stop at that, lifting him off his feet with an unholy effortlessness and depositing him bridal style into Alastor's outstretched arms. " Lovely evening isn't it, Mark? "

He's familiar enough with the feeling of Alastor's shadows that by the time his feet are off the ground, the second of initial surprise has already shifted into delight. It's not exactly easy to forget how strong Alastor is, but it's not directed his way often. He definitely doesn't mind it.

Getting set right into Alastor's actual arms isn't hurting his enjoyment, either.

"It is now," he says, as enthusiastic and sincere as it is intentionally smooth, and loosely links his arms around Alastor's neck. "You gonna carry me off into the sunset or somethin'? Not that we've got all that much in the way 'a sunsets. Metaphorical sunset."

pick my muse up! / accepting.

[antisatiric]

"You have literally no proof I wrote that. But if I did, hypothetically---"

wall of text. // @antisatiric ( i know who you are )

" Well, if you're offering, it would be so rude to refuse... "

[antisatiric]

Twain's met a lot of stubborn people in his life, so he's pretty fluent in obstinate fuck. Alastor's non-apology, he estimates, doesn't even really make the top ten.

Or, well, it probably does. Twain thinks he might just be special, which doesn't necessarily change anything. After all, what does he care if Alastor wouldn't express anything remotely similar to anyone else? He's not anyone else. And he likes the idea of being special; it's not something that usually applies when it comes to other people.

"Obviously," he says, playing along a little. He honestly can't even remember what being mad felt like looking back---but he's got a bad memory and isn't all that hard to win over, so that's pretty natural. "Well, I forgive you, just so you know. Wasn't that big a deal."

(It was a big enough deal for him to completely avoid the Hotel for a good week, but that's so one-week-ago. Times have changed!)

@antisatiric said: ✐ for a randomized one-liner starter ( number 638 ) // accepting !

❛ It disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional. ❜

[antisatiric]

"Wow. What a response to that. You're in a fuckin' state and a half, huh?"

Concern has always been Twain's greatest vice, he thinks, making his way into the kitchen to actually make good on his word. He'd probably lend a hand to his worst enemy if the situation called for it, and Alastor is far from that. "What, I can't be worried? I'm a real nice guy, an' all that! Plus, somethin' about the hotel's values or whatever. Let's pretend I'm interested in self-improvement for right now, kay?"

" I recall making breakfast, so unless I hallucinated that portion of the day, presumably, I've eaten just earlier. " Because that's a normal response. Granted, it isn't exactly abnormal either. Alastor is always restless, always wound too tight just beneath the showy, unflappable surface. It's no wonder that on the odd occasion, his late nights stretch on uninterrupted. Losing track of time, struggling to sleep, busying himself with anything and everything he can until, inevitably, he crashes, and everything resets-- it's not exactly a surprise to him.

The surprise is the sudden care taken over it-- by the man who's determined himself to be the bane of his existence, no less. " You're going to get me water ? Are you worried about me, Mark ? "

[antisatiric]

"... Yeah, okay. Classic doing just fine behavior from this guy over here." Twain debates not commenting on it further than that, but lets a beat of silence pass and decides that he actually is pretty concerned about Alastor. "Hey, I'm gonna get you literally anything else to drink. Actually not literally anything else. Dunno why I said that. Water. You've eaten, right?"

“ Coffee has water in it, I am doing j̸u̵s̶t̵ ̶f̴i̷n̷e̷ ! ” He has not slept in 72 hours and is jittering violently ! Yay !