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If Loving You Is Wrong

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Angel’s perched on his lap again, uncaring of the stares directed at them.

His dexterous fingers find the frame, tucked just behind the tips of his ears and over his brown hair. Alastor’s sharp eyes tracked the movement until they disappeared from his line of view, but the feathery brushes against the shells of his ears seem to alert him to their whereabouts. He tilts his head at the gesture, eyes burning with curiosity.

Chest tight, Angel worries his bottom lip with his teeth, and deftly plucks Alastor’s glasses off. He places them on his own face.

The world blurs, but it’s fine.

Angel’s in good hands.

Alastor raises a brow, but says nothing. Only a slight deepening of his dimples hint at any particular emotion. He looks so different without his glasses, Angel thinks, but also the same. It’s novel, and Angel finds that he adores it.

Because it’s Alastor, and Angel likes everything about him.

“Al,” he coos breathily. “These match me?”

Alastor barks out a laugh, wrapping his arms around Angel’s waist. He leans in, pepper and cedar and smoke, and nuzzles his face against Angel’s chest.

He’s drunk, Angel knows. By now, everyone’s had at least four rounds of shots. Husk and Alastor had both been at least two drinks ahead. Alastor’s creole accent slips out when he’s inebriated, apparently. Angel adds that to his list of likeable things.

“You look exquisite, cher. But what else is new? More so, who’s it for?”

Alastor smiles at his own rhetorical question. He runs his hands up Angel’s skirt and up his stockinged thighs to where the elastic hugs his waist.

Angel’s worn regular high-waisted stockings tonight, as knee highs are a bitch without garters, and Alastor’s ruined at least two pairs during his animalistic frenzies.

Alastor skates his hands back down, pausing to trail fingers down the front of his skirt against his hardening dick. He cups his ass with his other hand and lifts him closer.

Vaggie clears her throat.

“Jesus Christ guys, you do know we’re all still here, right?”

“Alas, we haven’t forgotten,” Alastor drawls. “As I recall, it was your idea to share a room with us.”

“And thank fuck for that,” Husk mutters.

They had planned an outing to escape the sheer, absolute boredom-as Alastor had put it-and decided on karaoke. That is to say, Husk more or less made the decision for them; he loved loud singing accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol.

As such, they found themselves outside of the aptly named, “KeroKero”, Husk puffing his pre-karaoke cigar, and Angel and Alastor sharing a cigarette.

Charlie’s excited and high-pitched voice rang out his name from somewhere behind them, and they turned, greeted by the warm sight of Charlie and the considerably more glacial presence of Vaggie.

“Hiya, Chuck. Evenin’, Cyclops.”

“Angel! Hey!” Charlie said, rocking on her heels while Vaggie gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “You and your friends going to karaoke too? This is so exciting! Wanna go halfsies on a room?”

Vaggie sighed, giving her girlfriend a fond smile. “More like fivesies, babe.”

Husk puffed on his cigar, sucking the smoke in without inhaling, then retrohaling through his nostrils. “Whatever. Just ready to drink.”

Angel looked at Alastor, who shrugged. He smiled, passing the cigarette. Angel’s stomach gave a funny flip as he tangled his fingers with Alastor’s, briefly, and brought the cigarette to his lips.

“Let’s go,” he said, before pursing over the filter and taking a long drag.

It tasted vaguely of Alastor. The cherry glowed, a minuscule sun reflected in Alastor’s deep, tenebrous eyes.


“Lemme get another order of sake,” Angel says to the waitress.

“It ain’t pronounced ‘sah-kee’, Twinkie. It’s ‘sah-keh’,” Husk grumbles, flipping through the book of song listings. “And for the record, it’s fucking ‘kah-rah-oh-keh’ not ‘kary-oh-key’, you uncultured motherfuckers.”

“Whatever,” Angel says, crossing his arms.

“Karaoke,” Alastor parrots, purposely wrong.

 Husk sighs. “I fucking hate you guys.”

Charlie pulls the scoop of her shirt over her mouth to mask her giggles. Vaggie rolls her eye. She turns to the waitress, silently apologizing with her tone.

“Yeah, can we please get another two bottles of the,” Vaggie pauses. Husk finishes for her.

“Daiginjo.”

“What about food? I can eat,” Charlie says.

The waitress hands over some menus, and waits patiently as they peruse them. Husk speaks first.

“Let’s get some gyoza and katsu to start. Anyone up for sharing a dynamite roll?”

“Yeah, I’ll share,” Vaggie answers, turning to the waitress. “Do you guys have pajeon here?”

Husk interrupts her before she can reply. “That’s Korean, lady, not Japanese. This is a karaoke bar, not a noraebang.”

Charlie hands her menu to the waitress, nodding a quick thank you. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“More or less,” Husk shrugs. “Same concept, different names.”

After taking all their orders, the waitress leaves, and Angel takes this time to clamber back onto Alastor’s lap.

“Ugh, you guys are relentless.”

Charlie laughs, face turning a lovely rose from drink. “C’mon, Vaggie. Let them have their fun.” She adds, “I haven’t seen Angel this happy in a long time,” and Angel instantly craves the sweet release of death.

The sober part of him, anyway. The drunk part is much more interested in climbing Alastor like a tree.

A subtle tightening of Alastor’s grip is the only indication he heard.

“You should see them at home,” Husk grouses, throwing in his two cents. “Every surface is fucking contaminated. Never stared at a bottle of bleach so hard in my goddamn life. And I don’t mean to disinfect.”

“I can give you ample reason to, if you wish,” Alastor says breezily, although not without warning.

“Play nice,” Vaggie scolds.

Husk grunts and waves both of them off with a hand.

“25746,” he states, and Charlie presses in the sequence, fiddling with the remote.

The song starts, and Charlie and Husk begin rapping.

Angel’s content to sit there, on Alastor’s lap, but his makeshift chair apparently has other plans.

He lurches, pinning Angel forwards with his hands splayed on his back, so that they sit chest to torso. He reaches around and up to grab his head, threading his fingers through Angel’s hair, and brings him closer down. His breath traces his ear, warm and inviting.

“Let’s show these simpletons some proper class and style,” he purrs, licking before biting down on the lobe.

Angel moans, grinding down on Alastor’s semi-hard erection. He replies, surging up to meet him.

From far away, Vaggie groans.

All together, they sing through ten songs, pausing in between to pick at the various dishes crowding the tabletop. Vaggie flips through the song listings, chopsticks propping up her chin like tiny wooden pillars. Charlie’s glued to her girlfriend’s side, feeding her while Vaggie’s temporarily engrossed. She opens her mouth automatically as Charlie pops in morsels, guided by chopsticks.

Husk taps a microphone into his palm, the booming noise becoming a fast irritant for Angel, who bitches at him to stop. Never breaking eye contact, Husk taps it three more times, just to prove a point. Alastor watches the whole spectacle from under Angel, appearing amused.

He tosses the second microphone to Charlie (“Thanks, Al!”) when Vaggie finally settles on a song. Alastor and Angel had been slowly decreasing their alcohol consumption, while Husk and the girls ramped theirs up. Even so, Alastor’s hands keep palming his torso and cupping his ass, distractingly. Angel isn’t sure if he’s being handsy due to the buzz, or if he’s trying to hint at something.

In any case, he straddles Alastor’s lap, boxing him into the seat. He chances a glance at the others, but only Husk seems to care about their abrupt change in position, and even he just rolls his eyes before resuming focus on the screen. Alastor smoothly brings his hands down to Angel’s thighs. He splays a hand on each and begins massaging up and down, light callouses snagging the gossamer fabric.

One clever hand creeps up the front of his skirt, while the other one snakes behind. Alastor’s hand crawls, spidery, up his thigh where it brushes Angel’s stiffening cock. He jolts forward, falling into Alastor’s chest, lowering his face in the junction of neck and shoulder.

He means to say “Al”, but what comes out is:

“Daddy.”

He gasps it out unthinkingly, and his eyes widen as soon as he realizes what he’s said. He buries his face in Alastor’s neck, hoping he didn’t notice, but well. It’s Alastor.

He notices everything.

He places a firm palm on Angel’s sternum and pushes him back, just enough to catch a glimpse. Face burning, Angel tucks his chin to his chest, but Alastor uses fingers to tilt his face up.

Angel’s met with a cool, calculating stare. He shivers.

The corners of his lips twitch, and start to spread in a smile.

Angel’s heart jackrabbits in his chest as Alastor leans closer to press that smile, feather-light, onto his throat.

“Oh, darling,” he croons, vibrations from his lips caressing Angel’s neck and shooting frissons decidedly south. “Aren’t you just precocious.”

He pulls back to trace a thumb over his bottom lip, breaching slightly in so that Angel tastes the salt-sweet of his skin. His eyes are darkened, remorseless. He lowers his voice, not so low that it can’t be heard above the riotous sound, but enough so that there’s no room for misconstruction.

“Show Daddy how good you can be.”


The toilet stall is dark, unsanitary, and disgusting.

And at this point in time, Angel, pulled back to Alastor’s front with his hand over his throat, doesn’t give a single flying fuck.

“Well, aren’t you defiant tonight, darling,” Alastor growls, teeth grazing his ear.

He nips the shell, and Angel swoons. Alastor hisses, sibilant, into the abused flesh.

“Does Daddy need to rend you apart so that you learn to behave?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Angel chokes out, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He’s frustrated, humiliated, and craves it so much it hurts.

He lets go. Alastor grabs him by the nape, using his choker as a collar, and orders, “Bend over.”

Angel relents.

He’s given just enough time to hike up his skirt before Alastor’s fingers shove in between his legs. Nails clawing at the fabric, Alastor rips into it and tears it open. Angel exhales roughly as cool air hits his skin.

He’s created his ruinous opening, but Alastor is far from finished.

Alastor falls to his knees and worships up Angel’s legs. He bites the back of his still-stockinged thighs until his teeth reach bare flesh. Angel feels the fabric at his cleft being forced to the side, and sobs as Alastor exposes him further.

“Oh, dear heart,” Alastor breathes before assaulting him with his tongue.

Angel keens forward into the stall’s wall. He savagely bites down on his lip to keep from crying out. Alastor’s fingers slide over his clothed cock, circling the tip where precum is soaking though his panties.

“Ah,” he lets out, inadvertently. Alastor’s tongue swirls around his rim before dipping inside and repeating the gesture. He kneads Angel’s cheeks and spreads them, forcing his tongue in further. Alastor’s chin pokes into his flesh as he greedily laps at Angel’s hole. He pulls away, once, to speak.

“Anthony, I want you to be ready for me. Always. I want to bend you over at my discretion and have you any time I please. Is that explicitly understood?”

The shakiest breath leaves Angel, and he says, “Yes, Daddy.”

The game starts now.

Alastor leans in and resumes.


Periodically, Alastor pulls back to catch his breath, apologizing for the extrusion by stuffing two fingers inside Angel’s puffy hole. He’s discarded the now-empty packets of lube on the floor, and when Angel shifts, he catches one at the bottom of his heel. Alastor clucks his tongue, and Angel cants back, chasing that heat.

“Darling,” he says, deceptively sweet, “who do you belong to?”

And if that isn’t it.

Alastor’s voice is layered, treacle-thick, and dark. The predator lurks beneath the surface, its voice rippling through his otherwise still veneer. Angel shivers under that quiet, commandeering tone. The pragmatic part of him is screaming at him to run, but Angel’s legs refuse to move.

Unless it’s to spread wider.

Angel can never resist Alastor, if the past was any indication. He’s like a moth to the flame, the fly in the spiderweb.

Truth be told, he doesn’t want to try.

Angel knows that Alastor must be boring holes in his tattoo, that “v” incessantly mocking him. Poison to his pride.

Angel clenches, and Alastor lets out another hiss. He’s reigning in the beast, but Angel desperately needs it released.

He wants to be consumed. He wants to succumb.

So he gives the most honest answer he can.

“You.”

He ignores how his heart clenches at the truth.

Alastor stands up. The functioning part of Angel’s mind registers just how dirty the floor must be, and to have Alastor on his knees, servicing him should be nigh inconceivable.

It’s not. Angel knows better, now. Alastor had said to him one sordid night, “It’s inevitable and necessary to get your hands a little dirty, dear” with a glint in his eyes that bespoke sinister acumen. It’s that single-minded doggedness and drive that frightens Angel, if he’s being halfway honest. If he’s completely honest, it arouses him too.

On nights like these, he willingly mainlines Alastor and submits.

There’s no greater drug.

He moans as Alastor spreads his cheeks apart and fits his cock in between. He moves his hips, sliding up and down aided by lube, apparently relishing the sensation judging by his low moans. Distantly, Angel is reminded of the time when Alastor rutted on his chest, praising him at how pretty his tits were, and how lovely they’d looked covered with his come. Angel had never wanted anything more than to pleasure him with breasts at that moment, and told him so. It ended with Alastor spurting all over his tits, as if it could end any other way. But Alastor, ever full of surprises, shocked Angel when he slithered down and began licking all of his come off, beginning with Angel’s left nipple.

At the time, Angel thought that he’d died and gone to heaven.

Now that he knows better, he’s positive that Alastor has dragged him to hell.

And he’s luxuriating under every profane moment of it.

The head of Alastor’s cock presses up against his rim. Angel whimpers and pushes backwards, trying to spread his hole around it, but Alastor’s hand splays wide across his lower back, preventing him from moving. He teases Angel by pressing in minutely, then pulling slightly back, but never breaking skin contact.

Angel curses him, and gets a hand clamped over his mouth as punishment.

As Angel starts to lick the offending muzzle, Alastor pushes inside. Using only the tip of his cock, he shallowly fucks into him in a haphazard rhythm.

It’s not enough, and it’s driving Angel insane.

Alastor’s hand glides down to his neck, not quite choking, but nearly. Angel’s throat bobs as he unsheathes his nails and rakes them down to his chest.

“My, what a fine picture you make, Anthony,” Alastor purrs, and in his mind’s eye, he can see everything: him, bent over in the filthy stall, skirt hiked up to his waist, stockings eviscerated and gaping conveniently, and panties shoved to the side to provide easy access for cock.

Alastor’s.

“Get the fuck on with it,” Angel growls, tremulous. The claws digging into his hips is the only indication that he’s fucked up.

Grabbing his hips like handles, Alastor shoves in all at once, burying himself deep in Angel. The edges of Angel’s vision glow white as Alastor’s cock violently punches into the sensitive bundle of nerves. He circles his hips, taking great care to stimulate his prostate with the fat head of his cock.

“Such insolence,” Alastor snarls, stilling his movement when Angel deliberately squeezes around him.

“Brat,” he bites out. “Impudent brat.”

He pulls back, then shoves back in, hard.

Angel sees stars.

“Recall who collared you, pet. And come to heel.”

He lifts his hand, and smacks down. Angel yelps, juddering at the sudden bloom of pain. The sensation wars with the brutal pleasure from within.

As if struck with perverse inspiration, Alastor slides his thumb down Angel’s cleft to where they’re joined. He thumbs at the puffy rim choking the base of his cock in a mocking, soothing manner.

“What happens to mouthy brats who don’t listen,” he wonders rhetorically, without sincerity.

Then, Alastor pushes in his thumb, violating Angel further. Angel howls.

“Look at how well you take Daddy’s cock, darling. Such a good boy.”

And:

“This is exactly where you belong. Supplicating, with your legs spread under me. Just for me. You’ll do well to remember that, sweetheart.”

Alastor holds his position for a heartbeat, then slides out fully.

Angel cries out, legs shaking, hole clenching around nothing, and begs.

“Daddy, please. I’m sorry, Daddy, please put it back in, please put your cock back in, please,” Angel babbles, uncaring of how loud his voice projects in the dark, empty space.

Perhaps not as empty as he thought.

There’s a sharp exhale somewhere near them, a scrabbling of shoes on smooth flooring, squeaking from a pivot, and the rapid swing of a door opening then closing. Angel’s face burns with humiliation, all his desires laid bare in a public space with apparently an audience of more than one. Alastor, ever the demon, seems unfazed, and runs a hand down Angel’s flank.

He shushes him, on purpose, and Angel bites down a flash of fury. Alastor has got him by the throat. If Angel wants to come at all tonight, he has to capitulate.

Heaven help him, does he want to.

“Oh, princess. We have the whole night ahead of us,” Alastor huskily murmurs in his ear.

“I’m sure we can exercise some restraint.”

Angel hears the sound of a zipper and the metallic cling of a belt buckle closing shut. Tears dew on his lashes and he lets loose a frustrated sob.

Alastor wraps his arms around him, hoisting him up and back against his chest. He kisses the back of his neck as he sets everything back to rights, tugging his panties back in place, and smoothing out his skirt. The stockings are destroyed, so he hooks his fingers under and rips them off.

After Angel steps out of them (“Right leg, that’s it, darling. Now left.”) and back into his heels, Alastor spins him around so that they’re face to face. Angel is half tempted to withhold any affection. He gently leans in to press his lips against Angel’s nose, cheeks, jaw. By the time he kisses Angel properly on the mouth, Angel has forgotten all about that ludicrous impulse. He reciprocates, soft and sweet. They enjoy each other for another moment or so, then Alastor retreats before it can become lewd.

Angel reaches up and cups Alastor’s face. Alastor tilts his head, closes his eyes, and nuzzles into his palm. He turns to plant a kiss directly in the middle.

“Promise,” he mouths more than says, the words dying somewhere inside his raspy throat, the flimsy bathroom walls.

Angel trusts him.

They walk out of the stall and to the sink, where Alastor washes his hands. Angel comes up from behind to wrap his arms around him. For a moment, they just look at their reflections, entwined, in the mirror. As he holds Alastor’s gaze, he notices that he feels preternaturally light.

He feels like floating.

Alastor, as if sensing this, lifts a wet hand and grabs his arm, holding fast.

An anchor.

His.


They return to the room.

Vaggie lifts a brow at his newly bared legs, but says nothing, biting the inside of her cheek.

Angel’s grateful for that, because then Husk drunkenly booms, “For fuck’s sake, ya perverts” and Charlie blushes, averting her eyes.

He stifles a nasty retort as Alastor laughs and laughs.

It’s going to be a fucking long night, he thinks, falling into the chair.


Five songs and two duets later, Angel is dying.

He’s aching to be filled, and Alastor, damn him to hell, is currently singing another duet with Charlie. He gives a moue of disappointment, unnoticed by everyone in the room, so he takes a moment to observe his friends.

Friends.

Something comes alive in his chest but this time, he lets it spread.

Charlie’s belting out her parts of the song, strutting confidently to the rhythm. She misses only a few notes, but that’s because Vaggie spirits away her attention during the sappy bits. She gazes adoringly at her girlfriend, who’s reflecting the look with a similar one of her own, punch-drunk with love. Husk whoops and cheers from the sidelines, already drunk from reasons entirely his own. He keeps glancing down at his phone, typing periodically, and Angel wonders who must be texting him so much that his attention, normally scattered, remains focused on that.

His mind wanders from that thought to where it always seems to head, nowadays. Alastor mirrors Charlie’s peacocking with his own subtle flair, hitting all the notes with ease. Angel’s not surprised: Alastor has a beautiful voice, yes, but he’d mentioned once that he was also a trained musician. Their place hasn’t any room for a piano, but he’d serenaded Angel once or twice with his ukulele and three times with his guitar.

Angel’s been secretly squirreling away money for a digital piano, for all those rainy days when Alastor wishes he could alleviate his boredom. He’s nearly seventy percent of the way there.

The song comes to an end.

Alastor, on cue, directs his attention towards Angel. He flushes under that dark gaze, redness hidden beneath the dichotomy of shadows and neon lights. Alastor notices.

How could he not?

Angel rubs his thighs together as Husk snatches up the mic from Alastor’s outstretched hand.

He’s on his second glass of water when Alastor stands up, grabs him by the elbow, and pulls him out of the room.

The minute they’re outside, Angel finds himself pinned up against the wall under Alastor’s lips. He trails soft kisses down the length of his throat, nipping at all his favorite spots. He takes a moment to nibble on his choker.

“We’re not going back there,” Alastor says, into his skin, low and dark.

“I’ve procured a private room for us.”

Angel hesitates, just once. “Did ya tell-”

“I’ll text Husker. Now, Angel. Come.”

He does, and allows Alastor to lead him into the depths.


It’s only the two of them in the caliginous space, the empty room.

Alastor slides into the booth with ease, slouching against the pleather backing. He brings the microphone to his lips, switching it on with a blunted nail.

“Strip,” Alastor commands, the sound reverberating in the room. He turns on the other microphone and places it within arm’s reach. Angel flushes as he catches on.

He means to amplify the rest of their sinful sounds. Angel shouldn’t have expected anything less.

The muted thumping of the bass from the room next door mimics his heartbeat. Angel’s hands shake as he complies.

“Oh, Anthony,” he croons, echoing deeply. Angel shudders.

“Leave the skirt on.”

Angel takes a tremulous step forward. He rediscovers his voice.

It leaves his lips, diaphanous as a sigh.

“Yes, Daddy.”