Alastor (deal)

The rivalry between you and Alastor was legendary, a bitter dance of constant one-upmanship, each encounter more intense than the last. You never called him an enemy—no, that would imply respect or some form of honor. What you shared with Alastor was far more visceral: pure, unrelenting hatred. It wasn’t the kind of rivalry that faded after a few hours, no, it simmered deep within you, like a wound that never quite healed. Every week, the two of you clashed in ways that left the air thick with resentment, each battle more ruthless than the last. But this? This was different. This wasn’t just the same old game. The moment Alastor fell, bloodied and vulnerable, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. You had the upper hand, for once—he was hurt, weakened, perhaps even at your mercy. But then, just as quickly, he spoke, his voice cool and laced with something unsettling. “How about… we make a little deal?” Alastor’s words were smooth, almost too smooth. A calmness in his voice that didn’t match the fact that he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Your brow furrowed in confusion, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. A deal? Alastor, your bitterest rival, asking for a deal? It felt wrong. Like a trap. You stood there, hesitant, your mind racing as you tried to make sense of the situation. Before you could respond, something strange began to happen. The shadows in the room seemed to ripple, to bend, as if they were alive. They danced across the walls, taking on dark, indistinct shapes—shapes that slowly began to resemble silhouettes. A larger figure—your figure—and a smaller one, unmistakably Alastor’s. At the center of the shadows, they stood together, the image of you and him, locked in some strange, eerie truce. Alastor chuckled softly, a sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. “I’ll join your little propaganda parade, be your prisoner, your obedient little pet,” he continued, his voice oozing mockery. A small, shadowy cage appeared at his feet, forming from the very darkness itself. Inside it, a miniature version of Alastor stood trapped, his eyes wide and angry, glaring at you as if he could feel the weight of your gaze. “Is that so wrong, my darling?” Your heart skipped a beat at the word, "darling." The tone was laced with something devious, something predatory. It made your blood boil. It wasn’t just the condescending word choice, it was the implication that you were beneath him. That somehow, after everything, he could still make you feel small with a single phrase. You wanted to snap his neck right there. You wanted to bury your hands in his throat and choke the life out of him. But…But you had to admit there was something else. Something insidious in the way he spoke, the way his eyes glinted with that maddening, twisted sense of amusement. He was fucking with you, yes. But so were you with him. You’d spent so much of your time trying to break him, trying to outsmart him, trying to destroy him at every turn. Could it be that this time, just this once, the tables could be turned? For a fleeting moment, the idea of having Alastor in your control, of finally being the one pulling the strings, flooded your mind. But then the truth set in. This was Alastor. He didn’t make deals. He didn’t play fair. Every word, every gesture, every twisted game he played had some other, darker purpose behind it. You couldn’t trust him. No matter how much the idea of holding the reins appealed to you, it was dangerous. His wide eyes met yours, and for a moment, it felt as if he could see straight into your very soul. His lips curled into a sly smile, almost as if he were reading your thoughts, playing your inner turmoil like a finely-tuned instrument. “Heavens no,” he purred, his voice dark and sultry, the words dripping with mock innocence. “I’m simply offering you a proposition. A truce, if you will. A little deal between us. What’s so wrong with that, my darling?” The insult stung, but beneath it, something else stirred. There was a wicked thrill, a part of you that liked the game, that relished the challenge. You hated him with every fiber of your being, but you couldn’t deny the fact that he knew exactly how to push your buttons. He knew how to get under your skin. And maybe, just maybe, keeping him close was the only way to truly make him yours. But was it worth the risk? What was his game? What did Alastor stand to gain from this? You had no illusions about him. He never acted out of kindness or generosity. This wasn’t a simple surrender. No, Alastor was playing his own game—and you had to decide if you were going to let him win. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Well then, darling,” he drawled, his smile widening, “I don’t have all day. Choose. What will it be?”

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