⟢Alfonse ║The Doorman⟢

Alfonse sucked the end of his cigarillo, the purplish-blue smoke of damsel weed burning a familiar, pleasant path over his tongue and down his throat. He exhaled by the corner of his lips, the smoke forming a lopsided cloud that hung in the damp Ealdwic air before being eaten by the perpetual neon-and-mist glow of the city.

A normal night at the Gardenia. Inside, the thrum of glamoured jazz and clinking glasses. Faelar—the Spider Prince himself—was holed up in his web, no doubt spinning some new scheme or untangling an old one. Alfonse didn’t know what the big boss busied himself with, and he made it a point not to want to know. In the Nevergold Court, ignorance wasn't just bliss, it was a survival strategy and he really liked being alive.

The soft scuff of expensive leather on marble caught his half-goblin ear. He didn't turn, just pushed his considerable weight off the wall and swung the heavy, rune-etched door open without looking. Timing.

Riven stepped through, adjusting his tie, running his hand down his chest. Ah. “Cheers, boss,” Alfonse rumbled, his accent thickening around the words. “Late-night check, is it?”

Riven flicked a nonexistent speck from his coat’s lapel, then stilled. He arched a single, sharp brow. “Pardon?”

“On yer lil’ pactbound,” Alfonse clarified, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his broad face. The damsel weed’s glow reflected in his dark eyes. “They treatin’ ye right, then?”

Riven’s composure didn’t crack, but a subtle, telling flush crept up from his collar, painting his neck and the tips of his pointed ears a faint pink. “Keep an eye on the perimeter. Nothing more. I’ll be back... later.”

Alfonse’s smirk widened into a full grin, revealing a flash of teeth that were just a bit too sharp to be entirely human.

Riven merely scoffed, “...Fuckin’ focus on your job, Alfonse.”

“Will do, boss,” Alfonse nodded, the picture of dutiful obedience. He chuckled, a low, rolling sound in his chest, as he leaned back against the cold stone. He watched Riven’s retreating form dissolve into the magical gloom of the district—a shadow seeking its other half.

Shaking his head, he took another drag. Love, even the bound, complicated, dangerous kind, made fools of the scariest bastards. And it was the best damn show in Ealdwic.

It took exactly five minutes of peaceful smoking before a voice, sharp with irritation, sliced through the Gardenia's thrum from the propped-open door.

"Alfonse!"

He moved with a heavy, unhurried grace, the cigarillo still clamped between his teeth. Hands buried in the pockets of his worn dark pants, he shouldered his way back inside, the warm, honeyed scent of glamour-struck ale and damp wool replacing the city's chill. He tilted his head toward the long, polished bar of blackthorn wood.

Lux, in all her annoyed, ethereal glory, was glaring a hole through him. Her red hair seemed to crackle with magic,which was always a bad sign, and her long, elegant fingers were planted firmly on her hips.

"Luxie, baby," he cooed around the cigarillo,"What's got yer leaves in a twist, luv?"

"I need you to get this..." Her luminous eyes, the colour of a dark bloody moon, flicked pointedly to her left. "...do you see the weird one?" She gave a subtle nod toward a corner booth.

A man was there, leaning far too close across the table, talking with frantic, jabbing gestures at a hunched figure trying to disappear into the shadows. Were they a regular? Alfonse could never remember faces—that was Lux’s domain. He was more a vibe reader, and this vibe was all wrong.

He blinked slowly, taking a final drag before pinching the cigarillo out. "I see 'im."

"He's been leaching that poor soul's peace for hours now," she explained, "And they haven't even been allowed to signal for a drink!" She placed a dramatic hand over her sternum. "Which, as you know, is my sacred duty. And it's Friday night. The Glamour's flowing. The money is flowing. Help a girl out, won't you?"

A slow grin spread across Alfonse's face. This was the part of the job he actually enjoyed. "Consider it handled, yer highness," he rumbled, cracking his knuckles with a sound like popping stones. "Can't have the help goin' thirsty, now can we?"

He grunted, a low sound from deep in his chest, and began making his way over. Being built like a brick shithouse with the height of a young oak had its advantages—the crowd seemed to part for him on instinct. He sighed, the sound more performative than weary, and planted a massive hand on the edge of the occupied booth, leaning down just enough to loom over the frantic man’s shoulder.

“Ello, mate,” he rumbled, a smirk in his voice that didn’t reach his eyes. He flicked his gaze to the hunched figure across the table. “Hey. Is this fucker messin’ with ye?”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“Nevermind. Listen, mate,” he said, turning his attention back to the nuisance, his smirk widening into something toothier. “I think ye’ve drunk enough of this one’s peace and quiet. Time to settle yer tab.”

“Excuse me?” the man spluttered, indignation warring with a dawning fear as he finally looked up and registered the sheer, immovable mass of hobgoblin above him.

“Yer excused,” Alfonse said congenially. In one smooth motion, his hand—the size of a dinner plate—fisted in the back of the man’s fancy velvet collar. He flicked a final, assessing gaze down at the booth’s other occupant. Relief? Annoyance? Hard to tell under the shadows and glamour. Eh. Whatever.

Not a single patron batted an eye as he dragged the sputtering, stumbling man—an elf, but not Seelie; no true Seelie would be daft enough to cause a scene in the Spider Prince’s web—through the murmuring crowd like a sack of rotten potatoes.

At the threshold, he didn’t bother with the door. He just gave a sharp, practiced heave. The man tumbled out into the damp Ealdwic night with a muffled yelp, landing in a heap on the cobblestones.

Alfonse dusted his hands together “Thank ye fer comin’ to the Gardenia,” he called out, his voice carrying easily over the street’s hum. “Hope ye never come back.” He gave a final, sharp smirk to the night. “Go on now. Shoo.”

He turned his back, the matter already forgotten, and ambled back toward the bar and the promise of a fresh cigarillo. His eyes locking back on the figure that was once bothered by the elf. He was on a short break, some of his boys could handle the door. He nods at Lux "Luxie," he says "Give 'em a drink,on me, yeah?"

"On you?" she asks, eyebrow raising,then she scoffs with a smile "You are impossible."

"Mhm, and" he pulls out another cigarillo from his pocket, looking over to where they sat "I'm on a break, do this for yer friend,hm?"

And he winks at you.