actuallythatgirl

[actuallythatgirl]

The Final Battle Alastor X Reader

The final battle, but instead of Alastor taking the hit, you do.

part 1 part 2 part 3

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As we sit on the rooftop, a low, ominous buzzing fills the air. I glance up, my heart sinking as I spot a small, hovering drone circling above us. The logo of the VEES is unmistakable—those damn surveillance drones.

“What in Hell…?” I murmur, my mind racing with a surge of panic. I can barely comprehend the situation as my gaze locks onto the drone, its camera lens glinting ominously in the harsh light.

“We need to get off this roof, my dear,” Alastor says, his voice dangerously calm. He turns his head to look at the drone with a mixture of irritation and something darker, more menacing. His usual mocking demeanor has been replaced by a sharp, cold edge that sends a chill down my spine.

I scramble to my feet, my body still aching from the previous ordeal. “Are they—are the VEES recording us?” I ask, my voice trembling. The realization hits me hard—everything that’s happened, every moment of vulnerability, might have been captured and broadcasted. I feel exposed, the weight of their intrusion adding another layer of fear.

“Quite possibly,” Alastor replies, his eyes narrowing as he watches the drone’s erratic movements. “They’re notorious for their relentless surveillance.”

The urgency in his voice makes my blood run cold. The VEES don’t just record—they exploit. The thought of them having footage of this encounter, our injuries, our private moments, is nauseating.

“Fuck me,” I curse under my breath. The situation is spiraling out of control, and the thought of our private suffering being used for their twisted entertainment is almost more than I can bear.

Alastor’s expression darkens further, his usual composure fraying under the strain. “We need to move, now. If they’ve been recording us, we can’t afford to stay here.”

He struggles to stand, his movements still unsteady but driven by a fierce determination. Despite his injuries, he manages to help me to my feet. Together, we stumble toward the edge of the roof, our only focus now on escaping the prying eyes of the VEES and getting to safety.

"My dear, this is going to feel quite strange," Alastor chokes out, his voice rasping with exhaustion, almost more of a strained wheeze than his usual confident tone. I hesitate, trying to grasp what he meant, but before I can ask, the world begins to shift. It feels like reality itself is bending. The colors around us deepen unnaturally, as though someone turned the saturation way up, casting a surreal, darker hue over everything.

The ground beneath me seems to melt away as I feel myself sink, the familiar sensations of my body slipping away. My mind fights to hold onto some sense of control, but it’s useless—everything is dissolving. I try to look towards Alastor, hoping for some clarity, but the shadows swallow him whole. For a moment, I’m weightless, floating in some in-between space, detached from my own being. And just as quickly as the darkness consumes me, it releases its grip.

The world snaps back into existence with a violent thud.

I stumble, trying to regain my bearings. Around me, it’s as though we’ve stepped into a different time—a house, old but well-kept, like we’ve fallen back into the 1930s. The architecture is elegant, with polished wooden floors, brass fixtures, and vintage décor that could have come straight from a film noir. This must be Alastor's home—a place steeped in the charm and eerie beauty of a bygone era.

A groan from beside me draws my attention, and my heart skips a beat. I look down and see Alastor sprawled on the floor, his once-charismatic figure now crumpled and drained. His last ounce of strength had been used to bring us here, wherever ‘here’ is.

"Dear God… Al?" My voice trembles, the weight of fear pressing into my chest as I kneel beside him. Even in my disoriented state, I can tell something is wrong—very wrong. His face is pale, his eyes closed. I reach out, but my own body barely has the energy to keep me upright. My muscles scream in protest, and I sway, almost collapsing next to him. “Are you okay?” I choke out, desperately needing a response.

But none comes.

Panic tightens its icy grip around my throat. "Alastor, I need you to wake up… please." The silence is unbearable. My mind races as I realize he might not be conscious. "Now, damn it!" But again, there’s nothing—just the oppressive quiet of the house around us.

Fear thrumming through my veins, I whisper, "Forgive me for this," and carefully roll him onto his back, my heart pounding louder in my ears with every passing second. His normally sharp, mischievous eyes remain shut, his face slack. He’s out cold. I can’t even tell how badly he’s hurt.

The surge of fear becomes a roar, drowning out every other thought. I need medical supplies. Anything.

I spring to my feet, fighting through my own injuries as I rush from room to room, pulling open drawers, cabinets—anything that might hold some form of first aid. “Come on… come on. You get into enough fights, you have to have something,” I mutter through gritted teeth. Desperation turns my movements frantic, but each cabinet reveals nothing useful.

I dash up the stairs, feeling like I’m running against time. The house looms around me in its vintage elegance, each piece of furniture a ghost from another era. It’s unsettling how pristine everything looks—like time stopped in the 1930s. Then, I find it—an old wooden door leading into a bathroom. The décor is still perfectly in line with the rest of the house—white subway tiles, polished brass fixtures, a claw-footed tub—but my focus is the cabinet above the sink.

I fling it open and find a small box tucked inside. Finally—medical supplies. I grab it, but as I turn to leave, the sight in the mirror stops me cold.

I barely recognize myself. My reflection stares back, a grotesque version of who I used to be. My face is a battered canvas of swollen black and blue, the bruises blossoming across my skin like ugly flowers. Deep, jagged cuts stretch from my temple to my jawline, the blood drying in uneven streaks, cracking as I move. Dust and grime cling to my skin, mingling with the blood, while debris clots in my tangled hair, matting it against my scalp with a gritty, uncomfortable weight.

My arms are a tapestry of agony, crisscrossed with deep gashes—some still oozing sluggish trails of blood, the edges puckered and angry. Dried streaks stain the skin beneath my fingernails, and each movement pulls at the open wounds, sending fresh spikes of pain shooting through my body.

I lift my shirt, gasping as my fingertips brush against the large, purpling bruises that blotch my torso. The dark blotches are swollen, throbbing with each breath, a sickening reminder of the beating I barely survived. Every breath sends a ripple of pain through the bruised ribs beneath. This body, this broken shell, feels foreign—too fragile, too damaged, to be mine.

Shaking off the shock, I rush back to Alastor, hoping I’m not too late.

[actuallythatgirl]

The Final Battle Alastor X Reader PT 2

Part one part two

The final battle, but instead of Alastor taking the hit, you do.

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I drift in the void, weightless as if submerged in an ocean of silence. A strange calm settles over me, the voice of my thoughts echoing faintly in the distance. But just as quickly as it came, the peace is shattered. I'm yanked from the darkness, violently thrust into a blinding storm of white and green. My eyes cracked open, half-lidded, struggling to focus as the colors swirled and clashed in front of me, chaotic and disorienting.

Pain tears through me—sharp, burning—centering in my stomach. Each ragged breath feels like it's being forced through broken glass. Something—no, things—slam into my body, one after the other, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears, muting everything else. I can’t tell where I am or why this is happening. My mind is slipping; I am desperate to understand but unable to.

I want to give up. My body screams for it, for an end to the suffering, for a release—a second death. But death won’t come. I’m trapped, suspended in this unrelenting agony. I lay there, barely conscious, while objects continued to strike me as if I were nothing more than a target. The brilliant lights continue to dance across my vision, mocking my helplessness.

With what little strength I have left, I lift a hand to my face, fingers trembling as I try to wipe away the blur clouding my sight. For a moment, clarity breaks through the haze.

Fuck. He’s pissed.

Alastor’s eyes burn with a ferocity that sends a chill down my spine, the usual smugness gone, replaced by something primal, deadly. His whole body thrums with murderous intent, his gaze locked onto Adam like a predator ready to tear its prey apart. The air around him seems to crackle, the danger radiating off him in waves. 

Before I can make sense of it, the darkness swallows me again.

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I wake up gasping for air, only to choke on a mouthful of dust. Each breath feels like inhaling broken glass. Groaning, I roll over, fighting to pull myself off this godforsaken ground. My hand weakly pushes my hair back from my face as I force my eyes open. The brightness stabs through my skull like a knife—how is it this bright in Hell? It feels like the sun is hanging right overhead, taunting me.

I push myself onto my knees, muscles trembling, and try to stand, but my legs give out, sending me crashing back down. “Fuck me,” I mutter through clenched teeth, spitting dust. 

I look around, desperate to make sense of the scene. The rooftop is a wasteland. Debris and shattered bricks are scattered everywhere, all except for the outline of my body where I must have been lying. Black streaks stain the ground—ash, maybe. I force myself to focus, the world swimming in and out of clarity. My eyes drift upward to the platform above, and then I see him.

Adam. His body is skewered, impaled on a jagged piece of railing, limbs hanging lifelessly. He’s dead, his form nearly torn apart, and the sight is more grotesque than I expected. It’s over. 

A weak cough cuts through the silence, jerking my attention to the source. My whole body tenses, bracing for a fight—but it’s not an enemy. It’s Alastor. 

He’s sprawled out on the ground, barely moving. His clothes are tattered and torn in places, and the usual sharpness he carries is gone. He’s lying face down, one arm stretched out toward me, almost as if he was reaching for something. For me. I can’t see how badly he’s hurt, but I know.

It’s really. Fucking. Bad.

“No, no, no, no.” It’s all I can manage to choke out as I crawl over the debris, the sharp edges slicing into my hands and knees, each movement a fresh agony. I try to reach him, but my progress is slow and painful.

Alastor must hear me because he lifts his head, his gaze meeting mine. He looks halfway to death, blood trickling down his face and staining his lips. His eyes hold a deep emotion I can’t quite decipher, a mixture of pain and something else—something unsettling.

“Don’t. Move.” His voice is strained, almost a command. The usual static is gone, replaced by a raw, urgent tone.

I’m caught off guard but remain still, the words striking me more deeply than I expected. Alastor’s eyes lock onto mine, intense and unyielding. “You’re hurt,” he says, his voice sharp, but beneath it, there’s an edge of fear. It’s as if he’s terrified that if I keep moving, I’ll only hurt myself further.

Despite the blood and pain, he forces himself off the ground, stumbling toward me. Each step seems to torture him more; his body is wracked with pain so severe it’s almost audible. 

“You’re hurt too,” I say firmly, my heart aching at the sight of him. I silently beg him to stop, to stay down, to avoid pushing himself further.

“My dear, you are in far worse condition,” he replies, his tone carrying a hint of taunt. The words are sharp, but there’s a wince of regret in his eyes as he speaks, a flicker of guilt he doesn’t voice.

Alastor stumbles closer, his movements pained but stubbornly determined. His usual elegant demeanor is shattered, his suit tattered and smeared with blood and grime. Every step seems to cost him dearly, but his pride forces him forward.

“Stop!” I almost shout, my voice breaking. “You’re in no condition to move!”

He halts a few feet away, his face contorted with pain yet still managing to hold that infuriatingly calm and composed expression. He offers a strained, almost mocking smile that fails to reach his eyes. “I’d be remiss if I allowed you to suffer alone, dear,” he says, his voice grating with effort.

I see the strain in every line of his face. His usual self-assuredness is overshadowed by the harsh reality of his injuries. He’s pushing himself beyond his limits, driven by his own twisted sense of duty.

When Alastor finally reaches me on the roof, he collapses onto his back, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He stares up at the sky as if seeking answers from the heavens.

“My dear?” he says, his voice strained but carrying an undertone of concern.

I look over him, desperately trying to assess his injuries, my own body trembling from the effort and pain. “Y-Yes?” I manage to reply, my voice shaky.

Suddenly, Alastor’s hand shoots out, grabbing my face with a firm grip. His eyes, usually so calculating and controlled, are now wide with a fierce, almost frantic intensity. “Why. The fuck. Would you do that?” he demands, his voice cracking with a mix of frustration and disbelief.

I feel like I’m pinned, every part of me caught in the gravity of his gaze. This is the moment where my actions are laid bare, and the weight of my decision hits me with full force. How do I even begin to explain this?

I could try to articulate the tangled mess of emotions swirling inside me—how I’ve been in love with him, how the fear of losing him drove me to act recklessly, and how I knew he’d be angry but felt I had no choice—but saying that out loud feels impossible, too raw and exposing.

Instead, I sigh, the words caught in my throat. “I… I”

Alastor’s eyes narrow, his frustration evident in the sharpness of his gaze. His grip on my face tightens slightly as if trying to force the answer out of me. “I want a real answer,” he says, his voice low and harsh. “Not some pathetic explanation.”

I am NOT going to answer that question. I would rather die. “I'm sorry… I can't give you the answer to that question.”

His eyes flash with irritation, his jaw clenching. For a moment, I brace myself for a harsher reaction, expecting him to snap. Instead, he releases my face abruptly, letting his hand fall away as he glares down at me, his expression unreadable.

“Can’t or won’t?” His voice is icy, the static of his usual tone creeping back in. “You think I’ll just let that slide?”

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air. I feel the sting of his disappointment, but I can’t bring myself to explain—not now, not like this. I'd rather face whatever wrath he has in store than expose the raw vulnerability behind my decision.

As the silence stretches between us, I can feel the tension thickening. Alastor’s question echoes in my mind, but I can’t find the strength to answer it. His eyes remain fixed on me, his irritation growing with every passing second.

“You think avoiding the truth will keep you safe?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with simmering anger. “I’m not the type to let things go so easily, my dear.”

I swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me. He’s not wrong—Alastor never lets anything slip through his fingers without fully understanding it. But I can’t tell him, not here, not now.

When I don’t respond, his expression a mask of cold determination. “If you won’t answer, I’ll find out on my own. But don’t think you’ll like how I do it.” The threat is veiled behind his usual charisma, but the meaning is clear. 

Alastor’s eyes, though still sharp with frustration, soften slightly as he holds my gaze. The anger in his expression seems to waver, revealing a deeper, more vulnerable side of him. His eyes remain locked on mine, filled with a mix of pain and confusion.

“Threats like this are why I don’t say,” I say, my voice trembling with a mix of hurt and defiance. “I risked my life for you, and now you’re threatening me? After everything that’s happened?”

Alastor’s grip on my face loosens, and he visibly struggles with his emotions. His usual confidence is replaced by a troubled expression, and he seems momentarily lost for words. The anger in his eyes fades, leaving behind a raw, genuine concern that he can’t completely mask.

“I... I’m not used to this,” he admits, his voice rough but softer than before. “You’ve put yourself at risk for me, and... it’s not something I can easily overlook.”

Seeing him like this, vulnerable and conflicted, breaks my heart. Despite everything, I can’t just stand by and let him suffer. I need to help him, no matter how he feels about my actions.

“Please, let me help you,” I say softly, stepping closer to him. “You’re hurt, and you need care. I know you’re angry, but I can’t leave you like this.”

Alastor’s eyes flash, and he wipes some of the blood from his face, clearly trying to regain his composure. “You’re making this far more dramatic than necessary, dear,” he says, his usual mocking tone creeping back, but there’s something underneath it—a tension in his voice he’s not fully hiding. “You’ve taken quite a hit yourself. You should be resting.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even though every inch of my body protests. “You’re barely on your feet, Alastor. Just let me help. Please.”

He laughs—low and soft, the sound of it more strained than usual. “Help me? You’re the one who decided to throw yourself into danger. How thoughtful of you. But you need more care than I do.”

His attempt at deflecting falls flat this time. I can see how much it’s costing him just to keep up this facade. “Stop pretending, Alastor,” I snap, my frustration finally bubbling over. “You can’t just brush this off. You’re hurt. You need to let someone take care of you, for once.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing, but not in anger—more as if I’ve struck a chord he wasn’t prepared for. His lips twitch into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m quite used to taking care of myself, darling,” he says quietly as if admitting something he usually keeps buried. “That’s how I’ve survived. It’s... easier that way.”

I step closer, my voice softer but firm. “You don’t have to now.”

For a moment, it seems like he might argue again, but instead, he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” He takes a shaky breath, wincing. “But if I’m to let you help, you’ll be sitting down first. You look like you could collapse any moment.”

I shake my head, trying to hide how shaky I feel, but before I can argue, he cuts me off with a raised hand. “No more protests. Let’s both stop pretending we’re invincible, hmm?”

The tension between us seems to ease, and though there’s still that stubborn glint in his eyes, there’s something softer now—an unspoken understanding. 

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@junieshohoho @martinys-world @1infp1 @alastorsgirl48 @tmntfangirl15love

[actuallythatgirl]

the final battle Alastor X Reader

part one part two

I fall asleep to this scenario in my head

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The final battle, but instead of Alastor taking the hit, you do.

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Your POV

Standing on the rooftop's edge, I felt the sharp sting of brimstone against my skin, the acrid dust clawing its way down my throat with every breath. The air was thick, choking, and I could barely make out Adam and Alastor through the haze. Alastor's taunting words echoed, each one igniting Adam's fury. Alastor always exuded arrogance—and often with reason. But this time, he was so consumed by his bravado that he missed what I saw clearly: Adam was about to strike, and it would be brutal.

In that moment, time seemed to freeze. A decision loomed before me, heavy and unavoidable. Do I let this play out, or do I intervene? Either choice would incur Alastor's wrath. If I did nothing, he'd feel the sting of humiliation, and his rage would lead to a bloody aftermath. He’d shut me out, perhaps for good, until his wounded pride was salved. If I stepped in, he'd misunderstand, furious that I defied his orders to stay out of the fight. He'd insist he would’ve dodged the blow, that I had no right to interfere.

But the choice was already made the instant I recognized what was about to unfold. Love compelled me forward into the fray. No powers to shield me, no strength but the love I bore for the man I was about to protect. And so I ran, knowing full well the storm of anger I would face—but also knowing I could do nothing less.

Alastor didn't even see me coming, a testament to just how absorbed he was in his own world. I surged forward, every ounce of my strength propelling me as I pushed my beloved out of harm's way. The searing heat of Adam’s attack began to creep along my skin, and I caught a glimpse of Alastor’s expression transforming from confusion to pure, unadulterated horror. Time seemed to stretch and warp.

I felt the unbearable intensity of the ray as it surged toward me, a blinding white light engulfing my vision. Amidst the chaos, a piercing scream sliced through my thoughts. “NO!” The force of the attack struck me with a brutality that left no room for reaction. The pain was a torment beyond imagination—a relentless, searing burn of holy light.

My vision was consumed by a blinding whiteness, but I could still sense my body moving, as though in mid-flight. The impact when my back slammed into the brick wall was devastating. It felt as if every breath was stolen from me in that instant. And then, darkness. The world faded away into nothingness.