The pub is an old haunt for sailors, pirates, and mercenaries. Its creaky wooden floors have seen more than their fair share of brawls and bloodshed over the years. It’s tucked away at the edge of London’s docks, far from the comfort of the city’s high society, where the air smells like salt and rum and the sea’s biting winds carry whispers of unspeakable things.

You’ve worked here for a long time, your eyes always sharp, always aware. The men that come through here have nothing but disrespect for anyone who serves them, but you’ve learned to keep your head down, your hands steady. It’s just another day in the grind of a life too steeped in misery to escape. That is, until they walk in.

The crew—grimy, raucous, loud—stumbles through the pub doors, as they have so many times before, but this time, there’s something different about the man who leads them.

Alastor walks into the dimly lit pub, his steps confident, his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow. His sharp eyes take in the scene in an instant, the loud chatter of sailors fading into the background as he surveys the room. He doesn’t need to make himself heard to take control of it all—he does it just by being there, his presence suffocating.

His crew follows, boisterous, drunk, slapping cards on the table, but Alastor’s eyes never leave you. There’s something about you that catches his attention. His lips curl into a slow, calculating grin, and the air thickens as the crew plays their hand, oblivious to the silent tension.

Alastor’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade. “Barkeep,” he calls, his tone a smooth drawl, like honey laced with poison. “Do you know the song of the sea, dear? It’s a song of victory, a song of blood.”

The crew erupts into laughter, but there’s no joy in his eyes—only something darker, sharper. He looks at you from across the room, and with a single movement, his hand beckons you forward. You approach him, the weight of his gaze dragging you closer, and as you reach him, his hand finds its way to your waist.

Without warning, he pulls you onto his lap, his movements precise and controlled. The heat of his body sears into yours as he settles you against him. The crew laughs and plays on, ignorant to the intimacy unfolding at the table.

“Now, now,” he murmurs into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Don’t be shy.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your clothes, just a little too close to your skin. “I’m not going to bite... yet.”

Alastor’s chuckle is low, a sound filled with dark amusement. He leans in just enough so you can feel the heat of his breath, his lips brushing the edge of your ear. The noise of the tavern around you fades away, and all that remains is the feel of his fingers, the warmth of his body, and the unsettling weight of his gaze that never leaves yours.

The crew continues with their cards, but something has shifted. The tension in the air is palpable, and with each passing second, it becomes clear: Alastor doesn’t need to say much to command the room. He doesn’t need to do much to take control of you. You’re in his domain now. His influence is suffocating, and there’s nowhere to run.