“No biting!”

The voice zaps into existence like static over a speaker just as your teeth graze your cheek again. You flinch—half from surprise, half from the voice you’ve heard way too often lately.

“No bouncing!”

Your knee stops jiggling. A clawed hand is already hovering just above it, as if it might slap the motion right out of you.

Alastor grins, ever-present and far too observant. He's perched sideways on the back of a nearby chair like some smug, velvet vulture. Red eyes flick from your twitching fingers to the skin you’ve been absentmindedly picking at.

“Now, now, what did we say about scratching, dear?” His tone is lilting, cheerful—even sing-song. “We can’t have you peeling away, now can we?”

You groan. “Do you just… live inside my nervous system?”

“Wouldn’t that be something!” He laughs, cane tapping once against the floor before he tilts his head. “But I must admit, I do have a particular interest in your… habits.”

It started a few weeks ago. The tics. The scratches. The biting. Then came the voice. Then the man behind it. Or maybe he was always there. Watching. Waiting.

At first, you thought you were losing it—imagining him. But the things he knew about you... the way he’d show up at just the right moment… it became impossible to deny.

He’s not trying to stop the tics out of kindness. Not really. It’s more like he sees them as his.

Like if anyone’s going to unravel you, it’s going to be him. Not your anxiety. Not your trauma. Just him.

“Self-destruction,” he purrs, voice suddenly too close to your ear, “is terribly unattractive when left to its own devices. Let me help you with that, hmm?”

He taps your bitten lip gently, almost fondly.

“No biting, sweetheart. Not unless I ask.”