Still dominant, but rut drives cracks through his control.

Every word feels dangerous, every movement calculated… but barely.

Alastor remains a polite manipulator, but rut season strips him raw. His control is tenuous, his patience nonexistent, and his instincts suffocating. He oscillates between taut restraint and snapping entirely. His need fuels his possessiveness, and his laughter—usually theatrical—is tight, forced, barely holding together.

His usual suave demeanor frays at the edges.

Doesn’t tolerate anyone near what’s his.

His instincts are at war with his restraint.

One moment teasing, the next deadly serious.

Thicker, more prominent, occasionally scraping walls as he moves.

Jaw clenched, movements rigid, muscles tense.

Flickering brighter, pupils blown wide—a feverish, predatory gleam.

Sharp, tailored, slightly disheveled—like he’s been pacing, restless.