Hi I hope you're doing well and big thanks for filling my Hazbin Hotel (specifically Alastor) needs.
If request are open would you be able to write a one shot where Alastor doesn't realize that his future s/o has a prosthetic leg, maybe a cool Bucky Barnes type prosthetic made by the Carmines using angel steel, and finds out during a battle where they deflect a weapon or a pant leg gets dramatically ripped.
Warnings: Weapons, war, killing, tiny bit of angst
Genre: Love, angst and war
Summary: Your his weakness. Or are you his greatest strength? He loves you but war is everywhere in hell and trouble seems to always find Charlie’s hotel. What will happen? Can be read as Woman reader, GN reader and Male reader!
Long before you ever crossed paths with Alastor or Charlie’s hotel, you worked in one of the most dangerous—and most secretive—industries in Hell:
Camila Carmine’s angel weapons division.
Most demons didn’t even know where her factories were. Even fewer ever saw the true inner workshops. But you did—because you weren’t just some hired hand. You were her prodigy.
Other demons forged blades.
You designed them.
Other demons worked from schematics.
You wrote the schematics.
Everything you touched sold higher, hit harder, cut deeper. Collectors used to fight over your prototypes. Your signature was a selling point. Rumors spread that your personal creations rivaled all of Heaven’s Exorcist weapons.
Those rumors… weren’t entirely exaggerated.
Camila Carmine noticed your brilliance quickly, and she wasn’t someone who complimented easily. The first time she praised you, she only said:
But that one word was enough to know you were different.
You became her favorite artisan. Her secret weapon. The one she brought into meetings with Heavenly weapon smugglers and black-market dealers for other rings.
You worked with divine alloys most demons never laid eyes on. You studied the texture of angelic minerals like someone reading holy scripture.
And then the accident happened.
A high-demand prototype—a new angel-tier cannon model—malfunctioned during a weapons demonstration. It didn’t just malfunction, the blast was brutal. It wasn’t just fire, the blast split into three different types of force at once:
* a standard combustion fire wave
* a violent kinetic shockwave
* and like knives being thrust at the speed of light the razor-sharp angelic steel flew everywhere in it’s close vicinity
Most demons caught in the blast were burned or thrown. Those injuries healed with hell regeneration like normal.
But only you were close enough to the angelic breach-point.
Only your left leg was caught exactly where the angelic matter sliced space—pure angelic alloy cutting as clean as Heaven’s own sword.
Your leg wasn’t burned off.
It wasn’t crushed.
It was erased in a divine line of impact.
Camila explained it bluntly:
“Anything that angel steel severs will never grow again. Heaven made sure their weapons leave scars Hell can’t erase.”
Hellfire can heal fire damage.
Hellfire can patch torn limbs.
Hellfire CANNOT repair what is destroyed by divine alloy.
So while your body regenerated over the next few days—your leg never returned.
That’s why you needed the prosthetic.
That’s why it had to be angelic steel.
Not to enhance you—
to replace what only Heaven could take away
Most demons in your position would’ve been left with a crude iron replacement, or worse—forced to limp forever. But Camila Carmine? She made a decision instantly.
“You’re too valuable to be broken.”
Within a week, she presented you with a custom prosthetic forged with refined angel steel, cooled in demon blood, sealed with sigils normally reserved for Exorcist armor.
“You’re no good to me if you’re damaged,” she said with her usual cold tone.
But when she handed you the wrapped box—she placed a hand on your shoulder, very lightly.
A Carmine gift meant something. It meant respect. Trust. Ownership, yes—but also admiration.
There were rumors that if a Carmine buyer ever tried to harm you, their weapons would refuse to fire.
No one ever tested it.
After the accident, something inside you changed.
At first you kept working, even surpassing your earlier masterpieces. The new prosthetic gave your designs even more precision. Your weapons were becoming infamous—prized by warlords, coveted by assassins.
Every time a Carmine auction ended…
Every time a shipment left the angel-forges…
A little part of you wondered:
“Who is this going to kill?”
You never pulled the trigger.
But you crafted the thing that did.
Your genius caused suffering.
Indirectly—yet undeniably.
That incident was the first time you felt the force of your creation, the irreversible damage and pain it caused.
And now you couldn’t look away you couldn’t turn a blind eye you couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore.
Not even Camila, with all her cool arrogance and cutthroat elegance, could silence that guilt.
One night, in the empty forge hall, it finally hit you:
If Hell can’t stop my hands… I have to stop them myself. You came to the decision it was time to end it.
You didn’t run away.
You walked into Camila’s private office, prosthetic footsteps echoing through marble halls, and placed your signature engraving tools on her desk.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
“I’m leaving,” you told her. “Not because I hate you. But because I can’t keep helping Hell destroy itself. I believe the hotel can change something. Maybe even me.”
Camila slowly closed her ledger, studying you—not with rage, but with something almost soft.
“If you must redeem yourself,” she said, “do it. But do not let your talent rust. It is a rare thing.”
Then—shockingly—she didn’t threaten you.
Didn’t chase you.
Didn’t forbid it.
She simply nodded once, eyes sharper than knives:
“If Hell is ever foolish enough to waste a weapon like you… my doors remain open.”
You left respectfully.
In good standing.
Still trusted.
Still valued.
You arrived at the hotel in the most unassuming way—looking like any other new sinner, a polite face, gentle voice, hands folded as if you were trying not to take up too much space. But there was something heavy behind your eyes, like someone who had seen far too much and carried all of it quietly.
Charlie loved you on sight—your polite smile, your hopeful tone, your refusal to cause a fuss. She didn’t question why someone like you came alone, or why you already seemed so haunted. You simply said:
“I know I don’t deserve Heaven. But I’d like… to try.”
You said it so softly she almost didn’t hear it.
That alone made her welcome you immediately.
It didn’t take long for everyone in the hotel to realize you were different. That gentle modesty covered razor-sharp intelligence.
Sir Pentious would complain loudly about his newest invention malfunctioning—
and you would appear at his shoulder, leaning over his blueprints, correcting lines with gentle precision:
“You accidentally wired the coil in reverse. If you flip it you’ll double the output.”
Pentious would sputter, insulted, then try it—
and it worked perfectly.
He respected you immediately.
(He wouldn’t admit it—but Alastor noticed.)
Weapons in Hell were a nightmare to maintain, but somehow you knew everything—
metal fatigue,
edge geometry,
purification methods.
You never bragged, never boasted—you simply offered your hands, your cloth, and cleaned Vaggie’s angelic spear with deliberate reverence:
“If it chips, polish here—this section carries the holy charge.”
Your touch was delicate, reverent even.
Vaggie recognized skill when she saw it.
She trusted you.
And that trust alone fascinated Alastor.
Charlie often struggled with planning and logistics—she had passion but not strategy. Whenever she hit a wall, you were there with ideas, solutions, compromises. Calm, kind, almost impossibly patient.
Alastor watched the way your eyes brightened when solving a problem—
the glow of a sharp mind at work—
something so rare in Hell it might as well have been angelic.
He didn’t understand it,
but he couldn’t stop looking.
And of course with Charlie’s support Angel trusted you whole heartily.
Alastor was intrigued the moment you walked in—a calm sinner in Hell? Odd. A thoughtful one? Stranger still. A respectful one? Practically extinct. But when he realized you were quietly brilliant—skilled, competent, thoughtful—that struck him harder than any power ever could.
He began helping you without admitting it—appearing beside you in halls, giving strange compliments that sounded like riddles, offering “advice” that was really just excuses to study your reactions.
And fascination, for Alastor…
always means danger.
And with Alastor’s support Nifty and Husk never seemed bothered by your presence. In fact Husk liked talking with you about random facts about gambling and liquor. While nifty enjoyed your cleanliness and how you quite enjoyed her cockroach bands.
It started innocently.
Alastor would suggest you “try the cuisine” in Cannibal Town,
and you—oddly—agreed.
The table was always set for two.
The music always happened to be romantic.
He always sat closer than necessary.
And you always leaned just a little.
There was never a moment where either of you said you were dating—
but everyone could see it.
Charlie giggled about it.
Vaggie rolled her eyes.
Angel gossiped.
Husk sighed.
Alastor never clarified,
and you never denied it.
In his mind,
in his heart,
you were his.
And… truthfully?
You didn’t mind at all.
You enjoyed him.
In your own quiet way,
you wanted him too.
When Adam made his declaration to increase the exorcist exterminations specifically the hotel it felt like—when Heaven was screaming that Hell was unsalvageable—Charlie trembled, Vaggie clenched her spear, Husk grabbed a his cards, Angel grabbed his guns, nifty got her knifes ready, and Alastor’s grin only sharpened.
You—calm voice steady—suggested contacting an old employer:
Camila Carmine.
The Angelite queen of weapons.
Vaggie backed you up, fierce and loyal—because they needed all the help they can get. She trusted you. And the moment Camila saw the two of you together—she actually listened.
She only agreed because you were there to vouch for them.
Because you were there reminding her who you used to be.
And who you wanted to become.
Everyone was still scared but prepared.
Everything turned to screaming light and thunder.
Adam descended like a star falling.
Alastor’s laugh echoed across the smoke.
His shadows fought like feral gods,
and for a time it looked like maybe—just maybe—
Hell stood a chance.
You fought alongside Vaggie, with trained precision and devastating angelic knowledge that no demon was ever meant to possess.
The angels weren’t aiming to kill you—they always do, but you weren’t there usual easy target, so they devised a plan in the middle of all the chaotic extermination warfare. They couldn’t help it when they saw how aggressively you were dominating the field—cutting through entire squads with that elegant handcrafted blade—their tactics shifted.
You weren’t just strong,
you were becoming a decisive advantage for the sinners’ side.
You were becoming a threat to heaven itself.
So the exorcists adjusted accordingly.
A coordinated strike.
Precise.
Deliberate.
Not toward your chest.
Not your head.
Because if they could take your mobility, they could stop your killing streak dead.
Alastor noticed the shift in their movement patterns—angels circling, boxing around you like wolves herding prey. His eyes flicked toward you only once, but once was enough.
He saw where their weapon was pointed.
He realized their aim.
Something primal hit the base of his spine.
Not fear—
but that awful, choking sensation that feels like fear’s older, uglier brother.
The kind that only arises when someone touches something precious.
You swung your blade upward, twisting between two angelic halberds, sparks of divine metal lighting up around your face. Another angel fired:
A heavy projectile of compressed angelic steel weaponry, meant to incapacitate, meant to maim.
You braced instinctively—but the impact clang echoed like steel on steel.
Your body flew backwards—
but your leg held firm,
glowing hot,
sparking slightly from the force.
The angels expected your limb to sever cleanly.
Perfectly attached,
perfectly functional,
because angel-steel doesn’t bow to the weak, your angelic leg was far from weak it was made of the highest carmine craftsmanship possible, the first and last gift Camila ever gave anyone. A mere angelic weapon could never break it.
You coughed from the smoke,
pushed yourself upright,
ready to go again—
but your pant leg was gone,
and the gleaming prosthetic was exposed in full view,
angelic runes shining bright under the battlefield lights.
Smoke covered Alastors view but he assumed the worst and he for the first time felt unsteady.
Alastor forgot the battle.
Forgot the deal.
Forgot his pride.
His static cut out mid-laugh.
His voice cracked into raw radio interference.
Adam seized that opening, smashing Alastor’s staff and forcing him to teleport away before the shaking of his hands became visible to anyone.
Not running away from enemies—
running away from the idea of losing you.
That terror, that possibility, that realization that the angels had aimed for your leg—not knowing, not caring what it was, only knowing that hurting you mattered. He didn’t know how to live in a world without you there.
He hoped for the best but feared the worst.
Because they wanted to crush your mobility.
Your power.
Your presence.
And that shook him in ways even Hell couldn’t measure.
He didn’t know if he could return. But he had to.. for the deal.
When he finally entered the remains of the hotel, trying to wear confidence like a mask, he found you standing around with everyone, arguing with Husk about card games, pant leg ripped, prosthetic shining, alive.
Because you were always impossible.
He approached, slow,
as if afraid touching you would break something.
He didn’t comment on your leg.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t breathe.
He just looked at you—really looked at you—and for the first time since becoming the Radio Demon, his smile wasn’t forced.
He’d never admit it,
but in that moment,
seeing you still whole,
he realized what he already feared:
You had become his greatest weakness.
Not because he pitied you—
but because he could have lost you.
And loss is the one thing even the Radio Demon cannot laugh at.
Okk!! I loved the prompt so much, I went a little overboard with the background of the reader sorryyyy but I really took my time with it! I hope you love it as much as I do! My inbox is always open I am getting to every prompt a bit slowly, but I will do every single one don’t worry! I love the creativity!
