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𝑭𝑨𝑸 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔
requesting, interactions, and all that ↓ below cut (please like this once you've read my rules!)
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do you take nsfw requests?
no, i don't write any nsfw. the most i will do is suggestive. along with nsfw, i won't write: (TW!) yandere, extreme gore, incest, self-harm, eating disorders, non-consensual, etc. additionally, i ask that you please not send requests you've already sent to other authors
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i have a writing tag! if you want to see only writing, you can block all my other tags (tagged in this navigation post). all my writing will be posted under faye's thoughts!
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do you write oc x character?
unfortunately not!! and i try and keep the appearance of the reader as ambiguous as possible so that everyone has a chance to read! that means i don't describe skin colour, hair colour or texture, eye colour, body type, etc. or descriptions like "their face turned red". and i additionally try to avoid using any pronouns at all, only "you/your/yours" etc. i will occasionally use they/them though if necessary to keep it gender neutral
why haven't you written my request?
i'm a deadly combination of extremely slow writing, easy writer's block, and full-time school. i do my best to respond to most of the things in my inbox, but it may take me a while. otherwise, i might not be able to think of anything to write for a specific request so it will sit for a long time. please be patient and don't spam my inbox with the same request 🫶
do you only write for alastor?
nope, alastor is just the character i am most familiar with and comfortable writing. if you'd like to see any other characters, i'd be willing to give it a try
can we be mutuals?
i don't actively seek out mutuals, rather my moots are just people i naturally became friends with through interactions/mentions :) they are incredibly nice people who post yummy content that i like to see on my dash
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for hazbin hotel content i'm tumblr only. that said, if you see my works on any other site please report it
𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 — 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ☽ prev | series masterlist | other works
syn. With his chest to your back, you hope to feel the warmth of his heart. But he is always careful not to bare himself to you wholly, to never show the vulnerability of the man he once was, as if afraid of what you might do with the complete puzzle. And he would fail time and time again—that is just the nature of love and why he despises it so.
No one can escape that. Not you, with your blood in his mouth, and certainly not him with his heart in your hands.
He may as well carve himself open, expose his ribcage to you and say, here I am. I am yours.
warnings: blasphemy/religion talked about in a negative light, small references to poc struggles, canon-typical blood and violence, co-dependency, probably no longer canon compliant. wc: 3.3k
You dream of those summer days you spent amongst the pines, innocent and free.
The sun is warm on your skin, but your body is cold. It’s always been cold. Your little sisters used to tease you for it. When you close your eyes, you can hear their voices as they laugh.
There are so many flowers that the air smells sickly sweet with them. Asters were your mother’s favourite. She would save the seeds through the fall and winter and toss them into the thicket come summer. You remember she loved the pink asters most of all, plucking them to fill her metal vases back at the cabin but always leaving a few to admire out the window.
When you look left, you can see the sun glimmering off the surface of the river. The rushing waters erode away the riverbed as they have for as long as you can remember. You’d played in that water as a child, back when you were small and feeble. Nowadays it is only ankle deep.
When did you grow so old? For how long have you not been able to reach up and touch the sky with your hands?
You reach up above you to try to feel the bend of the universe, but it only makes the blood staining your hands dribble down your arms. They fall back to your sides, outstretched on the grass beneath you.
The cicadas have awoken from their slumber and buzz in the sweltering August heat. Today is beautiful. These idyllic summer days are always beautiful.
Why did you have to ruin it?
Hesitantly, as if you know the body is waiting to stare back at you, you turn your head right. On this warm, beautiful afternoon, you remember you have killed your mother.
You look nothing alike. Your parents were religious folk who believed in doing the right thing. They had taken you in as a child and raised you no different than your little brothers and sisters. When you fought, you would slam the door in her face and she would pound on the wood with her fist like all mothers do. And when you cried, she would cradle your head in her lap and smooth down your hair under her palm.
The silence is overwhelming, like the whole world is mourning.
Her eyes have lost their light and her flesh stinks of blood. You wonder if you would look like that if you died, too. If death was the only way you would ever really look like her baby.
Your eyes flutter closed once you can’t bear to look at her anymore. Father would return from gathering firewood soon. He would come home to an empty cabin and follow the trail of blood, shattered glass, and bodies—the aftermath of your mother’s attack on you and the others.
He would wander through the woods until he came to this place, the one where he had taught you how to fish. Where he built bird houses and shot deer. His river.
Then what? Your eyes squeeze tighter as you try and imagine what comes next.
Your father would find your bodies buried there in the grass by the stream. Both would be cold but only one still breathing. The asters would be in bloom. The cicadas would sing. A beautiful day marred with blood and stinking flesh.
You hear the snapping of twigs as he finds you, and you wonder how you should apologize. He would forgive you if you explained, if you were honest. If you were to tell him that mother looked at you strangely and then chased you through the thicket with a blade. Father would be on your side. He would cradle you just as your mother used to. He would tell you everything is going to be fine and bring you back to the cabin to call the police in the next town over.
He would. You have no doubt about it.
Life would go on. The world would mourn but it would still spin. You would find a new river to fish in—one that doesn’t stir bad memories. There is still a chance to come back from this.
When you open your eyes again, your father is standing above you.
He looks at you like a monster. Like the demons he prays away every night.
He is holding his axe—the one he chops oak with. It is covered in fresh splinters and reeks of rust. You can’t understand what he’s saying right now, his voice quiet over the roaring of blood in your ears. He’s crying. You hurt your mother. Of course he is.
Your last thought in life was this: my mother and father love me. They do. They are the words that would haunt your dreams for the rest of time.
He swings his axe and-
When you blink, there is another hovering above you. The sky is still dark and sparkles with stars that feel out of reach. Alastor taps the side of your head with the bottom of his cane.
“Rise and shine, dear,” he sings, even though the sun is nowhere to be found yet. “It’s a beautiful day!”
You sit up, staring at him emptily before you reach out your hands toward him. He leans down, smiling as always as he allows you to slot his face between your palms. He is cold to the touch.
“Good morning,” you whisper, lips pressed to the corner of his smile. It shrinks when he feels you trembling ever so slightly.
Alastor’s very existence defied God.
He remembers from his childhood that there was a church on the way to his school. They kept dogs on the front lawn, growling and drooling all over the place. Filthy, untrained beasts.
He didn’t know why he hated that place. It reeked of myrrh and had outdated stained glass that made the whole building look garish on their poor street. Perhaps, for the first few years he spent in New Orleans, he simply disliked their aesthetics.
Then his father passed.
Alastor did not know his father outside of the chit-chat they would share over dinner on the rare occasion that he was home. His father was a labourer, as many of his neighbours were, working down on the docks in the morning when the deliveries came, then cleaning the streets once the sun set.
As a child, he did not fully understand the concept of paying for a roof over his head, or living paycheque to paycheque. All he knew was that his father was not home. That he did not love him and his mother.
When they argued, they would do it quietly and always after Alastor went to bed, thinking they were being discreet. “We have enough,” his mother would plead.
“We have nothing,” his father argued.
“We have each other!”
That is usually when he would stuff his face into his pillow and cry until he fell asleep.
To be honest, Alastor never learned whether or not his father truly loved him—if he could be happy with nothing as long as they were together. His mother would not say.
They dressed him in his best suit for the funeral, which was only attended by other dockers who had the courtesy to at least know his name. It was grey and had a tear in the sleeve that his mother tried to sew together the night before with shaking fingers.
Alastor wore red. People stared.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said the priest.
“Why?” Alastor asked, watching the casket as a few men closed it shut with a thud. He would be cremated after this because they couldn’t afford a plot of land for a burial. “I hardly knew him.”
“He was your father.”
He remembers feeling nothing at those words. Not a single stir of emotion. No memories to rejoice at, nor to mourn. “Why do you care? You hardly know me,” Alastor continued, earning him a sharp tug on the ear from his mother.
That night, he laid in bed wondering whether or not he should feel sad. He ultimately decided that feeling sorry for himself would be a waste of time and energy.
Then he thought about the man at the church, and felt hatred ring hollow in his ribcage. He stank of an elderly man. He charged his mother double the cost of a standard funeral, too. Alastor thought of the people who stared, who whispered and pointed. It was because he wore red, wasn’t it? He thought about the hours his father worked. He thought about how he was robbed of so many happy memories because food was not cheap, and electricity was a privilege.
Alastor looked at his hands, holding them up toward the ceiling in stifling silence. They were not white like the handful of people who came to visit his father.
That night, he cried. But it was not because he was mourning.
His mother began taking him to church every Sunday after his father died. They would sit in the back row and keep their heads down. Sometimes, Alastor wondered why they bothered coming at all. Then his mother would start weeping softly into her hands, and he would sink down into the pew clutching sheets of music in his lap.
Other kids at school often teased him for the way he dressed, the way he spoke, and he would lash out. Violence was a part of him, rotten and ugly deep in his heart. When he thinks back on his childhood, a part of him wishes that he had learned how to just let things go. That way, he wouldn’t have known his mother’s disappointment.
Perhaps learning to let things go was a lesson his father never got to teach him.
His life is a blur of lavish rye, knives, radio adverts, and anger after his father passed. Alastor cannot say he lived the life his mother wanted him to live.
No, Alastor never learned how to live. He only knew how to bite to get the things he wanted, like when he stole money to get his suit tailored for an interview at the broadcasting station. Like when he robbed pharmacies for the medicine his mother needed but couldn’t afford. Like when he burned down that church he hated so much as a child once she was gone.
I’m sorry for your loss. Those same horrible, empty words he had heard so many years ago. All he wanted to do was dig his nails into that man’s eyes until they gouged and wept blood, and that is exactly what he did. Alastor was never good at turning away from the things he wanted. Then he did it again, and again, and again, and again, and again. But nothing brought back his mother, nor did they give him the answers he always sought.
Digging shallow graves became his favourite pastime when he wasn’t drinking liquor over a piano.
Indeed, Alastor’s very existence defied God. He only ever knew how to sin, how to live violently. That is why he died violently, too—biting and scratching, throat between the jaws of the drooling beasts he used to hate.
He supposes that’s why he is the way he is, here down in Hell.
When you dream of your life, you dream of summer cicadas and a river where the birds sing. You do not hear the roar of fire as Alastor does, or the barking of dogs, or the click of bullets being loaded into a gun. You do not see disappointment on the faces of others when they look at you. And when you remember your family, you cry the way he cannot.
You know how to live. More importantly, you know how to mourn. You are warm and beautiful and human. You are everything he is not.
At least, that is what he convinces himself.
A hotel opens on the hilltop, shabby and looking like the smallest hint of a breeze will decimate it.
Alastor paces back and forth as he stews, eye twitching and ears sagging. He has half a mind to demand to see the building permit for such a monstrosity, blocking his view of the sunrise.
He leaves one morning to find out why a hotel, of all things, is being constructed, and if the blinding, flickering LED lights are a necessity. When he returns, you expect him to be fuming in the way that he does—strange and muttering to himself.
You were not expecting him to have a sly grin on his face, one that you know. A business deal.
Morningstars burn bright in the darkness of the underworld. They are said to have fangs the size of knives and twice as sharp. Brambles bloom where they walk, sprouting from the earth like jaws come to feast, and when they look at you, their eyes burn a shade of red the same as the blood of Sinners they’ve devoured.
The Morningstars are the undisputed kings of Hell. They let their subjects run amok and relish in the chaos.
Your expectations are dashed once more when Alastor ferries you along to the hotel for an audience with one of the royal family members. You expect to cower, perhaps offer a piece of yourself as an apology for even showing your face.
Charlie Morningstar has fangs twice as sharp as knives, but she makes an effort to tuck them behind her tongue when she smiles at you.
“Hello!” She greets, peering around Alastor where you’re hiding and following you as you try to draw back. “You must be Alastor’s…”
She trails off, sheepish and awkward, and you can’t help but think she looks as soft as a lamb. Alastor seems to enjoy the way you squirm when he doesn’t correct her or interject, eyeing you from the side.
“Roommate,” you finish for her, quiet and stiff. She untenses at that, breathing an exhale of what you can only interpret as relief.
“And your name is…?”
You cower again and Alastor takes the hint, subtly pushing you behind him.
“None of your concern,” he hums, and a shiver runs down your spine at the audacity. He stands before the daughter of the fallen star, but he doesn’t waver at all. A part of you admires his bravery. The other wants to slap him across the face.
After introducing you to everyone with dance and song, Alastor divulges that he’s been debating whether or not to join the Princess in her ridiculous little redemption quest. The other inhabitants of the hotel are strange, just as Alastor is. Perhaps even more.
You believe he looks right at home here, grinning and singing amongst the Princess and her Sinners.
It only takes a few weeks for him to decide. One, because this would be a one-in-an-afterlife opportunity for him. And two, because you look so happy when Charlie pulls you into a tight hug and you visibly relax in her arms. His eyes linger on the softness in your expression as she coos at you, wondering if you ever looked the same by his side.
He shakes the thought away immediately. No, of course not, you monster. A part of you fears him just as much as you did the day you met. It always would.
The hotel is foreign to you, with sprawling hallways and doors that are always locked. Dust settles on every piece of unused furniture, making the entire place feel lonely and abandoned even though it supposedly just opened up. It’s nothing like Alastor’s radio tower.
Charlie adds a broadcasting station to the hotel at Alastor’s behest, which he disappears to frequently when she isn’t asking him to fix a pipe, or move a sofa. Such menial, mundane every day tasks do not suit Alastor, you think, but he does so without complaint and curiosity stirs in you.
Your favourite part of the hotel is that you get a bed, rather than sleeping on Alastor’s lousy couch which he never even bothered to get properly cleaned. And although he claims not to need any sleep, he still joins you on occasion, laying there between you and the door as if worried someone will try and take you in the night.
You are smoothing out the sheets before you catch Alastor pondering on the balcony, static subdued in a way that makes your skin crawl.
“Alastor?” You murmur, pushing the door open with a quiet creak. He doesn’t turn around, cane leaning on the railing beside him as his shoulders sag. Then, he perks back up as if he remembered who he is. Who he is meant to be.
You would never understand him—this burden of souls he bears. What is it like to be the strongest?
“Come, dear,” he sings, opening up the space between him and the railing for you to slot there.
With his chest to your back, you hope to feel the warmth of his heart. But he is always careful not to bare himself to you wholly, to never show the vulnerability of the man he once was, as if afraid of what you might do with the complete puzzle. And he would fail time and time again—that is just the nature of love and why he despises it so.
No one can escape that. Not you, with your blood in his mouth, and certainly not him with his heart in your hands.
“Never leave me,” he jests, attempting to disguise the worry with mockery.
You indulge him, huffing with laughter, soft but bitter. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
Alastor’s claws curl around the railing, clinking against the metal. “Well, do you?”
“Do I what?” You ask, head slowly turning to look at him over your shoulder. He refuses to let you see his face, turned away from you stubbornly.
There’s a pause, stiff and heavy. You can feel his chest heaving against your back, each rise and fall making your heart sink further into your stomach.
“Would you like to leave?”
There is no mockery when he asks, no indication that he’s going to laugh in your face if you answer incorrectly. It’s a sincere question—you can tell by the way his voice wavers without static. He may as well carve himself open, expose his ribcage to you and say, here I am. I am yours. Do you accept that?
You gaze upon the horizon, golden with the setting sun and the burning flames of Hell. Before him, before everything, you’d never known this view. You could only look up from the streets and see the stretch of concrete that touched the sky. They were nothing like the tall pines you’d see in your dreams.
Have you ever truly been free down here in the underworld?
Your eyes flutter closed when his forehead presses to your shoulder, waiting patiently for your answer. Your soul flickers when he holds you, and you can imagine the chain jingling between you. His hold over you—the spell you will never outrun.
No. You have never been free. But the view is nicer up here than it is from the streets.
“I don’t,” you breathe, and his arms wind around you with uncharacteristic relief. “I never want to leave.”
The way you answer; the devotion and the understanding, he adores it. You are the only dog he will ever love—so much so that it burns deep in his veins. He closes his eyes and there it is again—chanted prayers; his mother’s arms around him; his father’s ashes. Filthy beasts barking, bullets clicking one by one, a target on his forehead and the feeling of free falling into fire.
If there really is a God up there, Alastor hopes to never meet him. He just wants to stay here with you, in the holiness that he pretends you have, and pray for forgiveness.
That way, he never has to repay the debt he owes the universe for all his wrongdoings. He never has to give you up.
☽
notes: hi, if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! this has been sitting in my drafts for literally almost 2 years at this point... lol... i fully intended to get all the parts out before season 2 but that evidently did not happen, so expect a lot of deviation from the canon unless i manage to rework it. sorry about that! i love writing this fic, examining alastor as a character is so much fun and i adore it.
i know i had a taglist going for this, but i think i will temporarily be stopping with tags as i have no idea who is and isn't interested anymore. forevermore has its own special filter on my blog, so feel free to take a gander if you'd like!
HELLO, I finally found motivation to write a bit so I am probably posting Act II of Forevermore at some point tonight (after editing and formatting). For the sake of not being annoying and tagging accounts no longer interested in Hzh, I won't be putting a taglist at the end (and will probably remove my taglist altogether)
Btw I still see everyone's love and support in my notifs and inbox, I ♡ and appreciate you all 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 I hope you enjoy reading Act II as much as I enjoyed writing it!
warnings: literal and metaphorical cannibalism, non-sexual biting, alastor is a whole walking warning, canon-typical violence, co-dependency, probably slightly toxic relationship? possibly more to be added in the future
syn. If you took a peek into Alastor's heart, you might expect to find some select choices of rye from the speakeasies he danced at in his youth. Or perhaps you would see the endless bog of contracts for every soul he owned.
But here's what you would really see if you looked into Alastor's heart: you, with your jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut so tight that your brows are furrowed. Blood—lots of blood—spilling from your skin like liquid gold.
He's no monster in your eyes. He's just the devil. A beautiful, charming demon who you signed your soul away to. And he would know your love forevermore.
—ꕥ ACTS
i. to devour
Poor little lamb, so sweet and trusting. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought you waltzed right into this shop knowing that the butcher wanted to flay you open.
ii. to love
iii. to change
iv. to become
—ꕥ TAGLIST (SEND ASK TO BE ADDED)
I'll be keeping this taglist separate from my normal one. If you'd like to be added to forevermore only, please specify in your ask and I'll only tag you in forevermore updates and not other posts. To those of you on my normal taglist, I've already added you here
Do not repost, translate, or modify my works in any shape or form. This work is TUMBLR ONLY. If you see it anywhere else, please report it
I in no way own these characters. They are property of Vivziepop and Hazbin Hotel. This story is not canon compliant but does roughly follow the same plotpoints as the main series. Written before season 2 release. Updates will be slow (❗️) but I'll do my best!
good evening, lovelies ! i’m making this post to let you all know that i started a gofundme fundraiser for my mum who’s in a really bad spot right now and could use all the help she can get. please don’t feel forced to donate and put yourselves first before anything, reblogs are also great appreciated !
