TW: Dudes ... it's literally hell!, Canon typical violence, dark theme's, some canon typical religious overtones, s£x work, abuse, drug use, blood, alcohol consumption, guilt, fish out of water.
Part 9 | Part 11
DISORIENTATED ♣️🃏 P.10
The bathroom mirror is less confrontational than it used to be. You've gotten better at looking at your reflection without that immediate jolt of wrongness, though you're not sure if that's progress or just resignation. The pastel pink skin, the snakes that serve as hair, the glowing heart-shaped pupils—they're you now, whether you like it or not.
You carefully unwrap the bandages from your fingers, working at the knots Husk tied with such precision. The white gauze falls away in strips, pooling in the sink, and you hold your hand up to examine the damage.
Thin white lines cross your fingertips where Valentino's claws had cut—scars that are barely visible against your pink skin. You flex your fingers experimentally, relieved when there's no pain, just a slight tightness that suggests healing. It's been a while since that night at the club, and your demonic physiology has proven to be surprisingly efficient at recovery.
The memory of that night still makes you shudder. Valentino's face, euphoric and hungry. The way he'd tried to offer your blood to others like you were a commodity to be shared. Angel's fierce protection. And Husk—
You shake your head, pushing away the thought of how gentle his claws had been as he'd bandaged your hand. How careful. How his rough voice had softened when he—
"Don't," you tell your reflection firmly. "Don't read into shit."
Your reflection doesn't argue, but the snakes on your head seem skeptical.
You throw the used bandages in the trash and head out into your room. It's become more lived-in—some clothes draped over a chair, courtesy of what Angel called his 'continued fashion interventions', a few books borrowed from Charlie's collection on the nightstand, a small polaroid of You with Fat Nuggets that Angel had insisted you needed. Little touches that make it feel less like a hotel room and more like... well, not home. But something.
A yawn catches you off-guard, jaw cracking with the force of it. You'd slept in later than usual, the exhaustion of everything catching up with you.
Your stomach growls, reminding you that sleep isn't the only thing you'd been catching up on.
The lobby is bathed in the red-tinted light that passes for daytime in Hell. It filters through the windows in shades of crimson and amber, making everything look like it's perpetually sunset. You've almost gotten used to it—the way the light never quite feels natural, never quite feels right.
Charlie is nowhere to be seen, probably off on one of her redemption missions or meetings with her father. Alastor is absent—you've been unsettled by his permanent smile and the way he seems to materialize from no where. Angel is probably still asleep, he'd stumbled in around 4 AM from what you assume was some kind of party, looking exhausted in a way that made your chest ache, you didn't know how he did it.
The bar is empty. No Husk wiping down glasses with that perpetual look of resignation. No gravelly voice offering unsolicited advice or cynical observations about the nature of Hell and its inhabitants.
You're surprised by how disappointed you feel.
The couch in the lounge area looks inviting though—plush and worn in that comfortable way that suggests years of use. You settle into it, tucking your legs underneath you, and stare at the television across from you.
It's an older model, boxy and outdated, but it seems to work. The remote sits on the coffee table, and you pick it up, turning it over in your hands.
What kind of programs does Hell have?
The question is absurd enough to make you laugh—a soft, sound that echoes in the empty lobby. But you're curious now, in that morbid way you've become curious about everything in this hotel. You press the power button.
The TV flickers to life, and you start flipping through channels. The options are... exactly what you'd expect from Hell, which is to say disturbing, bizarre, and occasionally incomprehensible.
A cooking show where the ingredients are screaming. News coverage of an Overlord turf war delivered with the enthusiasm of a sports broadcast. Something that looks like a nature documentary about Hell's various fauna, except the narrator keeps getting eaten by the subjects. A musical number featuring demons singing about tax evasion.
And then you land on a channel that makes you stop.
The logo flashes across the screen in campy blue and red.
"Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?"
It's clearly a talk show—the kind that thrives on drama and confrontation. The set is gaudy, all lime green and leopard print, and the host is a pigeon-esque demon with too-white teeth and an expression that suggests she feeds on chaos.
"Welcome back, sinners!" the host announces, her voice saccharine and sharp. "Today we have a VERY special episode. Trevor is here to tell his brother Marcus that yes, he DID sleep with Marcus's sister, and NO, he doesn't feel bad about it!"
The audience—filled with demons of various shapes and sizes—erupts in jeers and cheers.
You should change the channel. This is trashy and ridiculous and you have no stake in Trevor's poor life choices.
But you don't change the channel.
You watch as Trevor—a lizard demon with a very regrettable looking goatee—struts onto stage while Marcus—a larger, angrier-looking demon—lunges at him, held back by security. The sister in question is also there, looking simultaneously defiant and embarrassed.
It's a trainwreck. It's awful. You can't look away.
"Oh, you're watching this garbage?"
The voice makes you jump, and you turn to find Husk emerging from the hallway that leads to the rooms. He's carrying two bowls of something that's steaming and smells surprisingly good, and there's a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.
"I—I was just—" You fumble for an explanation, feeling caught. "I didn't know what else was on?"
"Uh-huh." He sets one bowl down on the coffee table in front of you, then settles into the other end of the couch with his own. "Sure. That's why you look so invested in whether Trevor's gonna survive the next five minutes."
You look back at the screen where Trevor is indeed being chased around the stage by an increasingly irate Marcus. "I mean... it's like watching a car crash. I can't help it."
Husk snorts, and it might be the closest thing to a laugh you've heard from him. "Fair enough. Hell's daytime TV is seventy percent car crashes and thirty percent commercials for products that'll definitely kill you. Again."
You pick up the bowl he'd set down, peering at the contents. It's some kind of stew—thick and hearty, with chunks of vegetables and meat that you're choosing not to identify too closely. It smells incredible.
"Wait." You look at Husk, genuinely surprised. "You can cook?"
He pauses mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah? And?"
"I just—I thought you just drank?" The words come out before you can stop them, and you immediately wish you could take them back when his expression flattens.
"I'm the bartender. Not just some drunk." He takes another bite, but there's less edge to his voice than there might have been for anyone else. "Though I can see why you'd think that, considering how much time I spend behind the bar with a bottle."
"I didn't mean—"
"Relax. I know what you meant." He settles back into the couch, wings tucked in behind him and you notice how he's angled toward you rather than away. A small thing, but deliberate. "Used to run my own place, back before I fucked it all up. Had to know how to do everything—pour drinks, cook food, manage staff. The whole deal."
"What happened?" You ask it quietly, not sure if you're overstepping.
Husk is silent for a moment, his tail flicking across the floor, weighing whether to answer. A few months ago, he would've shut you down with a gruff comment and changed the subject. But now...
"Made a deal I shouldn't have." His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's old pain buried underneath. "Tale as old as time down here." He glances at you, and something in his expression softens. "But somebody's gotta make sure you eat."
The deflection is obvious, but you let him have it. The fact that he answered at all, that he shared even that much, feels significant.
"Well, thank you. For cooking, I mean." You take another bite of the stew, and it really is delicious. "This is amazing."
"It's just stew." But you catch the tiniest hint of a smirk in his expression, a small smile that he quickly hides behind another bite. "Eat up before it gets cold."
You eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the TV providing background noise as Trevor's situation devolves further. The sister is now also yelling, something about how Trevor had promised her a ring, and Marcus looks like he's considering murder.
"She's too good for both of those chumps," Husk observes, gesturing at the screen with his spoon.
"Agreed. She should just leave and let them fight it out."
"Right? But nah, she's gonna stick around for the drama. They always do on these shows." He shakes his head, but there's amusement in his eyes rather than just cynicism. "People love a trainwreck. Makes 'em feel better about their own shit."
As you continue eating, Husk provides a running commentary on the show that's somehow more entertaining than the actual content. His observations are dry and cynical, yes, but there's a humor to them that you're learning to recognize—the way he'll say something devastating and then glance at you to see if you caught the joke.
"Oh, here we go," he mutters as a new character is brought onto the stage—apparently Marcus and the sister's mother. "Mom's gonna take Trevor's side. Watch."
Sure enough, the mother immediately starts berating Marcus for being too controlling and insists that Trevor is a "nice boy who made a mistake."
"Called it," Husk says, sounding satisfied.
"How did you know?" you ask, genuinely curious.
"Thirty years behind a bar, you learn to read people. Body language, tone, all that shit." He leans back slightly, more relaxed than you usually see him. "And this stuff—" he waves at the TV, "—it's all the same. Humans, demons, doesn't matter. Everyone's predictable once you know what to look for."
"Am I predictable?" The question slips out before you can stop it.
Husk turns to look at you, really look at you, and something in his expression shifts. "No," he says after a moment, and there's something almost... soft in his voice. "You're not. Thought you would be, when you first showed up. Figured you'd either break or get corrupted within a week." He pauses. "But you're still here. Still you. That's..." He trails off, like he's not sure how to finish.
"That's what?" you prompt gently.
"Rare," he finally says. "Down here, that's real fucking rare."
Your chest feels tight, and you're not sure what to say to that, so you focus on the TV instead. The host is now trying to moderate what's devolved into a four-way shouting match. Someone throws a chair. The audience loves it.
"The chair throw is such a cliché," you observe, trying to lighten the moment.
Husk seems grateful for the out. "It's a power move.'" His tone is back to deadpan, but you catch the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Also, people eat that shit up."
"Speaking from experience there, Husker ?" You deadpan, raising a brow.
"Once. Different circumstances though. Guy was trying to rob the bar and wouldn't take no for an answer." He shrugs. "Chair worked better than words. He left. Problem solved."
You shouldn't find that as funny as you do, but something about the casual way he says it—like throwing chairs is just part of problem-solving—makes you giggle. The sound surprises both of you.
Husk glances at you, and his expression does something you've never seen before—it softens completely, just for a second, before he catches himself. "You should do that more often."
"Laugh at violence?"
"Just laugh in general." He's looking at the TV again, but his voice is quieter. "You've been walking around here like you're waiting for the next disaster. I get it, I do. But..." He pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "You're allowed to have moments that aren't complete bullshit."
The observation should sting, but coming from him—from Husk, who's been exactly where you are, who understands—it doesn't. It feels like permission.
"Is this one of them?" you ask softly. "A moment that doesn't suck?"
He's quiet for a beat, then: "Yeah. I guess it is." And there's something in his voice that makes your heart do a complicated flutter.
On screen, Trevor has been cornered by Marcus and is now pleading for his life while the mother tries to intervene and the sister just looks done with everyone. The host is narrating the chaos like it's a boxing match.
"Ten bucks says Trevor cries," Husk says.
"I'm not taking that bet. He's definitely going to cry."
"Smart girl."
Trevor does indeed cry, big theatrical tears that might or might not be genuine. The audience eats it up, and the host capitalizes on the moment by bringing out another revelation—apparently Trevor also owes Marcus money.
"Oh, this guy's an idiot," you breathe.
"Complete fucking moron," Husk agrees. "Never sleep with your lender's sister. That's like, rule three of not getting killed."
"What's rule one?"
"Don't gamble with shit you can't afford to lose." His expression darkens slightly, and you wonder if he's not just speaking hypothetically. "Rule two is don't make deals with Overlords unless you're real fucking sure you understand the terms."
The reminder makes your good mood deflate slightly. You think about Valentino, the club, about the contract he'd tried to get you to sign that first day. Your fingers start scratching over the lines across the tips.
Husk finishes his stew and sets the bowl on the coffee table, leaning back into the couch.
Your fingers continue to drift at the healing cuts, tracing the faint lines without thinking. You're not really aware you're doing it until Husk speaks.
"Stop picking at those."
Your hand freezes mid-motion. "I'm not—"
"You are. You've been messing with them since you sat down." His tone is matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "Lemme see."
Before you can respond, he reaches over and gently takes your hand in his paw. His touch is careful—deliberately so—and you can feel the softness of his fur against your skin. The claws that tipped his fingers are cool and smooth, and he holds your hand like it's something fragile.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, almost careful. "Me touching you?"
The question catches you off-guard. You figure, given his response to when you'd asked him, most demons in Hell wouldn't ask permission for anything—they'd take, they'd demand, they'd assume. But Husk is asking, genuinely asking, and waiting for your answer.
It reminds you that despite his gruff exterior and cynical worldview, despite all his talk about being a fuck-up and a drunk, he's actually kind. More than that—he's considerate in a way that makes your chest feel warm.
"Yeah," you say softly. "It's okay."
He nods, something that might be relief crossing his face, and turns your hand over, examining the healing cuts with a critical eye. His thumb brushes across your fingertips, so gentle you barely feel it, checking the scar tissue.
"Healing clean," he observes. "No infection, no complications. Should be completely gone in another week or so."
"That's good."
"It is." But he doesn't let go of your hand. Instead, he keeps it cradled in his paw, his thumb now resting against your palm. His claws are so careful, moving with barely a brush, so he won't accidentally hurt you. "You've been picking at them. Don't think I haven't noticed."
You feel caught. "I wasn't—"
"Doll, I've been watching you mess with those cuts dont deny it." His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them—warmth, understanding, maybe even concern. It's such a departure from the closed-off bartender you first met. "It's okay to be stressed. Hell is stressful. But take it out on something other than yourself, yeah?"
You realize, with a start, that this whole "inspection" was actually just him stopping you from hurting yourself. That he'd noticed a habit starting to form that you weren't even aware of and found a way to intervene that wouldn't embarrass you or make you feel bad.
"You're sneaky," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"I'm practical." But there's a hint of a smile on his face too, barely there but real. "And it works." His claw starts moving in small, absent circles against your palm, and you're not sure he's even aware he's doing it. "You gotta be easier on yourself. You made a mistake. A bad one, yeah, but you're here now and beating yourself up about it doesn't change shit."
"That's very wise," you say, trying to keep your voice light despite the emotion welling up.
"Nah, that's just experience. I've spent enough years beating myself up to know it doesn't help." He glances at the TV, then back at you. "But you? You're different. You're still... I don't know. Soft, I guess. Not in a bad way," he adds quickly. "Just means Hell hasn't made you hard yet. Hasn't turned you into something you're not."
"You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is. Trust me, doll. It is." His voice is rough with sincerity, and his claws tighten just slightly around yours—protective, warm. "And I'd like to think it can stay that way. So stop picking at your damn cuts and let them heal."
Your throat feels tight suddenly, emotion welling up in a way that feels disproportionate to the moment.
"Okay," you manage, and your voice comes out smaller than intended.
"Good." He doesn't let go, and you don't pull away. His thumb continues those small circles, soothing and steady. "Now, you wanna watch another trainwreck or you wanna find something else?"
On the TV, the show has reached its inevitable conclusion—Trevor is being escorted off stage by security while Marcus is being physically restrained and the sister is crying into her mother's shoulder. The host is promising more drama after the commercial break.
Husk's claw is still moving in small, absent circles against your palm. There's something almost... content in his expression.
"Is there more than one episode?"
"There are eight seasons of this garbage. Hell's entertainment industry is nothing if not prolific." He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and you realize he's moved closer. Not obviously, not in a way that feels invasive, just... closer. "Fair warning though, it doesn't get better. It actually gets worse. Season three has a cult subplot."
You laugh, and it feels easy. Natural. "A cult subplot? In a talkshow about family drama?"
"Hey, it's Hell. Everything's gotta have a cult subplot eventually. That or a demon possession arc, but that's basically the same thing down here." He's looking at you rather than the TV, and there's warmth in his yellow eyes that you've never seen him direct at anyone. "You sure you wanna commit to this trainwreck?"
"We've got time, right?"
His expression softens even more, if that's possible. "Yeah, sweetness, We've got time." And the way he says it—not bitter, not resigned, just accepting—makes it sound almost like a promise.
The next episode starts with a new set of dramatics—this time involving a love triangle between three imps who all work at the same company. Husk keeps up his commentary, but it's different now. Less sharp, less cynical-for-the-sake-of-it. When he makes a joke, he glances at you first to see if you'll laugh. When you do laugh, his smile lingers a little longer.
Your hand is still in his, and he shows no signs of letting go. If anything, he seems to be holding on a little tighter. His claws are so careful, never pressing too hard, and the warmth of his fur is surprisingly soothing. You trace the pattern of black and white with your eyes, noticing details you hadn't before—the way the colors swirl together, the places where the fur is slightly longer, the old scars hidden beneath.
"You got questions," Husk observes without looking away from the TV. "I can tell. You get this look when you're trying to figure out if it's okay to ask something."
"What look?"
"This little furrow right here—" he reaches over and gently taps the space between your eyebrows, "—and your snakes get all twitchy. It's cute. Don't tell anyone I said that."
You feel your face warm—can you still blush with pink skin? Apparently yes, because Husk's smile widens slightly.
"I was just wondering... how long have you been here? In Hell, I mean."
The smile fades a bit, but he doesn't pull away or shut down like he might have before. "Long enough to have regrets. Long enough to have known better and still fuck up anyway." He pauses, considering. "Decades, at this point. Lost count somewhere around year thirty."
"Do you..." you hesitate, not sure if you should push. "Do you ever think about redemption? About Charlie's plan?"
Husk is quiet for a long moment, his thumb still drawing those circles on your palm. "Honestly? I think Charlie's plan is a long shot. Most sinners down here don't want to change—they want power, or pleasure, or both. They're here because they chose those things over everything else."
"Do you want to change?"
"I want to be better than I am. Whether that means redemption or just... being less of a piece of shit? I don't know." His voice drops lower. "But being around you ... it ... makes me remember what it was like to give a damn about more then my next drink."
"Oh ... I ... Thank you," you whisper.
"Don't mention it." He squeezes your hand gently. "And I mean that literally. Tell Angel about this and I'll deny everything."
You laugh despite yourself. "Your secret's safe with me."
"Good." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, less weary. "Now pay attention, this is where the love triangle gets really messy. Imp number two is about to confess their feelings at the worst possible time."
On screen, the love triangle has devolved into a fistfight, and the host is beside herself with glee. The audience is chanting something obscene. The whole thing is ridiculous and trashy and exactly the kind of distraction you need.
You settle deeper into the couch, hyper-aware of Husk's warmth beside you, of his hand still holding yours with such careful gentleness. The snakes on your head curl contentedly, swaying in slow, peaceful patterns.
You glance sideways, studying the pattern on his wings, which have drooped into a move relaxed position behind him, you wonder for half a second if they would be soft like his fur.
The front doors of the hotel open with enough force to make both you and Husk jump. Angel Dust stumbles in, looking worse for wear than usual. His makeup is smeared, his clothes are disheveled.
"Well, that was a shit show," Angel announces to no one in particular, making a beeline for the bar.
Husk immediately lets go of your hand—so quickly you almost feel the loss like a physical thing—and stands up. "The fuck happened to you?"
"Oh, you know. Everyone." Angel's voice is aggressively cheerful. He reaches for a bottle behind the bar, and Husk lets him, which tells you more about the situation than words could.
You stand up too, uncertain. "Are you okay?"
Angel looks at you, and for just a moment, the mask drops. He looks exhausted. Hurt. But then the smile is back, sharp and brittle. "I'm fantastic, Toots. Just another day in paradise."
"Angel—" you start.
"I'm fine. Really. Just need a drink and maybe twelve hours of sleep." He pours himself something that's probably too strong and knocks it back. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."
But you are worrying. You can't help it. This is Angel, who'd protected you from Valentino, who'd intervened on your behalf.
Husk moves around the bar, taking the bottle from Angel's hand before he can pour a second drink. "Come on. We should all turn in."
"I said I'm fine—"
"Don't make me drag you, because we both know I will." There's steel in Husk's voice, the kind that says this isn't up for negotiation.
Angel looks like he might argue, but then his shoulders slump. "Yeah, okay. Fine."
Angel heads toward the stairs before glancing back at you. "Sorry for ruining your date, toots."
"It wasn't—we weren't—" you stammer, but he's already gone, and you're left standing in the lobby with the TV still playing its trashy drama in the background.
You sink back onto the couch, Husk had already left for the night and now your feeling the absence of Husk's warmth, of his hand holding yours. The bowl of stew sits on the coffee table, half-finished and cooling. On TV, someone is throwing another chair.
The moment is broken, but the memory of it remains—Husk's gentle touch, his careful claws, the way he'd made you laugh and then held your hand like it mattered.
You touch your palm where you can still feel the ghost of his claw drawing circles, and something warm settles in your chest despite everything.
The music. It was the loudest, most rhythmically brutal assault you could expect from a Hellish nightclub.You were curled up on a leather sofa next to Alastor, the pink and purple neon lights washing over the room. The crowd was a storm of dancing limbs; Angel Dust was a flurry of bright pink, and Cherri Bomb was whipping her ponytail around, a lit dynamite stick held casually in one hand. Husk was sulking by the bar, and Niffty was likely somewhere scrubbing a surprisingly grimy corner.
“[Name],” Alastor’s voice, despite the roaring noise, was distinctly smooth, like an old vinyl record with perfect fidelity.
“You promised me one hour in this wretched establishment. Thirty minutes have passed, and with every passing second, the sliver of joy in my soul diminishes.”You glanced at him. Your relationship with him was based on a strange equilibrium. His condescension remained, but his patience with you was slightly greater than with anyone else at the Hotel. Perhaps it was due to your utility in organizing his radio transcripts. Or perhaps... you dared not think further.
“Alastor, would you stop listening to yourself for a second?” You managed a small smirk. “Yes, I am. I’m listening to the sound of fun. It sounds like fun to me. Meanwhile, you’re brooding in a corner like the oldest demon in Hell.”
“I am no corner brute, dear. I am one who presides over such spectacles. And this spectacle is below mediocre.” Alastor rotated his luminous green eyes toward the dancing masses.
“To endure such low-grade entertainment is, I must confess, rather... disappointing.”
When the waiter demon arrived, you took your drink: a towering, strawberry milkshake crowned with a thick layer of whipped cream and a bright red cherry.
“Well, I found something to occupy myself with,”you said, dipping your straw into the creamy pink liquid.Alastor’s gaze snagged on your drink, his smile widening mockingly. “Ah, that miserable dairy confection. Truly the drink of infants in the Hotel lobby. How primitive.”
The waiter presented Alastor with his order: a heavy crystal glass containing a dark, aged liquid. He dismissed your milkshake and took his drink, sniffing it slowly.“My preference is for the dignified spirits of time. At least this... syrup will make my remaining tenure slightly more tolerable,” he murmured, downing the first glass quickly.
The next fifteen minutes were marked by Alastor finishing his second, then his third glass. With each sip, you noted the subtle shift in his composure. Normally, his grin was flawless—a mask, a perfectly set soundwave.
But now, after the fourth drink, the edges of that smile had begun to slacken. The gleam in his eyes seemed less calculated and more...
dangerous and alive.
“This place is... n-noisy, isn’t it?” Alastor’s voice crackled slightly as he struggled to maintain his usual radio tone. The slight slur was unusual and alarming for such a controlled overlord.“[Name], are you still consuming that sweet, white filth?”You shook your head, pulling the straw slowly from your lips. “Yep. Milkshake. This is my poison.”Alastor leaned slightly forward on the couch.
His eyes were no longer focused on your face, but on your mouth. A cold sensation pooled in your stomach; a drunk Alastor was an unpredictable variable.“Your poison,” Alastor echoed, his voice low and raspy. “You always appear so sweet, [Name]. Just like that beverage. Easily... digestible.”
The Matter of the CherrySeeking to break the tension, you looked down at your glass. The cream was gone. All that remained was the plump, glossy, red cherry.You pinched the cherry with your thumb and index finger, slowly lifting it toward your lips.Just as you prepared to bite into it, a shadow descended upon you suddenly.
Alastor had lunged off the couch with a burst of speed, leaning over your hand. His sharp teeth were dangerously close to your fingers as he snatched the cherry away.
You froze, your eyes wide in surprise. “Hey! That was my cherry!”Alastor straightened, holding the cherry between two fingers.
His grin was no longer loose with drunkenness, but taut with a cunning predatory look. The noise around you ensured no one heard this small scuffle.“Was it indeed?” he asked, his voice a static-laced murmur. He slowly raised the cherry toward his own lips. “Then... come and get it.”You frowned, your eyes fixated on his fingers. You darted forward, intending to snatch the cherry back, but Alastor quickly pulled his hand away at the last second, bringing the cherry close to the corner of his mouth.
“Slow down, darling,” Alastor whispered, his voice now dangerously amused. “Don’t rush the chase.”You braced yourself for a second attempt, your lips slightly parted, ready to claim your prize. It was just a silly game, wasn't it? The antics of a tipsy demon.
But Alastor did not eat the cherry.Instead, holding the cherry right at the edge of his lips, he slammed his mouth onto yours.
You felt the world stop. The loud music, the dancing crowd, the neon lights—everything suddenly fell into a stunned silence.This was not a kiss. This was an ambush.Alastor’s cold lips pressed forcefully against yours; the burning, boozy taste of his lost control, and the sticky sweetness of that cherry. He left the distinct, tart flavor of the missing fruit in your mouth. Your brain lagged, utterly incapable of processing this sudden, wholly unexpected assault. Shock encased your body in an icy grip.
Alastor deepened the kiss for a fraction of a second more, as if drawing power from your immobility. His hands did not cup your face; he simply held his posture, preventing your escape with the sheer leverage of his lean body.
Finally, as you desperately needed air, Alastor pulled back. The flavor of alcohol and cherry lingered on your lips. His green eyes blazed, his grin having shifted entirely into the expression of a true predator.The only sound that escaped your constricted throat was a squeak. You shoved him back, nearly tumbling off the sofa
“What the Hell are you doing?!” you screamed. The sound was a feeble shriek that vanished into the roaring ambient noise.
Alastor merely stood there, smiling with a drunken delight. In the depths of his eyes, an ancient, dangerous amusement shone, pleased at having caught you utterly off guard.Not knowing whether to stay and fight or flee, you stumbled away, quickly scanning the dance floor for Angel Dust.
You just needed to get away from this demon.You turned your back on Alastor and dove into the crowd. Your breath was ragged, your heart hammering like a drum against your ribs.You finally reached Angel Dust, Cherri, and Husk. Angel Dust turned to you cheerily.
“[Name]! Where have you been? Did you lose Alastor? You’re sheet white, honey. Did you see a ghost?”You pressed your hands to your chest.
The taste of the cherry still burned on your lips. You frantically shook your head.“I—I’m fine,” you stammered. Your voice was shaking. “I just... I just need some water.”
You wouldn't mention the cherry. You wouldn't mention the kiss.
Husk, when he was an Overlord, reigned in the shadows of Hell. Power, alcohol, and card tables were his world. You, Y/N, were a part of that world; his most trusted face, perhaps his best gambling partner.
When Husk realized the feelings he harbored for you, he immediately branded them a weakness. Overlords didn't fall in love. If they did, they fell from grace.He knew how much he admired you, Y/N. But he was equally certain that you could never truly return the affection of a dark, damned soul like him. This was his guarantee; he wouldn't reveal his feelings, and he would keep you safe.
However, that damned deal arrived, and everything changed.
Alastor. Overnight, the red demon claimed Husk's soul.You confronted Husk in the heat of the moment.
"This must be a joke, Husk! You sold your soul? For what? If this isn't weakness, what is?" you cried, disappointment in your eyes.
Husk panicked. He had to drive you away. Deep in his heart, he cursed himself for losing you, but he channeled that pain into anger."It's none of your damn business, Y/N!" he roared. "Get lost! Go and do whatever you do with your 'precious' morals. You being around me was annoying anyway. I don't want to see you again."
Those words left a wound in your heart. That day, you left without looking back. He was left alone with the pain of your disappointment, far worse than the loss of his soul.Years later,with a shard of hope, you knocked on the door of the Hazbin Hotel.Princess Charlie Morningstar's energetic and cheerful face greeted you.
"Welcome! I'm Charlie!"She gave you a tour. Vaggie watched you suspiciously in the background, while Niffty was busy cleaning imaginary stains on the floor. Charlie began introducing you to the hotel residents:"This is Angel Dust, and this is our..."
Your eyes landed on the grumpy, furry figure sitting behind the bar.
"Husk?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.Charlie looked at you in surprise. "Yes, he's our bartender! Do you know him?"You slowly shook your head.
"An old... acquaintance." You offered no further explanation.Husk froze the moment he saw you. His gaze met yours, then he immediately returned to wiping his glass. He hid his shock, but his claws tightened around the barware. You started staying at the hotel that day. All communication between you two was strictly necessary.week later, you pulled up a stool at the bar late one night when the hotel had quieted down. Husk was serving the few stragglers; even Sir Pentious was in a corner, seeking inspiration for a new invention."I'd like a drink, Husk," you said.Husk lifted his head. "What'll it be?""The usual whiskey. Neat."He poured the drink and placed it in front of you silently. Angel Dust watched you both with a mischievous smirk from a nearby corner.
"Still drinking the same thing," you noted, your voice flat.Husk shrugged. "What did you expect? Did you think I'd change?"
"I don't know," you replied. "In the old days, at least you were free. Even though it was dangerous, you had honor back then."Those words drew a line of pain across Husk's face. He slammed the glass he was wiping onto the counter."Honor? I was the one who let my honor go. You yelled at me that day, and you were right!" His voice rose. "But what could I do? You didn't love me anyway. What did it matter if I lost my power?"
"I never said whether I loved you or not, Husk," you countered, your voice steady. "But I trusted you. You lost that too."Husk turned his head away in agony. "Get out of here, Y/N."
The argument ended. From that day on, the only communication between you was "Another drink.Charlie organized the Trust Fall activity again to boost the hotel's morale. It was your turn.Everyone lined up behind you to catch you. Husk stood at the back, arms crossed, looking grumpy.Charlie smiled. "Y/N! Before you fall, would you like to say something you love about yourself?"Your eyes met Husk's."I," you said, taking a deep breath.
"I love drinking," a classic dodge.You closed your eyes. You squared your shoulders and let yourself fall backward.Your body plummeted into the void. Suddenly, multiple arms caught you. But the support you felt was incredibly strong. You felt your head resting against that thick, furry shoulder. Husk.
He was the support taking up the most space, determined not to let you fall.For a brief moment, your eyes met.
His face was strained with worry he couldn't show. Then he quickly smoothed his expression and released you.That day, the invisible wall between you cracked slightly.
Months later, the Extermination Day arrived.
Chaos.
Screams.
The sound of Angelic spears. Alastor was laughing in a corner, Vaggie was fighting with her spear, and Sir Pentious was creating explosions with his inventions.Husk was taking cover, firing back with his weapons
. That's when he saw Angel Dust running in a panic. Angel had run outside to rescue one of Sir Pentious's Egg Boi's.Husk rolled his eyes at the foolishness but immediately searched for you.
You, Y/N, were kneeling behind a partially destroyed pillar near the hotel's entrance.
You had taken a hit and were in shock and pain.And he saw it.Three Angelic spears, radiating a deadly light, were descending from the sky, aimed directly at your position.
Husk's eyes shrank in terror. This was his fault. He had pushed you away, but now you were about to lose your soul.
"Y/N! HEY!"
he roared, his voice swallowed by the battle noise.You, in pain and shock, didn't hear him.Husk used all that hidden love and regret as fuel. He threw away all his logic and fear. Spreading his wings to their limit, he ran toward you with reckless abandon.
"Y/N! MOVE! PLEASE!"
Just before the spears struck, Husk's furry body slammed into yours.He shielded your head with one arm, pulling you tight against him with the other, covering you with his body like a shield as you both crashed to the hard ground.
The sound of debris and metal fragments rang in your ears. You felt Husk's weight and the frantic pounding of his heart against you.
Husk lifted his head. His eyes were wide with what looked like tears; the sheer terror of that moment had completely overwhelmed his face.He whispered to you, his voice hoarse, desperate, and trembling
"Are you okay? Are you hurt? God, answer me, please!"
That desperation revealed everything that had been hidden for years.Forgetting your pain, you looked into his eyes. "I'm okay, Husk. You... why are you here?"Husk took a ragged breath of relief. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. He hugged you tighter.
"Because... because I ruined everything about how I felt about you," he murmured. "But if I lose you... then I have nothing left."
Imagine this: You were a good friend with Pendleton when you were alive. This friendship blossomed into love, and tragically, you were murdered.
Years pass... you were in Heaven, but you could never find Pendleton.
One day, you learn that Pendleton has made it to Heaven, but his name is now Sir Pentious, and you discover his past as a Sinner. You are so excited!!you can finally see your love!
Unfortunately, a wave of scalding water washes over you when you learn that Pentious is now in love with a woman named Cherri. You refuse to accept the truth.
Victoria’s colossal iron roof swallowed the last slivers of the afternoon light. Pendleton was already ill at ease finding himself in this station. In his hand, he held a nickel-plated device he called the 'Next-Generation Observation Indicator,' a triumph he had finally managed to bring back from a distant city to the dim glow of his workshop.
He was sitting next to the window in the train compartment. The view outside was pure chaos: noisy footsteps, the hiss of locomotives coupling the carriages, and, worst of all, a station enveloped in a dense, humid curtain of steam. This fog blurred everything, robbing it of certainty. Pendleton noted that the mist reduced the field of vision by exactly 15^\circ; a frustrating degree of uncertainty.H
e leaned over his notebook. Everything had been calculated: travel time, the ideal rate of rotation speed, the vibration tolerance of the device. Chaos was under control.The train’s first whistle blew. It was a deep, muffled sound, a whisper saying it was time to go. The doors shut with a sharp clang.
The locomotive slowly began to move.Before raising his head from his notebook, Pendleton heard an unexpected rhythm of footsteps echoing off the station's marble floor. They were speeding up. They were erratic. Something is missing from people’s calculations, Pendleton thought, trying to find the margin of error.He peered over his glasses into the thick curtain of steam. That’s when he saw it.
Darting through the mist, a silhouette in a heavy coat, trying to match the speed of the train, emerged. It was a Lady. Her face glistened with sweat, and her eyes were wide with desperation. Clutched tightly in her hand was a bag, likely containing the important parts of her entire life.Pendleton froze. His brain filtered dozens of arguments in a single second
Rational Solution: This is not my problem. Station rules are clear. Interference will disrupt the train's timetable. It is best to ignore this situation.
Social Solution: It will cause people to find me strange. My social clumsiness precedes my physical clumsiness. I will fail.
Physical Solution: The train is now moving at 5 \text{ km/h}. This is too fast for a safe rescue.
Balance and momentum...The cold logic that governed the machine was about to retreat when Pendleton saw that single, momentary spark of hope in Lady's eyes—the one that needed to be caught. It was like waiting for the perfect rotation of a cogwheel, but this time, the stake wasn't his own invention, but the grief of another life.
Oh, dear
Pendleton didn't even understand how the decision was made by himself. No, it wasn't a decision. It was a completely unknown impulse. It was as if, for the first time in his life, an uncalculated piece, one not in the chain of logic, had engaged.Pendleton sprang to his feet. He threw the Observation Indicator aside.
He rushed to the outer door—a door that, in the trains of that era, could still be opened manually.He flung the door open. The passengers on the train were astonished. Many began to watch to see what was happening. Wind and steam rushed into the compartment. The train had now reached a good speed.
"M-madam!" he shouted, his voice coming out in an unexpected, tearing determination. It was as if he were giving instructions for a new steam engine. "Now! Take my hand!"Y/N was running along the edge of the platform in a final, desperate effort. The distance between them—according to Pendleton's calculations, it was insurmountable. 20 \text{ centimetres}... 15 \text{ centimetres}... The shaking of the train compromised Pendleton's balance.
A finger's breadth remained between Y/N’s outstretched hand and Pendleton’s outstretched hand.Y/N, eyes squeezed shut, reached out with all her energy. And she somehow closed that finger's breadth of distance
She grasped Pendleton's hand with the strength of a desperate drowning reflex.Pendleton was surprised the moment he felt Y/N's hand. He hadn't expected this pure, raw power from a woman who looked so delicate.
It was like steel.Ignoring scientific methods, Pendleton pulled with all his might. His muscles strained, his face under his glasses flushed crimson. He was pulling a person, not a machine. And he succeeded.Y/N, heavy coat and bag and all, tumbled in like a sack. Pendleton, affected by the momentum, collided with her against the hard wooden surface of the closed door.Behind them, the door clicked shut.
The outside world, the mist, and the rapidly receding platform were left behind.The two figures lay, breathless, in a chaotic heap on the floor of the train compartment. Pendleton's hand smelled of machine oil, and Y/N's of sweat.After a few seconds of shocking silence—only the rhythmic clattering of the train wheels could be heard—Y/N slowly straightened up. She looked at Pendleton’s face.
Pendleton was still looking back, in a shock that transcended astonishment. His glasses were crooked, his tie loose. He was realizing the utter madness of what he had done.The desperate look in Y/N's eyes was gone. Now, it was replaced by pure, genuine amusement.
"I believe," Y/N said, her voice still breathless but filled with a smile. "That was the best first encounter I've ever had on my train journeys. Thank you, my hero. I am Y/N."
Pendleton slowly straightened up. He adjusted his collar with a stiff movement. He was smiling. It wasn't one of the gloomy, cynical smiles he usually wore. This one carried sincere surprise and a touch of pride."Pendleton," he replied, his voice husky. "Steam power, the weight of your bag, my leverage force... it went against all my calculations. This is a moment of pure disbelief. I- ıt’s a great pleasure to meet you, Y/N. A great p-pleasure."
Suddenly, the attendants arrived and checked on their situation.And the two of them, saved from the smoke-and-speed tension of Victoria Station, responded with laughter to the chaotic introduction created by fate and a moment of madness, in the narrow compartment of the noisy train.
Okay. I was really impressed by Husk's surprise in this scene. I mean, in a good way... Never mind, just read what I wrote.
"This is life...!" A short, choked laugh escaped Husk’s mouth. It was an ironic joy that came despite the emptiness inside him.
"I'm not going to waste my life working behind a bar!"He took another deep gulp. The whiskey burned his throat as it went down; exactly as he wanted. A warm numbness.Suddenly, the bar's dim lights dramatically faded to illuminate the stage.
That smell of performance that spread through the environment lifted Husk’s spirits.He looked at the surface of the amber liquid in the glass. His own tired reflection, a little blurry, and a little... uncaring.Husk whispered to himself. "A good drink... nobody wants anything from me..."
He turned his back on the entertainment when he noticed a figure perched on the piano on the stage, appearing in the shadows.
A female figure. Her grace and ease on the stage were too much for this filthy bar.Husk,"And a song sung by a beautiful broad. To your health, baby." He raised his glass and drank.
The figure was sitting on the edge of the piano. A fascinating charm, with the demeanor of a predator. She slowly turned. When the spotlight hit her face, Husk’s drunken haze instantly scattered.That familiar, known face, the one bond that could keep him at the hotel...Y/N, in a daring stage costume, was looking at him, carrying a thousand-year-old secret in her eyes. Her smile was both sweet and sharp as a knife..
Husk—The drink in his mouth spurted out. His eyes widened in shock, his entire dream of freedom evaporated. He had escaped the hotel's chaos, but now the chaos had found him.
OKAY YOU GOT A NEW FOLLOWER, HEHE. i came to ur blog just recently and i'm already in LOVE. soo, can i request Alastor x Reader in a non established relationship, where like Alastor would only 'behave' himself around reader? the rest is up to you, heh. thanks you very much!!
────۶ৎ gorgeous woman
or... alastor meeting a real angel after agreeing to accompany Charlie to a reunion about the hotel, as it's host !!
warnings : nothing!!
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: ... IS THIS A LIL BIT OUT OF CHARACTER? MAYBE. DO I CARE? NO. the reader is implied to look akin to God's Speaker from episode 2<33
The air in Charlie’s private chambers crackled with a nervous energy that was entirely self-generated. For a week, she had existed in a state of frantic, ecstatic preparation. Emily’s phone call, bursting with celestial glee, had been a validation she’d dreamed of but never truly believed would come. Heaven was taking her seriously. They were sending a Speaker.
The Speakers. The very name sent a shiver of awe through her. They weren't just angels; they were the Voice, the Scribes, the direct messengers of a God who had long since delegated the bureaucratic minutiae of Creation. They were the ones who delivered divine edicts, who recorded the cosmic balance, who were, for all intents and purposes, the face of Heaven's executive branch. And one was coming here. To her hotel.
She had rehearsed her greeting a thousand times. She had cleaned, she had reorganized, she had even tried to bribe Niffty into not leaving a trail of glitter and bug corpses in her wake. Now, the moment was here. A soft, golden light began to emanate from the center of the room, coalescing into a shimmering, vertical oval. The air hummed with a frequency that was both serene and immensely powerful, a sound that felt like the universe itself taking a deep, calming breath.
Charlie smoothed down her red suit, took a steadying breath, and put on her most professional, welcoming smile.
The portal flared, and then you stepped through.
And Charlie’s meticulously constructed composure shattered into a billion, blushing pieces.
You were… colossal. Twice her height, at the very least. The divine form of a Speaker was not built for the cramped scale of Hell or the mortal realm; it was built for the grand halls of the Silver City. Your presence filled the room, not with intimidation, but with an overwhelming, tangible warmth. And you were… gorgeous. It wasn't a worldly beauty, not something that could be captured in a photograph or a painting. It was ethereal. Your features were a masterpiece of gentle light and soft grace, your eyes holding the depth of a starry nebula, shining with an inner luminescence that spoke of eons of cosmic love. Your very form seemed to be woven from light and harmony, a living symphony of divine creation.
Charlie’s brain short-circuited. Her professional smile melted into a stunned, slack-jawed gape. Her bisexual panic, a beast she usually kept on a tight leash, roared to life, setting her cheeks ablaze and turning her tongue into a useless lump of flesh.
You, however, seemed utterly unbothered by her reaction. A beatific, patient smile graced your lips as you took in the room, and then your gaze settled on the stunned Princess of Hell. Without a hint of condescension, you gracefully crouched down, your knees bending until your luminous eyes were level with hers. The movement was so fluid, so gentle, it made Charlie’s heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Charlotte Morningstar," your voice was everything she imagined starlight would sound like—sweet, melodic, and resonating with a kindness that felt like a physical embrace. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person. Your dedication has created ripples that reached the highest thrones."
Charlie’s mind was a screaming void. All she could process was the sheer, breathtaking loveliness of your face so close to hers, the divine light in your eyes, the scent of ozone and lilies that seemed to emanate from you. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, "Oh! Uh! Hi! Welcome! To Hell! I mean, to the hotel! In Hell! Which is my hotel! Which you're in!"
She swallowed hard, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Get it together, Morningstar! You are a princess! A businesswoman! A—a bisexual disaster!
"It is an honor to finally meet you, daughter of Lucifer. Your dedication has echoed all the way to the Silver City."
"The—the honor is! All mine! Really! Wow, you're… tall. And… shiny. In a good way! A very good, holy way!" She clutched her hands to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She needed backup. She needed a distraction. She needed someone who wasn't currently contemplating the softness of an angelic being's hair.
"I—I just realized! I must fetch the hotel's host! Yes! Alastor! He's… crucial! To the project! His insights! Very… insightful!" she stammered, pointing a thumb over her shoulder towards the door. "Would you… mind…?"
The words tumbled out in a frantic, high-pitched rush. You simply nodded, your smile never wavering. "Of course, my dear. Take your time."
The term of endearment, so effortlessly given, was the final blow. Charlie let out a squeak that was half-acknowledgment, half-mortal embarrassment, and then she turned and dashed from the room as if the hounds of Hell were at her heels—which, in a way, they were, in the form of her own gay panic.
She skidded into the hotel's main lobby, her chest heaving. Her eyes scanned the room wildly before landing on her target. Alastor was, as he often was, holding court at the hotel bar. He was leaning casually against the counter, his microphone staff propped beside him, verbally poking and prodding a grumpy Husk while Angel Dust, perched on a nearby stool, provided a running commentary of lewd interruptions.
"…and I simply fail to see the artistic merit in such… graphic depictions, my effeminate fellow! Where is the tension? The suspense? It's all so dreadfully straightforward!"
"Ugh, fuck off, Smiles. Some of us appreciate a lack of subtext," Angel groaned.
"Alastor!" Charlie gasped, stumbling up to him and clutching his coat sleeve.
The Radio Demon’s head swiveled towards her, his static-filled grin widening at her disheveled state. "Why, Charlotte! You look as if you've seen a ghost! Or perhaps a particularly vibrant tax audit?"
"No! It's—it's the Speaker! She's here! And she's… she's…" Charlie flailed her hands, searching for the words. "She's so tall! And beautiful! And her voice! Alastor, I can't do it. I can't form a coherent sentence. You have to come. You have to. You love a spectacle, and this is the biggest one we've ever had! Please, you need to be the calm, collected one while I… malfunction!"
Alastor’s eyes glinted with pure, unadulterated amusement. The idea of the ever-optimistic Princess of Hell being rendered a stuttering mess by a heavenly envoy was entertainment of the highest order. It was a delightful twist in the otherwise predictable narrative of redemption.
"An angelic bureaucrat has you reduced to a stammering schoolgirl? Oh, this is simply too delightful to miss!" he chuckled, the sound crackling like an old record. "My, my. How utterly fascinating. Very well, my dear! Let us not keep our celestial guest waiting! Lead the way!"
He followed a still-flustered Charlie back to her chambers, his gait a confident swagger. This was going to be a riot. He would observe, he would comment with his trademark sly wit, and he would thoroughly enjoy watching Charlie squirm. He pushed the door open, his signature grin plastered firmly in place.
"Now then," he announced, his voice a blare of static charm. "Let's have a look at this divine dignitary who has so—"
His words died in his throat.
His gaze traveled up. And up. And up.
He had expected an angel. Perhaps one with a gleaming halo and pristine robes. He had not expected a being of such sheer, monumental scale and ethereal presence. You were not just beautiful; you were a force of nature, a creature of light whose very existence seemed to mock the shadows he so cherished. Your divine gorgeousness was an objective fact, a radiance that appealed to any being with eyes, be they sinner or saint, and against his will, Alastor felt the impact.
Charlie, seeing his confident entrance falter, felt a small, vindicated thrill amidst her own panic. "A-Alastor, this is the Speaker, sent from Heaven. Speaker, this is Alastor, the host of the hotel. His… influence has been… um… instrumental."
You turned your gaze from Charlie to the new arrival. That same, patient smile returned. Once again, you gracefully crouched down, the immense, luminous form of you folding to bring your face to his level. Your eyes, vast and kind, met his.
"And you must be Alastor," you said, and your voice was a balm, a hymn, the sweetest, most angelic sound he had ever been subjected to. It washed over him, and for a single, horrifying, involuntary moment, his body betrayed him.
His sharp, red deer ears, which were usually perked in alert amusement, gave a sudden, noticeable twitch. Then, as if weighed down by the sheer weight of your gentle tone, they slowly, slowly lowered, pressing back against his hair in a subconscious display of… something. His smile, that permanent, razor-sharp fixture, became strained at the edges, a subtle wobble betraying his shock. The tip of his thin, demonic tail gave a frantic, twitching flick behind him.
He was still standing, still smiling, but the foundation of his composure had developed a hairline fracture. "Indeed I am!" he managed, his radio filter flickering for a split second. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. We so rarely get visitors of such… stature."
The meeting proceeded, though it was a study in contrasts. Charlie was an open book of flustered enthusiasm, tripping over her words and gesturing wildly. Alastor, meanwhile, was a masterclass in subtle disintegration. He contributed, his words still clever and laced with double meanings, but his ears remained stubbornly lowered, and his tail never quite stilled. He was hyper-aware of your presence, of the way the very air seemed to purify around you. Charlie, noticing his subdued state and the tell-tale signs of his own awe, began to feel a camaraderie in their shared, silent crisis.
Finally, the business was concluded. Promises of cooperation were made, channels of communication were established. You rose to your full, magnificent height, the golden portal shimmering back into existence behind you.
"It has been a true blessing to meet you both," you said, your voice once again washing over them like a warm wave. You crouched one last time, a final, intimate gesture. You looked at Charlie, then at Alastor, your expression filled with boundless affection.
"You are doing wonderful work here, my dears," you said softly.
And then you did the unthinkable.
You reached out a hand, glowing with a soft, inner light, and gently cupped Alastor’s cheek. Your touch was not searing or painful, as holy things often were to demons. It was impossibly warm, gentle, and sent a jolt of something entirely foreign straight through his core. It was a touch of pure, unconditional grace.
"Have faith," you whispered, your thumb stroking his cheekbone for a fleeting second.
Then you stood, offered one last beatific smile, and stepped back through the portal, which vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and lilies.
Silence.
Charlie, still pink-cheeked but recovering, turned to Alastor, a teasing grin finally finding its way to her lips. "Wow, Alastor, I didn't know you could—"
She stopped.
Alastor was frozen. Utterly, completely petrified. His ears, which had been lowered, were now standing at rigid, perfect attention. His tail was frozen mid-twitch. His smile was still plastered on his face, but it was a hollow, motionless mask. Every line of his body was locked in place. The only sign of life was a faint, dark flush that was creeping up from his collar, staining the grey skin of his neck and the tips of his ears a tell-tale crimson.
He looked like a statue, a monument to stunned silence.
"Alastor?" Charlie tried again, her voice gentle.
The use of his name seemed to break the spell. His head snapped towards her, the movement sharp and sudden. The frozen smile tightened, the radio static around him crackling with a sharp, defensive burst of noise.
"Not. A. Word," he bit out, his voice dangerously low and devoid of its usual playful static. Before she could even form a response, he dissolved into a pool of shadow and static, vanishing from the room entirely.
London, 1888. Mr. Pendleton placed a steaming teacup on the table. The dim glow of the oil lamp cast dancing shadows from the complex machinery that filled his workshop.
Peering over his spectacles, he watched Y/N, the only source of warmth besides the fireplace, reading a book.A gentle smile rested on Y/N's face. They were the single perfect order, the only point of serenity in the chaos of Pendleton's world. His drive for invention and constant innovation had isolated him from society, but Y/N had accepted his complicated mind exactly as it was. Next to them, even his infamous "social ineptitude" seemed to melt into a sweet eccentricity."darling." Pendleton said, his voice momentarily smooth.
"The air is cold and the fog is thick. I would much prefer it if you did not venture out today."Y/N lifted their head from the book, their eyes shining with affection. "But Pendleton, I must have a breath of fresh air. Besides, I promised Mrs. Davies I would fetch that special fabric for your new device. And I shall return with your favourite apple tart."Pendleton wrapped his arms around Y/N's shoulders,pulling them close for a soft kiss on the neck.
"Very well. But return before the shadows lengthen. This city... it offers little trust these days."
The whispers of Jack, the bold headlines in the papers, disturbed even Pendleton's peace."I promise, my dear inventor. I shall be back no later than teatime, and certainly before the fear sets in
This was the last promise Y/N would ever keep
Teatime came and went. Pendleton checked his pocket watch, waiting for the apple tart.
With every minute that passed, a cold, unreasonable anxiety grew in his stomach, shoving aside all thoughts of his inventions.An hour later, he shot up with a chilling premonition. He grabbed his coat and fled the workshop, slamming the door behind him and plunging into the misty, damp streets of London.
Mrs. Davies's tailor shop... Pendleton's breath caught in his throat. He ran—a speed he'd forgotten he possessed. His heart beat like a frantic, caged bird against his ribs.He rounded the corner.
He stopped.
Under the flickering light of the streetlamp, right on the pavement outside the tailor shop...Pendleton's world turned crimson.
Y/N was lying there. Bright red blood had spread mercilessly across the grey cobblestones, forming a dark, wet stain.No one was around, only the indifferent hum of London and the cold smell of the wet pavement.That famous, beautiful face... it was utterly pale.Pendleton's throat tightened. At first, he thought it was a trick of the mind. It couldn't be. They were just fetching fabric.He dropped to his knees. His hand trembled as he reached for Y/N’s rapidly cooling one. The instant his skin touched theirs, all his denial shattered.
"Y/N? My love?"
His voice was a harsh whisper. No answer. Those beautiful eyes, which should still have held the light of life, were now glazed and vacant.
"No."
The first tear slid down Pendleton's cheek and landed on Y/N's face. Then another, and another... The tears fell onto the blood-soaked jacket, making the red deepen.Pendleton screamed. He let out a primal, animalistic shriek that tore from his throat—a sound no one heard, no one cared about. His hands clenched. He was trembling.How? Why?All his inventions, all his complex mechanisms and formulas... None of it could reverse this simple, savage reality. Mr. Pendleton could invent no machine that could turn back time.He collapsed onto the ground, embracing Y/N's lifeless body. He wept. He wept until his eyes were dry, until his lungs burned with the sheer agony. When the tears were gone, only those deep, hollow, mournful sounds remained.
Pendleton rose slowly. There was no more denial or shock in his eyes. Only a profound, terrifying resolution.He didn't want anyone. No police, no neighbours. This moment belonged only to them.Struggling to stand, he lifted Y/N’s body into his arms. They weighed next to nothing, always light in his embrace. But now, that very weightlessness felt like the burden of the entire world on Pendleton’s shoulders.
"I will not leave you alone for a single moment," he whispered, his voice rough and broken. "I will give you a worthy end. By my own hands."Carrying Y/N, he walked to the back garden of the workshop. There, beneath the apple tree where they used to share tea and discuss his latest creations, Pendleton took up the spade.The earth was cold, hard.Pendleton dug. Every strike of the spade was a sob. The sound of digging was the sound of his soul fragmenting. As dawn approached, his hands were blistered, his back ached, but he did not stop. This was his final duty.He dug a grave deep enough.Then, gently, with incredible meticulousness, he lowered Y/N’s body into the earth. He had wrapped them in a blanket. You won't be cold. I promise.He covered the soil with his own hands. Slowly, as if afraid to disturb a sleeping lover.When it was done, Pendleton collapsed.
Lying on the newly turned earth beneath the apple tree, Mr. Pendleton was nothing more than a shadow consumed by grief.His eyes burned, but no more tears came. He had none left. The loss of Y/N had drained him of all remaining moisture.On that day in 1888, Mr. Pendleton did not die as an inventor, but as a lover. And all that remained was a cold, cruel ambition fuelled by revenge. The sweet man was gone. All that was left was a restless ghost, his pain hardened into a shell of obsessive insecurity and terrible resolve.
Warning:possessiveness, contained jealousy, charm and dangers
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He's a true gentleman.
Honestly, girl, you're lucky that man noticed you… although you know this very well: Alastor may be charming, but he's also obsessive, a yandere through and through.
He's a true male wife. He cooks for you, washes for you, irons for you, and does it with gusto. He doesn't complain, but he doesn't want you to get used to it either; he expects you to make an effort too, for the relationship to reflect the balance he values so much. If you don't know how to cook, he understands, though he can't help but smile tenderly at your attempts.
Imagine this: you cook for him, and even though he knows your food is… let's just say, a biohazard, he eats it anyway just to see you happy.
—“W-how delicious, darling.”
—“Yay! I'll serve you more!”
—“No!… I mean, no, no, we should share it with the neighbors, my love.”
Human or not, Alastor is still charming, elegant, and eccentric, but gentler and more approachable. He likes to dress impeccably, speak politely, and make you smile with those small gestures that seem straight out of another era.
He's flirtatious, seductive, and knows exactly what he's doing. Even if you manage to unnerve him or make him lose his composure inside, he always maintains his charming facade.
His dates are little gems: walks through New Orleans, cafes with live jazz, nights dancing under the bar lights and his smile shining amidst old melodies.
His jealousy is… rare. Not aggressive, but passive-aggressive. He never loses his composure around you. If something or someone makes him uncomfortable, he leans closer, puts his arm around you, or makes a comment in his playful tone, without erasing his smile. He never raises his voice, but you can read that spark of "mine" in his eyes.
Sometimes, some nights, he just doesn't come home. He shows up at dawn with flowers, kisses, and a perfect breakfast to make it up to you.
He says he's been hunting. You don't know exactly what that means, and you'd rather not ask. When hunting season comes, he warns you not to wait up for him; he doesn't want you to stay up all night for him.
When you visit him at his radio studio, he welcomes you with open arms. The atmosphere there is surprisingly wholesome; everyone respects him and even seems to adore him. One day you bring him his forgotten lunch, and you realize how much everyone loves his voice… and how much you love him.
Oh, and in case you didn't know: the poor guy is nearsighted. He always needs his glasses, although sometimes he forgets where he put them.
"Alastor, are you okay?"
"Darling, I lost my glasses."
"Love, they're hanging off your shirt."
At night, he loves to be the big spoon, cuddling you from behind while you sleep. His warmth, his voice whispering old songs, his calm breathing… it's as if the world has stopped.
He has a cabin on the bayou. He won't let you in unless he's there. He says it's for security.
(Spoiler alert: he keeps some very strange things there—voodoo books, antiques… and maybe some mementos from his victims.)
He doesn't like children. He's never said so directly, but you can tell. Still, he's occasionally hinted that if they were to have one, he'd want a girl.
And the most adorable (and slightly cheeky) thing: whether you're engaged or married, he never takes off his ring. He proudly flaunts it. Sometimes he doesn't even need to speak to do so; all it takes is that golden gleam on his left hand to remind everyone that you're his… and he's completely yours.
Caine and Abel were the ones who created the C&A program together. But Caine always stayed in the background, watching as Abel became more loved and admired by everyone. One day, the topic comes up and Caine bursts out, yelling at Abel. However, Abel manages to overpower him in some way, and traps him inside a game — The Amazing Digital Circus.
Inside this game, Caine slowly loses his real-world personality, and his AI persona starts to fully take over.
In this scenario, Y/N is one of Caine’s good friends in real life. But one day, Y/N can no longer see or find him. Time passes… and after Pomni arrives at the Circus, Y/N is pulled in too. At first, Y/N doesn’t recognize Caine at all, but eventually remembers him very clearly.
Summary: The reader is exhausted and asks Alastor for help, but is met with a surprise.
-----°^°
You were exhausted. Seriously, just sitting upright on the couch in the Hazbin Hotel’s lounge felt like a miracle. And to make things even more absurd, Alastor was sitting right beside you.Lately, he had been acting strangely. Not his usual brand of strange—something was different.
At one point, curiosity got the better of you, and you had asked him what was going on. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was about to answer… but of course, what did he do instead? He laughed it off. Yet, even in his laughter, there had been something odd—his usual mischievous lilt had wavered, just for a second.
Now, here you both were, sitting side by side on this absurdly large couch, a strangely ironic distance between you. You really, really needed to sleep. Alastor, on the other hand, was calmly reading a book, occasionally mumbling something under his breath, completely absorbed in whatever strange world was unfolding in front of him.You tried to fight it, but your eyelids felt heavier by the second. No use. You had to get to your room before you passed out in the middle of the hallway.Maybe you should ask someone for help.…
Wait. Alastor?
No, no, no. He would definitely make fun of you. But then again…
You hesitantly turned your head to glance at him. He was still reading, though something about the way he flipped through the pages seemed off. Slower than usual. Was he lost in thought?
You weren’t even sure Alastor had those.You reached out and poked his shoulder. He hummed in response, finally acknowledging you."Uhm… could you help me get to my room? I feel like I might fall asleep while walking there, hehe…” You trailed off. “Alastor?"
For a moment, he just sat there, silent. You immediately regretted asking. It was a dumb idea. He was probably about to mock you, so you quickly decided to drop it and get up.
But before you could take a step, you heard the sharp sound of his book snapping shut.Then, he was right beside you."Of course, darling!" he chirped.Relieved, you gave him a small smile and moved to start walking, but before you could even take a step, Alastor grabbed your wrist and gently pulled you back.
You blinked, confused, and turned to face him.His usual playful grin was still there, but something was different.
His eyes… hesitated.And then, before you could question him—He lifted you into his arms.
"A-Alastor!?" you yelped, startled.Alastor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes closed for a brief moment as he adjusted his grip on you, then he simply started walking.You weren’t sure what was more surprising—the fact that he was carrying you, or the fact that he was doing it so effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing.After a beat of silence, you giggled softly.
The whole situation was just so ridiculous.
"We… we could’ve just taken the elevator, you know?”
"Hmm… perhaps next time," he mused
amusement lacing his tone.Sleep was creeping up on you fast. Your body was warm against his, and the rhythmic motion of his steps was oddly soothing.Your eyelids drooped.A small sigh escaped your lips before your head naturally lolled forward, resting against his chest.
Alastor noticeably stiffened for a second. His ears twitched, his head tilting slightly as he glanced down at you.Your breathing was soft. Calm. Completely at ease in his arms.Something in his expression shifted.
"mmh," he hummed quietly.Without thinking, he adjusted his hold on you, bringing you just a little closer. And then, with a small, almost hesitant motion, he lowered his head and lightly brushed his forehead against yours.
When he finally reached your room, his steps slowed. Carefully, he nudged the door open and stepped inside.He made his way over to the bed, moving deliberately as if afraid of waking you. Slowly, he lowered you onto the mattress, making sure your head rested comfortably against the pillow.With one last motion, he pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in.Then, he took a step back, watching you for a moment.A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze before he finally turned toward the door.Without another word, he slipped out, leaving you to your peaceful sleep.--
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
