𝐈. 𑣲 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑺𝒂𝒌𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆. 𑣲
♡ Fandom: Hazbin Hotel.
♡ Pairing: Alastor x female Reader.
♡ Rating: mature, although for now there's nothing too… smut.
♡ Summary:
A staged relationship meant to keep Valentino away turns into something far more dangerous and intoxicating when Alastor realizes you two aren't pretending at all. Because some things in Hell don’t belong to anyone else… if not to him.
♡ possessive behavior ✧ manipulative dynamics ❥ jealousy ✦ coercive flirtation ♡ (un)wanted touching ✧ implied threat / intimidation ❥ power imbalance ✦ “mine” / prey language ♡ bite marks / hickeys ✧ heavy sexual tension ❥ explicit make-out scenes ✦ grinding / implied arousal ❥ Valentino being Valentino ♡ Alastor being worse.
╚═══ ⟡ 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌 ⟡ ═══╝
You were trying to focus on the new pamphlet Velvette had drafted, something about “love potion”, when the main doors swung open with a theatrical sbam. Feathers, pink smoke and menace preceded him. Valentino sauntered in, his coat trailing behind him like a bloody veil. He looked like a king in his fortress. His eyes zeroed in on you immediately, a predatory smile spreading across his face.
“Well, well. Look who’s all alone, finally,” he purred, his voice honey-syrup, sticky and annoying. He leaned against the tv news desk, his frame blocking your exit. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, cariño. That’s not very polite.” Your skin crawled. “I’ve been busy, Valentino. The Hotel fills me with work, you all fill me with work.”
“Hm.” He reached out; a long, lattex, black gloved finger tracing the line of your jaw before you could flinch away. The touch of his glove was cold, loudly, proprietary. A right he didn't have. “You shouldn’t be. A pretty thing like you should be on a screen, a star, not stressing out for the princess of failure.” You tried to step back, but the chair you were sitting on trapped you. “I’m not interested.”
“Everyone is interested.” His vocal timbre more slimy, inappropriate. “I could make you famous, really. All you have to do is… giving me yourself. I'd love to go for a ride with you.” His smile widened dramatically across his entire purple face. Fear and revulsion churned in your gut. You’d known Valentino tangentially for years and you’d always given him a wide berth. His brand of attention was a gilded cage of sex and… control, and you wanted no part of it. Just as you opened your mouth to tell him to leave, another voice joined the room, with a crackle of static.
“Valentino! How… long it's been!” Alastor’s form seemed to materialize from the shadows near the door, his yellow grin fixed and unwavering. His gaze, however, was not on the moth demon. It was fixed on Valentino’s hand, still hovering near your face.
The radio dials in his eyes gave a slow, dangerous turn.
Valentino’s smile grew tighter. “Alastor. Interrupting as usual... a vice you've never lost. Vox isn't here, as you can see. We were... having a private conversation, if you don't mind.” He didn't look at him. At all. “I'm not here for Vox. And...” Alastor’s steps tip tapped as he crossed the vast room, his cane tapping a jaunty rhythm that felt entirely at odds with the tension in the room. He stopped just beside you, his figure a solid, comforting presence at your side. “Maybe it was private just for you, but it sounded to me like the lady wasn’t interested. Am I wrong? Ah! How brazen of you. As always...” Valentino’s eyes narrowed. His face slowly tilted up to look at Alastor, now. “Since when do you care?”
Alastor’s head tilted. His smile widened, showing more teeth. “Since now.” He didn’t look at you. Instead, his arm slid on your shoulder, pulling you gently but firmly from the stool and against his side. You were close. So close. The hard line of his side pressing against yours. His hand left your shoulder to splayed possessively over your hip. “Darling,” he said, his voice dropping into a warm tone, devoid of its usual static. “You didn’t tell me you needed… moth disinfestation.” You froze, your mind blanking.
Valentino looked between the two of you, suspicion etched in every line of his face. “This is new.” “Is it?” Alastor chuckled. He finally looked down at you, and for a fraction of a second, the manic radio-host glint in his eyes softened. Then it was gone, replaced by performative affection. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his black fingers lingering near your temple, mocking intimacy. “We’ve been keeping it quiet. You can understand... The hotel, the image, my (bad boy) reputation…” You found your voice, though it came out as a squeak. “Alastor, I—” “Hush, my dear,” he murmured, pulling you closer. Much more closer. Your bodies were no longer caressing, but touching and moving with each other's movements. His lips were near your ear, his breath a warm velvet veil against your skin. “Play along,” he whispered, the words so low in its combustion of staticity. “Unless you’d prefer to finish your… 'sale' with him.” The choice was no choice at all. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder. The fabric of his coat was silky against your cheek. “You heard him, Valentino,” you said, forcing a sheepish smile. “I really don't think you want to get on the Radio Demon's bad side.”
Valentino watched, his expression unreadable, dark and angry, even annoyed. You were a precious soul to collect, and he hated the thought of never being able to close the deal. Then he laughed; a short, sharp bark. “Clever girl. But this doesn't end here… I’ll be seeing you, cariño. Venadito.” The threat in his tone was unmistakable and, with a final, lingering look, he turned and flowed out of the room, the doors swinging shut behind him with a loud slam. The moment they closed, the chamber felt much more colder. Alastor’s arm remained around you, rigid. The cheerful background music that always seemed to follow him had shifted into a low, ominous of staticity.
“He touched you,” Alastor said, underlining the gravity of the situation. “Just my face. It was nothing.” “It was not nothing.” He released you so abruptly you stumbled. He took a step back, adjusting his cuffs, his expression once again the familiar grin of entertainment. But his hands, you noticed, were clenched. “His kind leaves a stain. I suggest you to wash up.” The merciless distance froze you, which was ridiculous. It was an act. A performance to get rid of Valentino. “Right. Thanks for the… intervention.” He gave a sharp nod and began to turn away, cane in hand. “Alastor?” The name stopped him. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his monocle glinting beneath the glow of the neon lights, one eyebrow arched. “Why did you do that?” He looked at you. The static around him buzzed softly. “The Hazbin Hotel is my project,” he stated, as if that explained everything. “Its occupants are under my… supervision. I don’t tolerate poachers.” He turned fully again, his back to you. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your room.” It wasn't an invitation, but rather, a statement with no escape route. You fell into step beside him, the silence between you filled with the echo of your tip tap on the porcelain floor and the melody of a 1930s song that was emanate from him. He opened his elbow waiting for you to slip your arm inside, then you both started walking and the walk to the Hazbin Hotel felt longer than usual. Silent, even.
The hotel was quiet, most residents either in their rooms or out causing the kind of trouble that didn’t involve redemption. Finally, you reached your door. You fumbled for the key in your pocket, aware of him standing just behind you, a tall, silent sentinel.
“Well, goodni—” Before you could finish, his arm shot out; his hand slammed flat against the door just beside your head. The impact made you blink at the suddenness. Then, you turned in the small space, your back now against the wood, and found him standing… impossibly close. He leaned in, his other hand coming up to mirror the first, caging you between his arms. His scent filled your senses.
“Al—Alastor?” Your voice was a whisper. He was staring at your mouth. His own smile was gone, replaced by a tight, focused line. The cheerful radio host was completely absent. In his place was something darker, more intense. You could see the rapid flicker of the dials in his crimson eyes. “That performance,” he began, his voice a low, staticky hum. “It was for your benefit. But it brought something to the surface. Something… interesting.” You couldn’t breathe. “What?”
“The way he looked at you.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “The way he touched you. It was… unacceptable.” He leaned closer, his nose almost brushing yours. “It made me realize the farce was insufficient. If he, or anyone else, gets ideas, a one-time show won’t deter them.” “So... what are you saying?” His gaze lifted from your lips to your eyes, holding you captive. “I’m saying the role needs to be more convincingly. Permanently.” He paused, letting the word hang. “The next time he, or anyone, approaches you… I want you to think of me. I want you to remember the feeling of my arm around you. I want you to remember you're my prey.”
The word was a hiss of static.
“So. Can you do that for me? The next time some vermin lays a hand on… what doesn't belong to him? Can you?” He blinked, as if surprised by his own wording, but didn’t correct himself. His voice dropped to a murmur, intimate and demanding. “Can you pretend… truly pretend… that you’re mine?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was the strange, push-pull dynamic you’d always had with him—a mix of casual banter and unspoken tension. But this was different. This was a line, shimmering and dangerous, and he was asking you to cross it with him.
“I…” You were cut off by an optimistic and positive voice that was approaching you. “—and that’s why every soul deserves a second chance! Oh!” Charlie’s voice echoed down the hall as she rounded the corner, a stack of papers in her arms. She skidded to a halt, her eyes wide as she took in the scene: you, pinned against your door by Alastor, his body crowding yours, his face inches from your own.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then, her face lit up with dawning, delighted comprehension and embarrassment. “Oh! Oh, my gosh! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt!” She grinned, looking between the two of you. “Are you ok? You need some help, Y/N? Alastor can be quite annoying and intimidating. Oh. Oh. My. Dad. Wait... wh—Alastor!?! Are—are you two together?!” Panic flooded your system. This was Charlie. Sweet, innocent, would-announce-it-to-the-whole-hotel Charlie. Maybe all of hell. Or the whole world. The ramifications of her thinking this was real—the questions, the expectations, the utter demolition of whatever delicate, undefined thing existed between you and the Radio Demon—terrified you.
“No!” you blurted out, the word too loud in the silence of the hotel. Your face flushed a deep, burning red. “God, no, Charlie, it’s not—we’re not—he was just—”
Alastor’s voice cut through your flustered denial, calm and clear. He didn’t move away from you. If anything, he shifted closer, his thigh brushing against yours. He turned his head just slightly to look at Charlie, his smile back in place, but this time it looked different. Softer at the edges.
“Yes,” he repeated, his gaze sliding back to you, holding yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. “We are.” Charlie’s hands flew to her mouth, her papers fluttering to the floor. “I knew it! I mean, I didn’t, but I felt it! The tension, the shared glances during activities for redemption! Oh, this is wonderful! Love blooming in Hell!” She was practically jumping with joy. “Don’t let me stop you! Continue, please!” She scrambled to gather her papers, shooting you a gleeful wink before practically skipping back down the hallway, her happy humming fading away.
The silence she left behind was absolute, and heavy.
What game was Alastor playing?
You stared up at Alastor, your mind reeling. “Why did you say that?” you asked, your voice louder than you intended. His hands, which were still braced against the door, flexed. The playful mask he’d shown Charlie was gone, replaced by his intense and murderous gaze. “You said no.” “Because it’s not true!” “Isn’t it?” He pushed off the door, but only to bring his hands to your face, his long fingers framing your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was shockingly gentle, even though he was a demon destroyer of souls and bodies. “You agreed to the pretense. The princess is now a witness. The story is in motion.” His eyes searched yours. “Your denial was instinctive. Panicked. But your blush… the way your pulse is racing under my hand right now… that tells a different story, my dear.” His right palm pressed flat against your chest while he was talking to you. You were trembling. You couldn’t help it. His proximity, his words, the weight of what had just happened—it was too much. “This is a bad idea.” “Undoubtedly.” He leaned in again, his lips hovering a breath from yours. “But it's the idea that could be useful to both of us.” His voice dropped to that same intimate murmur. “Let’s see where it leads, shall we?” He lowered his head, his lips tracing a feather-light path from your temple, down the line of your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, your hands flying up to clutch his pointed shoulders. His breath was cool, but it set your skin on fire.
“You smell like his cheap perfume,” he muttered, the words laced with disgust. “Let’s get rid of it.” His mouth opened against your neck, and you felt the sharp points of his teeth before the gentle, startling pressure of a bite. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was… possessive. A low whimper escaped you, and you felt him smile against your skin. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice a dark, approving rasp in your ear. His hands left your face and chest to to slide down on your waist and coming up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head to give him better access. “Let him see the mark tomorrow. It will keep him from bothering you again.” He soothed the bite with his tongue, then placed another, just above your collarbone. Each one sent a jolt of pure, undiluted electricity straight to your core. Your knees felt weak. You were melting against the door, held up only by his body and the hands that were now exploring you with bold curiosity.
His hand on your waist slid around to your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel the lean, powerful muscles of his thighs against yours, the hard plane of his stomach. Through the layers of clothing, the evidence of his own arousal was unmistakable, a rigid line of heat that made your head spin. “Alastor…” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his coat. “Hush.” He finally brought his mouth to yours, but again, he denied you a kiss.
He brushed his lips over yours, again and again… a maddening tease.
“This is just the beginning of the pretense,” he whispered against your mouth. “We have to make it convincing. For the Vees. For the hotel. For Charlie. For all hell.”
His tongue traced the seam of your lips.
“For me.” He gasped on your mouth.
The last two words undid you. You parted your lips, and he took advantage immediately, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. The kiss was not what you expected. It wasn’t gentle or… detached. It was deep, hungry all at once. It tasted of static and cigarettes. His hands moved over you—one splayed across your lower back, gluing you to him; the other sliding from your hair down your arm, his fingers seeking yours. He found your hand and pinned it gently against the door beside your head. Then, slowly, he laced his fingers through yours, intertwining them. The gesture was shockingly tender amidst the heat of his mouth on yours, the possessive press of his body.
It didn't feel like a farce at all.
You kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with a growing desperation that matched his own. Your free hand slid up his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. He made a sound low in his throat—a growl mixed with a burst of static—and deepened the kiss further.
There was only the hard wood of the door at your back, the taste of him, the feel of his fingers locked tightly with yours, and the relentless, building heat between you. He moved from your mouth, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, over the marks he’d left, to the hollow of your throat where your pulse hammered. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a vibration against your neck. A brand not yet tattooed on your skin.
His hand left your back and slid down, over the curve of your hip, to the outside of your thigh. He gripped you there, his fingers digging into the firm muscle through your clothes, and hitched your leg up around his hip, bringing you even more intimately against him. The move drew a sharp gasp from you. He rubbed against you, the friction maddening through your clothes, and you moaned, arching into him. “So responsive,” he murmured, his lips against your ear. His breath hitched—no, stuttered with static. “The sounds you make… they’re better than any broadcast.” He kept your leg hitched up, his hand roaming over your thigh, kneading the muscle, tracing the seam of your pants with a tantalizing slowness. His focus on that part of you was intense, worshipful almost. There was so much flesh to touch, to explore, to taste… Every brush of his fingers sent sparks through you. You were lost in it, in him, the world outside this corridor ceasing to exist. The pretense, the lie, it all felt flimsy and distant compared to the undeniable reality of his mouth, his hands, his body claiming yours.
The shrill ring of an old-fashioned telephone shattered the silence, echoing from the direction of his radio tower. Alastor froze, his body going rigid against yours. The spell broke like fragile and thin glass. He pulled back, panting slightly, his hair disheveled, his ears flexing agitatedly on his head. The look in his eyes was wild, conflicted—a storm of desire, possession, and something that looked almost like fear. He slowly lowered your leg, his hand lingering on your thigh for a moment before he let go. He disentangled his fingers from yours. And oh… how he suffered for that loss.
The phone continued to ring, insistent.
He took a full step back, straightening his coat, running a hand through his hair to restore its order. His smile was back, but it was tight, strained at the edges. The always controlled Alastor was reassembling the Radio Demon before your eyes.
“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice regaining its broadcast cheer, though it sounded forced. He reached out and with a tenderness that contradicted his tone, brushed his thumb over one of the marks on your neck. “Sleep well, my dear. Dream of this. Dream of me.” He turned and walked away, his form seeming to bleed into the shadows before he reached the end of the hall. The telephone ringing cut off abruptly. You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your legs unable to hold you. You brought your fingers to your swollen lips, then to the tender, marked skin of your neck.
His touch was everywhere: on your hand, your thigh, your mouth...
Your head was spinning and buzzing.
Pretend? How could you possibly pretend when he was already running through your veins like something addictive?
Dream of him? How could you dream of a man you had held in your hands, already tasted, already felt breathing against your skin? Dreaming him would have made you live a real lie.
He had been fucking real.
If anything, you would have to carve him out of your thoughts, tear him loose from the quiet corners of your mind before he settled too deep, before he rooted himself in places you couldn’t reach.
But something terrifying crawled across your heart…
What if it was already too late, for both of you?
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story ♡
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