I don't know if you write fanfiction with Alastor Yandere? Can I ask? If not, I understand… How about an Alastor Yandere with a newbie reader in hell who doesn't know how they got there? Maybe the reader is a video game demon, and their power is to create current games. Of course, that would catch Vox's attention. (The reader, in life, loved games and always played them in their free time).
This one shot is based on this ask! Which i love! i wish i could tag the asker but i'm sure they'll see it! thank you so much for asking!
That’s the first thing that unsettles you—the absolute void where your last memory should have been. There is no flash of light, no sudden pain, no heart-stopping accident, nothing to mark the end of your mortal life. Just… waking up. One moment you were in your bedroom, late at night, the glow of your monitor painting your face as you furiously mashed buttons to beat a final boss; the next you were on cracked, soot-stained pavement under a sky the color of burning iron. The air smells wrong—sharp, metallic, and faintly sweet—but it’s the sheer wrongness of it all that hits you first. You try to stand, and your legs wobble like untested circuits. You’re alone, and yet you feel… observed.
Your hands tremble as you glance around the city. Neon signs buzz erratically above broken streets, flickering with static and symbols that make no sense. The laughter of demons echoes from alleyways, high-pitched and gleeful, sharp like broken glass. Their eyes glint from the darkness. Teeth, claws, horns, tails—it’s a riot of chaos you’ve never seen before, and somehow, some part of your brain knows you are not supposed to be here. Not yet. Not ever. And yet, here you are. You clutch at the only thing that feels real: the memory of games. The rhythmic click of buttons, the hum of a console, the escape into worlds you could understand and control. It’s grounding. It’s comforting. And yet, in this place, it’s a distant echo, fragile and insubstantial.
You discover your power by accident. You’re cornered by three smaller demons in a shadowed alley. They leer at you, drooling, anticipation dripping from every line of their bodies. One of them, the leader, steps forward, jagged claws catching the neon glow. “Fresh meat,” he sneers, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against your chest. Panic lashes through you, every instinct screaming to flee. Your hands rise, trembling, unsure why they obey a command that hasn’t yet been spoken aloud.
And then it happens.
The world glitches.
The brick walls shudder as if they were made of pixels. Health bars appear above the demons’ heads, floating in translucent green and red. An ethereal battle theme erupts from nowhere, the notes perfectly synchronized to your racing heartbeat. You squeeze your hands instinctively, as if holding an invisible controller, and the lead demon’s eyes widen in terror. A massive, glowing hammer materializes above him, oversized and cartoonish. It slams down with a comic-crash impact that nonetheless obliterates him in a burst of spark-like fragments. The other two demons scream and flee, leaving you breathless and shaking. You stare at your hands. “I… I did that?” you whisper, barely audible over your pounding pulse.
You realize then what you are capable of. Not illusions. Not tricks. You can create games. Not just systems that look like games, but actual mechanics—physics, rules, enemies, items—manifested in reality. You can turn the environment itself into a playable world. You test it nervously, summoning floating menus, crafting a miniature racing track through the alley, watching as your powers obey every whim. Fear melts into awe. You’ve never felt so alive.
But Hell has television. And it has Vox. And nothing in Pentagram City happens without his notice.
You don’t see him at first. You’re too preoccupied with testing your power, summoning a fully functional multiplayer arena in a derelict plaza, tweaking difficulty curves, and laughing at the absurdity of your own creativity. But somewhere, across the city, his blue glow fixes on you. The moment he detects your signal, you are marked. You are a new commodity, a fresh source of content, a mind to exploit.
You meet him a week later. You’re deep in a dungeon-crawler simulation, summoning waves of pixelated skeletons, when the space around you snaps. Reality freezes. Every enemy locks mid-swing. You spin, disoriented, to see Vox behind you, voice buzzing through your skull like static. “HELLOOOOOO, PLAYER ONE!” he booms, enthusiasm crackling in digital distortions. He grins at you, cyan screen-face glowing unnaturally. “You’re fascinating. Do you know how valuable you are?”
Panic spikes. You attempt to summon a defensive mechanism, but your powers flicker as his signal overrides your own. The rules of your creation warp under his presence, and you feel, for the first time, helpless. He laughs at your confusion, relishing your vulnerability. He wants to consume your talent, control your content, make you a broadcast. The world tilts, unbalanced, until there’s a sudden, violent interruption.
A warm, chilling laugh cuts through the tension, old-fashioned and strangely melodic. Red light floods the frozen alley, replacing Vox’s harsh cyan. The dungeon simulation dissolves entirely, leaving you standing in a golden-lit radio studio that wasn’t there before. Velvet curtains, vintage microphones, polished wood—everything impossibly luxurious and terribly out of place.
“Well now, that’s quite enough of that,” he says lightly, cane tapping against the floor in time with your racing heartbeat. Vox stiffens in the distance, static shrieking in protest. “Stay out of this, Radio Freak,” Alastor adds, almost casually. His gaze falls on you briefly, assessing, calculating, amused. You freeze, heart hammering. “You see,” he continues, voice smooth as silk, “I do adore novelty. And our little friend here is quite the novelty indeed.”
The studio seems to breathe with him. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting around your feet without touch. Vox’s signal distorts violently, then vanishes. Silence returns, but it’s heavier, denser, as though the air itself is warning you.
Alastor circles you slowly, eyes gleaming. “You’re new. Frightened. Uncertain. And powerful,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “That makes you… vulnerable.”
Your hands twitch instinctively, summoning a minor UI flicker, and he notices. The shadow at your feet stiffens. “Ah-ah,” he says softly. “No need for that. I’m not here to harm you.”
You want to believe him. You want to relax. But the tension coils in your stomach as he leans closer. His voice lowers, intimate and dangerous. “I am here to ensure no one else does.”
Days pass. Weeks. You avoid moving into the Hazbin Hotel, yet you never truly leave its vicinity. Alastor is always nearby, a constant presence. He smiles at your experiments with game mechanics, delighted when you accidentally summon rhythm-based combat in the courtyard, synchronizing enemies to musical timing. “Oh, I do like that one,” he says, clapping slowly as demons are knocked back by beats. “Show me how it works.”
You test boundaries. You attempt a portal-based escape system, a creative experiment to explore the wider city. The moment you activate it, your mechanics subtly warp. Your own parameters bend under an invisible hand, not breaking your power, just constraining it. You turn. Alastor stands behind you, smiling, polite, terrifying. “I simply can’t have you wandering into unfriendly hands,” he explains. “Think of it as… setting parental controls.”
Your pulse jumps. “I’m not yours.”
His eyes flash red, just for a second, sharp as a blade. “No,” he agrees softly. “But you are under my protection.”
The word lodges in your chest like a splinter. Not ownership. Not imprisonment. But alarmingly close.
When Vox attempts contact again, it ends violently. You hear the distant static screams across the skyline, but you do not see Alastor act. Later, he hums cheerfully that evening, a dangerous undertone hiding in his cadence. “You won’t be bothered again,” he assures, and you wonder if the threat lingers somewhere behind his smile.
Alastor’s fascination grows daily. He observes you with an intensity that is both flattering and suffocating. He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want to exploit you for gain, like Vox. He wants you for himself. You are a living game, a world of endless surprises, a program he cannot share, a player he refuses to let leave.
One evening, you sit on the hotel balcony, summoning a soft, pixelated starlit sky over Hell’s red haze. Alastor appears quietly beside you, watching. “You’re still afraid,” he notes lightly.
“I don’t remember my death,” you whisper, voice trembling.
He studies you, his smile widening. “Would you like to?”
“…No,” you murmur.
“Excellent,” he purrs, teeth glinting. The word chills you. He could discover your memories at will, but he chooses not to—for now.
“You’re not going to trap me here forever, are you?” you ask.
He laughs, warm and distorted. “My dear,” he says, resting his chin lightly on his cane, “you could leave whenever you wish.” The shadows ripple subtly around the balcony. “You’d just have to survive without me.”
It isn’t a threat. Not exactly. But the weight is undeniable. Hell is dangerous. Vox is watching. Others will notice your power. And Alastor? Alastor has already decided.
You are interesting. You are powerful. You are his favorite new program. And he doesn’t share his favorites.
You summon a glowing prompt into the air.
SAVE GAME?
Your finger hovers. Alastor watches, silently delighted. “An excellent idea,” he hums. “We wouldn’t want to lose progress, now would we?”
You press YES.
Somewhere deep in Hell’s code, something locks in. And Alastor’s smile stretches wider than ever.
I loved writing this! let me know if you guys want a part 2! Also let me know if you guys want to be on the hazbin hotel tag list or if you want to be on just the Alastor tag list!
