Plastered Smile - MightBeOrphanedIdk - Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Well I Walked Into Your Dagger For The Last Time

Chapter Text

‘One co*cktail?’ Alastor begs, tilting his head. Husk shakes his head, wiping a glass down. ‘Oh, come, Husker. Would you seriously listen to the princess over me?’

‘Yep.’ Husk sets his rag down, followed by the glass, a solemn clink echoing throughout the lobby. ‘Sorry, Boss. That’s how it’s gonna be for a while. I can get you a virgin co*cktail. They call it a mocktail.’

‘I’m familiar,’ Alastor grimaces, looking off to the side. ‘Very well, then. I have no qualms with a man who values his priorities.’ With that, he stands, and walks off.

Alastor’s angelic injury had left him humiliatingly bed-ridden. Fun fact, he wasn’t even supposed to be at the bar just then, so he might as well hurry back to his room before Charlie catches on that he left. He wasn’t shackled to his bed a few days ago, but of course, ever the heart throb, Charlie had insisted he keep himself in bed. He only passed out one time, it wasn’t even that bad, as well.

He was just tired. Snapping his fingers and summoning massive tendrils to fight multiple things at multiple times isn’t as easy as it seems, especially with a giant angelic wound across your chest, but it appears Alastor’s overestimated himself. After one drawn out fight with some deviant sinners who wanted to mock the hotel, Alastor found himself collapsing on the floor right after their heads lead the way with a chorus of cracks. People had surrounded him, he tried to assure them he was fine, but he couldn’t find the strength to even lift his hand.

‘When was the last time you slept?’ Charlie had exclaimed, placing her hand on his forehead and moving away when it got hot. Honestly, Alastor can’t even remember. It’s been a while. He meant to have slept two days prior, give or take, but Vox had a silly little tantrum at the time and Alastor got distracted. Not his fault.

Upon getting to his room courtesy of Husk (albeit reluctantly) and Charlie assisting as crutches, Alastor noticed the exertion of taking the stairs affecting his wound as they directed themselves to his room. It started out as a dim, pulsing ache, nothing he couldn’t handle, as they walked towards his bed.

Then, the adrenaline or something must have worn out, because Alastor screamed .

It had startled the two other sinners to the point where they both had fumbled Alastor’s hold. Burning seared through his body like a wildfire, blood running down his chest and stinging every inch of flesh revealed, eyes a blur and ears filled with static. He was put down on the bed– At some point he realized, he must have lost consciousness– And Husk tore his shirt open. Alastor was too delirious with pain to even care when the two revealed his chest to the cool air (Which did minimal to help).

To say the sight was grisly would be an understatement if you weren’t used to seeing it every morning as Alastor was for the past few weeks. It was gruesome . Infection had taken its hold on the exposed flesh and every part felt like hellfire had been set upon it. Blisters and pus gathered at the edges like a border and blood seeped past them like snakes in grass.

Husk had groaned, disgusted. Charlie had well-near passed out.

Alastor actually did pass out.

When he had come to, Lucifer was standing above him on his bed. He wanted to groan in disgust, but the sound ended up wounded, which resulted in the King sending him a deadpan look. Deadpan mixed with something worth calling sympathy. Alastor hated it, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off of the other's face.

‘You had your run,’ Lucifer had muttered. ‘How long have you been holding onto this wound for?’ Alastor could only wince in response when he brushed a finger against a particularly large cluster of blisters. The king tutted his tongue, hovering a hand over the gash.

‘This is going to hurt like a bitch. Don’t blame me.’

‘Just do it,’ The deer had managed to grit out in his pain. He didn't even know what it was. Though his voice didn't sound afraid– Nothing really sounded like anything amidst the static, but he'd like to think he sounded fearless–, he shut his eyes and clenched the bed sheets beneath him a little harder. Bracing for impact. Lucifer reminded him one last time that it would not be his fault, to which Alastor snarled, baring his teeth, telling him to get on with it.

Gold swirls circled the king’s hand, and Alastor was thrown into oblivion all over again.

When Alastor woke up once again, he was still in his bed. He had felt his hair tied up, his clothes changed– Who had the responsibility of that he did not want to know–, and his pain was considerably tolerable. It wasn’t as bad as before, but it was there. In his room, he sat alone, to accompany him, a note.

Hey Al! It was written in swirly, pink crayon handwriting. Please don’t leave your bed. It’s not safe for you to do that. Rest for a while, we’ve got your responsibilities done for you! With an excessive amount of hearts and smiley faces to follow it.

Alastor had scoffed, tossing the paper to the floor as he manoeuvred his hooves out of the covers. His body felt like dead weight on two dead pillars of flesh, but Alastor had managed to get to the door. He leaned his weight on the handle, twisting it.

It did not open.

Alastor twisted it again, this time with more of a push to get it open.

It did not.

Baring his teeth, Alastor shoved his weight against the door. His legs gave out, and promptly, he fell, leaning against the wood. He cursed to himself– Lucifer must have locked the door. Alastor would normally just use his shadows, but who knew how painful that one would be in his state?

Twisting his body around, Alastor did the humiliating thing, and crawled back to bed.

Which leads him to where he is now, sitting in his bed, after his failure at the bar. Bed-ridden, isolated, and most importantly, useless. He hasn’t done a thing to help the hotel since his fall, and it bothers him that things have not fallen into disarray. It’s so peaceful in the hotel now, apparently, that members can cook up their own meals and pass them up to him like nothing. Like he’s some guinea pig to test meals on.

‘And I introduce…’ Angel places a tray on Alastor’s lap. ‘My Infamous Puttanesca!’

‘Charming,’ Alastor smiles, eyeing the pasta. Looking up at the spider, Alastor quirks an eyebrow. ‘So what did you poison this one with?’

Angel frowns, sending him an unimpressed look. With sarcasm dripping from his voice, he places a fork on Alastor’s tray and replies, ‘Cyanide.’

‘Adds flavour,’ The deer shrugs, grabbing the tool. He plays with the food for a bit, swirling it around his fork for a moment, before relenting. If Angel really had put cyanide in this, so be it. One bite in, seemingly cyanide-free, Alastor nods. ‘It’s good.’

‘Good ?’ Angel echoes.

‘Good.’ Alastor nods, shutting his eyes to relish the flavour. When he hears the spider sigh, he lets a small laugh slip out. ‘Great, even.’

‘That’s f*ckin’ right.’ Angel nods, confident and co*cky. He places his hands on his hips, and with an added air of confidence, turns and leaves.

Alastor spits the food back out onto the tray, grimacing. How dare they even try to baby him? Alastor isn't some hopeless soul, he's the Radio Demon, the nightmares of everyone, someone whose gaze shall be avoided. He doesn’t need some pity party thrown for him, he was managing just fine before.

Picking the tray up, Alastor places it on the table beside him. Grunting softly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, getting to his feet. They feel weak underneath him, shaking to keep himself up, but he manages. A trembling walk to the bathroom, where he holds the bowl of Pascotta–or whatever Angel called it– over the toilet. It hits the bowl with a wet spludge, flushed into the sewers as Alastor makes his exit.

He chucks the remaining cutlery on the bedside table, groaning once again as he stretches his arms out in front of him. It feels nice, they feel more mobile than they have in a while. In these kinds of moods, Alastor would treat himself to some hunting, however…

Alastor looks at the opposing end of his room, where a bayou is currently absent, in its place a large glass door leading to a balcony. He narrows his eyes at the sight, turning his back to face the door to his room. Thankfully, now, he’s been trusted to not accidentally kill himself working, so Lucifer’s opened the door. Fun.

He hasn't been able to muster the strength to keep jazz going all around the hotel, but Alastor enjoys the fact that speakers still pick up and play some jazz wherever he walks, like a bubble of music encompassing him.

As he walks towards the elevators with his hands comfortably behind his back, resting on his tailbone, Alastor takes in the newer hotel. He never really had the time to observe the decor and whatnot, always too blinded with pain by the time he's gotten back to Level 6.

Maroon swirls and fancy patterns root over the red walls, small benches with photographs of the hotel and other trinkets pacing the hallway as Alastor does. Mirrors rest above these benches, but he doesn’t look into them. The carpeting is also a dark maroon colour, taking up vertical lines, textured in such a way Alastor feels tingles of discomfort running through him. What else would happen if you have that childish mess of a king decorate?

Although, a suspicion rises within him, telling him the red coating everything is a poke at Alastor specifically.

Humming, distasteful, Alastor strolls into an elevator, taking the thing down to the ground floor. The lobby is lively and members are found scurrying all around like rats in mazes. When he steps forward into the open area, Charlie is the first to spot him. Initially she lights up, calling out for him, before realisation hits her and her smile falls.

‘What are you doing? You should be in bed!’

‘I figured I could use the fresh air, dear,’ Alastor explains, prying her fingers from his shirt. He turns his attention to everything else in the lobby, how Angel is serving more of his pasta, how Husker is helping. ‘I'd like to go for a walk.’

‘You shouldn't.’ Another voice interjects, the source Vagatha. She crosses her arms and leans on one leg, a corresponding hand on her hip. ‘Look at yourself. You can barely stand up straight.’

The shaking of his legs had become a background feeling by then.

‘I can handle myself just fine ,’ Alastor insists, turning towards the door. ‘Worry not! I'll be back by sunset.’ He takes his first few steps towards the exit when Charlie calls out for him once again. Her footsteps hurry beside him, and she tentatively places a hand on his shoulder. ‘What?’

‘Shouldn't you at least take someone with you..?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘I'll go.’ Eyes turn to yet another intruding voice. Alastor takes a moment to find where it came from, before looking down. His eyes narrow greatly and his smile sharpens, guarded, walls up.

‘Aw, dad!’ Charlie smiles, running up to him. She gives him a big hug, engulfing him, before stepping back. Seeing Alastor’s glare piercing through her father, she offers a light chuckle. ‘This is great! You two can get along on your walks and spend time together!’

‘I’d rather die.’

‘Already dead,’ Lucifer interjects, stepping closer to the deer. Alastor scoffs, rolling his eyes as he spins around once again. Beelining straight for the door, he scowls as he hears footsteps following, unrelenting, annoying.

They make it past the gates of the hotel when Lucifer finally manages to catch up with the deer, huffing. Alastor stares down at him. ‘I don’t need to be babysit all day everyday, your highness.’

‘I’m only doing this so Charlie doesn’t stare moaning and whining about you all day,’ Lucifer mutters, matching Alastor’s pace. The deer rolls his eyes once again, hoping to roll them far enough he sees some sort of excuse in his brain to get out of this situation. ‘And besides, your little TV friend–’

‘He’s all but my friend.’

‘Has been watching you like a hawk. Waiting for you to be alone.’ He points upwards. Alastor follows the gesture, staring at the drone not-so-subtly floating in the sky above them, following them, watching. The deer tuts, glaring at the camera, watching it sizzle, freaking out, before falling to the floor with a crash.

Lucifer observes the broken machinery for a moment, before hurrying along to keep up with the overlord. ‘You and I both know, pride aside, you are in no state to fight anyone.’

‘I am more than prepared.’

‘Are you?’ Alastor reaches up to his dress shirt, tightening the suspenders on his shoulders.

‘You can’t even use your weird shadow transportation thingy.’ Lucifer doesn't fail to notice the shaking of his hands as he does so. He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it.

‘I chose not to use it.’ Alastor looks off to the side, where sinners flee from the two. It is a strange sight, he'll admit it, the King Of Hell and the allegedly killed Radio Demon walking alongside each other.

‘If you could, you wouldn’t’ve stayed in your locked room for as long as you did.’ A huff leaves Alastor’s nose, and it reminds Lucifer of the first stag that appeared in Eden.

It huffed when Lucifer had stared at it for a bit too prolonged of a moment, aiming its antlers towards the angel. Lucifer had just managed to leap out of the way when it charged forward, and he was, admittedly, in awe. No prey had ever charged at an angel until then. He was mad, then amazed, then mad again.

Apparently the apple never falls far from the tree. Despite this show of frustration, no further words are spoken. They walk alongside quietude, footsteps shattering silence.

By the time they arrive back at the hotel, nothing’s changed and no conversation has been made. Alastor refuses to take help from Lucifer in getting back up to his room, and promptly disappears into an elevator. It leaves Lucifer to stand in the lobby, watching Charlie engage in her newest exercise with the residents of the hotel. However, something else catches his interest.

By the front door’s large windows, the yellow stain of the glass failing to hide whatever’s behind it, a dark shape. It hovers in the air for a few moments before elevating upwards, leaving the king to stare at it for a while longer before shrugging. Alastor’s probably got that handled.

Alastor did in fact have it handled. The moment he had stepped foot in his room, the very moment, his window facing the skyline of Hell was promptly taken up by one of Vox’s floating cameras.

Sighing, the deer strolls over to the pane, watching the drone with an annoyed glint in his eyes as it stares back, unrelenting, unwilling to be so compliant to intimidation. Alastor lifts his window up, allowing the thing inside, shutting it behind him.

‘What brings you here, Vox?’ He asks, though he knows he will receive no response. The drone hums, turning as it zooms around his room, taking in all the details of the floor, carpet, bookshelf. ‘What exactly will this accomplish for you?’

Snapping his fingers, he sends a radio wave out. It disrupts the camera, glitching it out. Alastor watches it hit the floor with a dying crackle, leaving him to stare at it, an elongated moment of silence.

Kneeling down, trying to ignore the jolt of pain shooting across his body, Alastor picks the camera up, the remnants of it, and moves over to the window. Another drone is already approaching from afar to see what happened to its brethren, which Alastor presents, holding it outside the window. He releases it and doesn’t bother waiting for it to hit the floor before going back inside his room.

**

Sighing, Alastor lowers his book in his lap, legs kicked up on the coffee table in front of him. He takes off his reading glasses with a closed-lip smile and stares off into nothing, waiting for something interesting to happen.

Staying at the hotel all day is boring. The walks with Lucifer are getting no less fluent and no less awkward than the day before. Food served by the residents seem to be getting worse, and there’s only so many pancakes Alastor can force-feed himself before he calls it quits and just starts piling them up in the corner of the room. He longs to go back to Cannibal Town with Rosie and chat with her, though he knows she’s still recovering from the losses in the battle herself. Last thing he’d want to do to her poor soul is worry her.

Although, if he could weasel away to Cannibal Town without anyone noticing, he might be able to be a bit more chipper. Lord knows he can’t just up and leave by himself, no, it’s much too dangerous. Right. Like Alastor hadn’t been able to keep himself thriving before his fall.

Going with Lucifer is always an option, Alastor knows it all too well by now, but he’s just not bothered. He doesn't want Lucifer to steal his best girl friend too. Alastor loathes the thought, and he takes note of a paper tearing. His claws have punctured his book.

Eyebrows dropping, Alastor chucks the book by his hooves, swinging them off the table to go roam around the hotel. He truly is very bored. Nothing fun left to do in this hotel. He’s inspected every nook and cranny, memorised the layout, the patterns of the walls, the blueprint of the kitchen. Hell, he’s even gotten as bored as measuring the distance between lights in the building. Lucifer’s spacing was a bit off when renovating.

When he gets to the lobby, Alastor glances around the room for someone to chat to. Anyone, at this point.

His eyes land on Husker and Angel, but they’re chatting amongst themselves. Maybe not anyone. Alastor doesn’t pry. Hearing the sounds erupting from the fourth floor every other night is already more than enough– He doesn’t need to hear the foreplay behind it.

Charlie and Vaggie are enjoying a nice break with each other on the couch, cuddling and asleep. Alastor, as tempted as he is to wake them up with a scare, feels as though, if he does go through with his actions, it won’t be just Adam’s angelic injury he’ll have to worry about.

That leaves one person.

Scooping her up as she runs after a beetle on the floor, Alastor hauls Niffty up onto his head, smiling wide. She whines for a second about the beetle’s escape, before smiling. Feet scattering around his head, two legs hook onto his antlers. A few seconds later, Alastor is face-to-face with Niffty’s upside-down face.

‘Hi Alastor! How are you holding up, Charlie told me you were a little hurt, can I see it, can I sew it up, you know how good I am at sewing, Alastor, please, please, please, please?’

‘Now now, darling.’ Alastor plucks the bug off his head, holding her in front of him. ‘In due time. For now I’m letting it do its thing.’ With the help of Lucifer’s magic, though he wouldn’t admit that. ‘If push comes to shove, I’ll let you sew me right back up, alright?’

Niffty giggles, nodding frantically. Her limbs hook onto Alastor’s suit, feet stabbing right into his wound, not that he lets it show. ‘I really like you, Alastor. Please don’t die, or get pregnant, or somehow disappear again.’

Alastor decides to ignore one of her pleas particularly, nodding. ‘Of course not, dear. I’m right here, and I won’t be leaving anytime soon.’ The deer moves over to the kitchen, hands placed behind his back as Niffty scampers over onto his head once again. ‘Would you be a darling and start up the coffee, Niffty?’

Niffty nods, hopping off his head. She lands onto the edge of the counter, slipping, her chin hitting the edge with a thud, before clambering back up. Alastor hums, letting a small chuckle slip out, turning to the kitchen island. He sits down, tucking his coat tail underneath him, legs placed together, and leans onto the marble.

There’re only a few moments of marvelling at the material until Alastor looks up, at Niffty. She’s staring at the coffee pot with such intensity, almost as if it would heat up faster underneath her gaze. He’s tempted to let a small laugh out.

Until something catches his eye. Glinting amongst the kitchen’s wooden features, hidden–Admittedly very well– In one of the upper cupboard’s handles.

Getting to his feet, albeit with a groan rumbling from his throat, Alastor slinks around the counter and to the cupboard. Niffty stares up at him as he grabs the handle, pulling the door open for a better look.

The micro-camera within the handle buzzes out, then dies. Alastor scoffs.

‘I have to admit, old friend, that one almost slipped by me!’ He says, knowing this damned electronic can still hear him. ‘What exactly is your end goal here? To learn how I cook? How about you come over to the hotel and find out yourself?’

Reaching into the tiny hole drilled into the metal, Alastor plucks out the camera, staring at it, turning it around in his hands. Niffty turns back to her coffee with rapid ease, almost indifferent to the stalking. However, Alastor cannot share the same sentiment, scowling beneath a toothy smile. The camera buzzes once more in his hands, to which he chucks into the bin.

‘Niffty, my minion, take out the trash once you’re done.’ Niffty nods, pouring black coffee into Alastor’s favourite red mug. Alastor hums, approvingly, and sits back down at the island.

What other cameras might he have missed?

Chapter 2: It's Like Trying To Start A Fire

Chapter Text

The next morning arises. Alastor gets up at a bright and early 6am, stretching his hands above his head with a prolonged yawn before settling back down, sighing. He may have been found out to be injured, but that doesn’t spare him from his daily tasks. Good. The last thing he wants is to be stranded in his bed and useless. The thought of it makes him sick.

First and foremost, he snaps his regular clothes on, tussling his hair a little to try and fix it up a little, and turns to his room. Alastor summons a vacuum and does a quick clean of the room. He vacuums any dust and debris off his carpet, smiling wide at the crunching noise that sounds when he hits a particularly dirty spot. Afterwards, he lays the vacuum near the door to his room, stretching his arms out in front of him. His floor feels marginally cleaner to walk on without his boots.

The next thing Alastor sets his sights on is the bathroom. Rarely does he use it, to be completely honest, but the last time he did he was bleeding all over the place trying to sew his wound up, so it fails to be a debate whether he should clean it or not. Usually it’s Niffty’s job to clean up blood stains and whatnot, but she doesn’t need to see how much he struggled. Weakness from her owner is not something she has to see.

Snapping a few chemicals on the bathroom vanity, Alastor rolls up his sleeves and places his hands on his hips, looking at the bathroom. He, when patching his wound up, had sat on the toilet lid, where the blood had leaked past his waist and onto the lid. Prior to that he had taken a quick shower, so he wasn’t really wearing enough fabric to stop the blood from doing so. And when he had gotten dressed, delirious with pain and dizzy with blood loss, he turned and left the bathroom without a second glance. The only time he returned was to throw Angel’s food in the toilet and flush it, and those times he just wasn’t bothered, always putting cleaning off for later.

Later is now. Alastor grimaces.

He runs his hand across the selection of chemical spray bottles, before settling on some sanitizer to try to wash away what can be. The liquid has well passed dried— Brown, flaky, even, and it smells terrible. Not a scent Alastor is unfamiliar with, but not one he wants to learn to live with in the comfort of his own room. The sanitizer doesn’t do much, irritatingly, leaving the deer to snap that out of existence and move onto the next product. He normally doesn’t clean the blood, as he said.. Niffty does it. All he can do right now is chuck chemicals at the stains and hope it works.

The next thing Alastor moves onto is a combination of vinegar and baking soda. He recalls one time that Niffty had told him it gets rid of a lot of stains if you combine the two into a thick paste. At the time he smiled and nodded and called her a good gremlin, mind wandering somewhere else, but now he’s actually very thankful he remembers this so suddenly. He reminds himself to thank the monster later on.

But, alas, the bloodstains are a few weeks too old. Their faint traces remain on the bathroom tiling and toilet lid, leaving Alastor to huff, wiping an arm on his forehead in slight exertion. His chest aches just a little bit from the work, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s done worse. Turning back to the items on the vanity, Alastor grabs another bottle, twisting his arm to read the label. Hydrogen Peroxide. This might work.

Alastor was admittedly not that much of a science buzz in his youth, he notes as he twists the lid open. He was always a business, entertainment person. Anatomy and taxidermy just so happened to be one of his pastimes he indulged in. But, hydrogen peroxide does sound like something that could help.

He looks over to the tile cleaner, the window cleaner, and mouthwash that he had also summoned. Help better than most, anyway.

After a few minutes of harsh scrubbing, slight groaning, and all-four ground contact, Alastor sits back on his haunches, looking at both the toilet and floor, satisfied at the lack of blood everywhere. His rag has taken the fall for him, collecting all his blood in itself, but it's valiant efforts are soon forgotten when Alastor tosses it on the sink, getting to his feet.

He’s already spent far too much time on this– It’s now half past six. He should get going to the other rooms he’s due to fix up before repercussions take place because the princess will think he’s too weak to go on. Being trapped in bed. Alastor shivers.

Moving out of the bathroom Alastor heads towards his door, reaching for the handle. His claws tink elegantly against the metal, though he makes no move to turn it. Instead, his eyes scan the rest of his room, the bed propped against the middle wall, the desk and sitting area opposing it, the natural sunlight flowing through the balcony doors.

With another click of his fingers, the curtains are drawn and Alastor exits his room.

The next course of action is to repeat the same process for the rest of Level 6. While not many sinners stay on this floor– No-one wants to even try being too loud and too close to the Radio Demon, even if he is injured–, the few that do require room service, or, customer service, if you will. The first few days of his injury being found out and him refusing to stay in bed, Charlie eventually settled on allowing Alastor to sneak (“With permission!” Charlie had added quickly) into the guest’s room and clean it up a bit.

Currently there are three other sinners living on level six. Currently, Alastor’s patience is about two sinners thick. If they try him, he’s going to get an early breakfast.

Humming to himself with a pep in his step, Alastor walks down the hallway, revelling in the jazz that trails behind him, coming to a stop at room 661. It lies at the mouth of the hallway to the left of the elevators. He looks down to the crack between the floor and the entrance, tilting his head at the warm light seeping through. It seems he’s not the only person to wake up early. Hmm.. What a predicament he finds himself in. Knock, or sneak in and make quick work of it in the dark? Knock, or sneak in..?

Well, this particular sinner hasn’t been that much of an issue— They’ve kept their head down, smiled when he and they met eyes, even said good morning once when they happened to land in the elevator with him. And it’s only… 35 past, he’s not exactly awake enough to mess around. Though it’d be funny. Maybe with the other rooms.

Alastor raps his knuckles on the door and stands back, co*cking an eyebrow as the resident within startles, dropping whatever was in their hands on the floor. Panicked footsteps fill the already deafeningly silent air as they rush to the door, swinging it open. Their eyes trail up the demon, widening as they go further and further up. Tut, tut. Two weeks living in this hotel, and they still have to get used to Alastor offering his services.

The Radio Demon smiles down at them. ‘Room service.’

‘Oh… Oh! Yes! Hello, good morning,’ They breathe, lowering their head to the floor. Behind them, Alastor notes that the coffee pot has been spilt on the floor, a regrettable waste of energy. He must have scared them during their morning routine.

‘I’m here to replace the towels, whatnot,’ Alastor explains, moving past them into their room. They allow him, turning, standing at the door frame. ‘My sincerest apologies for the scare! I must say, with how jumpier you are, my friend, you might as well make a hole in the roof! Hahaha!’

‘Hah..ha.’ Alastor glances back at them, snapping his fingers. A few worthless minions rise from the floor, baring their teeth wildly, in their hands cleaning supplies. They get to work on the spill on the carpet, as their owner moves into the bathroom. ‘I’m really sorry about.. The mess.. Mister Radio Demon. Sir.’

‘All is well, chum!’ Using a set of keys from his pocket, Alastor kneels below the sink, unlocking it, pulling out some soap and other showering necessities. He slams the door shut with his hip, placing the items in their respective places. ‘Why would I be here if not to pick up after you? Tis the hotel experience, afterall.’

A small wince of embarrassment is all he receives in response. Alastor turns back around, closing the bathroom door behind him. He scans the rest of the room, to the made bed, open balcony window, the personal items littered across various surfaces, then finally to the minions on the floor. They’ve made quick work of the stain— All that remains is a towel to soak up any excess liquid.

‘Very good,’ He praises to himself, turning to the sinner. ‘Breakfast will be ready at… say…’ Peeling back his sleeve, Alastor looks at his (recently appeared) watch. ‘10am.’

‘Okay.’ The sinner lowers their eyes down to the floor, stepping aside, making leeway for the exit. Alastor pats them on the head before exiting their room. That leaves two sinners with the patience for one. Their compliance and trembling voice annoyed him.

Moving down the hallway with his hands placed behind his back, Alastor hums a lovely tune to himself. He stops in front of room 664, co*cking an eyebrow as his ears move towards the room, inspecting the noise coming from behind it. And the sound of a cat dying. What is that woman doing now?

This sinner is bound to take the rest of Alastor’s patience. Loud, uncaring…. Eugh. Vagatha if she somehow had less self respect. Alastor hated her the moment she walked into the lobby, and he’ll keep hating her until she leaves. Maman always told him to never hit a woman, but she may be an exception— Alastor isn’t sure something as pruney as her could be a woman.

Standing in front of the door, Alastor allows his shadow to slip underneath the gap, into the room. He stands back as his second self does all the work for him, busting light bulbs, drawing a high pitched scream from the resident and stopping the cat dying noise. The music promptly turns off as footsteps echo from further in the room to the door, owner flipping the switches, seeing them fail to work. Alastor chuckles softly, satisfied, before his shadow falls back into line with him, and he moves onto the next room.

His task repeats. Pointing underneath the door, Alastor’s shadow disappears within, causing havoc behind, quite literally, closed doors, before reappearing with a mischievous glint in its inhuman eyes. Alastor nods in approval, placing his hands firmly behind his back, gripping each other’s forearms. He turns and walks off, just as the sinner exits his room with a fearful gasp, clutching their chest.

Well, Alastor didn’t cause the heart attack. Just the scare behind it.

**

Alastor admires the fact that he’s become some sort of unspoken chef amongst the staff at the hotel. It used to be Vagatha, bless her heart and her mediocre cooking skills, but after one later afternoon where Alastor had decided to refurbish his skills, the role was passed onto him. He likes that. He controls what they eat. A diet is surprisingly very significant to a person’s health— Feeding them too much of the same thing can work very well. For reasons Alastor won’t act on.

He stands in the kitchen with his coat placed on the island, door shut and sleeves rolled up to his elbow for flexibility. The cupboard doors are open, both top and bottom, as Alastor scans through, plucking out ingredients he can think to make things with. Let’s see… He has some flour, a couple eggs, and some leftover prawn from the last time he had whipped up some jambalaya. Fried shrimp seems like an ideal snack.

The deer moves over to the spices cupboard, withdrawing a few items before placing them on the counter. His hands fall into a natural rhythm of preparing some seasoning, just the way his mother had taught him— A heart-attack’s load of both white and black pepper, cayenne powder, onion and garlic powder, and heaven forbid we forget the paprika. The smell reminds him dotingly of home.

Sighing leisurely, Alastor hums to himself, setting the mix aside while he grabs the shrimp. Right. Now, all he has to do is butterfly the shrimp, and put some greens in, you can never forget the greens.

Setting a shrimp down on his cutting board with a smooth display of elegance, Alastor holds the item in place as he stretches backwards towards the island, grabbing a knife. Of course he could grab what he needs using his minions or perhaps a tendril if he’s feeling rather scandalous, but, the feeling of stretching and making little jogs around the kitchen add just that sprinkle of flavour to the art of culinary.

When Alastor lowers the tip of the knife into the shrimp’s head, he feels his brows furrowed together. He watches with a tilted head, his hand, shaking, trembling, even, holding the knife above the shrimp. Why is he shaking? He doesn’t shake often. As far as he’s concerned, it’s right in the middle of Hell’s heat, and he has nothing to be nervous or scared about. Has he been shaking since the fight with Adam?

Ugh. No matter.

Alastor slices through the shrimp, tearing through the tail with a silencing thud. He watches the shrimp split in two, on either side of the knife. Then, he holds the knife up, making a reach for the shrimp, when he stops. The deer… was not supposed to cut that in half. He was supposed to butterfly it, cut a small slit on its back. Not… that. It’s fine, he must have gotten too lost in his thoughts, turned on autopilot, as one may say.

Unwilling to let the shrimp go to waste, Alastor eyes the remaining few shrimps, tossing the two halves in his mouth. The tail is crunchy, and he for one, dislikes the texture of meat and tail, but alas. Waste not, want not. He reaches for another shrimp to slice.

Then another. Then another. And he keeps on messing up somehow, whether it be through cutting it in half, to making a hole in it, to cutting it slanted, until, when he reaches for the bowl holding the shrimp, there’s nothing within. Alastor wasted all the shrimp. And he hadn’t even made a single one for the rest to eat.

Chuckling, incredulous, Alastor steps back, away from the cutting board, resting on the island. He brushes a hand through his hair, pausing and grimacing when he feels the icky texture of shrimp against his locks, withdrawing just as quickly. He can’t cook anymore. Alastor can’t cook anymore. The one thing he was good for now in the hotel, gone. He wasted— How long has he been in here for— two hours. Two whole hours of butchering already dead shrimp and tossing the leftovers in his mouth.

The smile on the deer’s lips somehow draws tighter as Alastor leaves his items as was, moving out of the kitchen. He needs something to help him focus, a drink, perhaps, to help steady his hands and get his mind in order. Husker won’t allow it, Charlie not wanting Alastor to get alcohol in his healing body, but she’s locked away doing taxes or whatever roleplay she wants to indulge herself in, she doesn’t have to know.

Sinners are a scarcity in the lobby as Alastor makes his way past the common room to the bar. He finds a seat and all but falls down on it, struggling to keep himself up right, to keep himself from leaping across the counter and guzzling drink after drink down. Instead, using what last bit of self control he has, he peers over the wood, spotting someone on the floor, already staring up at him.

‘Drinking, and it’s only 8am, Spider?’

Angel Dust groans, sitting up as he stretches his arms over his head. He holds a bottle of liquor that he slams down on the counter as he gets to his feet. When the spider finally deems himself stretched enough to exist, his eyes fall on Alastor, eyebrow co*cking.

‘Well, Smiles, it’s 4pm somewhere.’ Sitting up on the counter, Angel Dust swings his legs over, falling down on a seat right next to the deer. While the proximity bothers him, as long as AngelDust isn’t trying to get into his pants, Alastor supposes it’s fine. ‘Charlie banned ya, remember?’

‘I remember just fine,’ Alastor mutters, taking the bottle from Angel Dust, uncaring for whatever may be on its rim. He can deal with it later, when he isn’t feeling this useless. ‘But, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

Angel Dust’s eyebrows crease, in that concerning way that always has Alastor rolling his eyes. The deer tosses the drink back, grimacing at the taste. ‘You doin’ alright, Smiles? Look like you had a rough morning.’

‘Rough? I don’t follow.’ Alastor passes the bottle back to Angel Dust, who, staring down at its remaining contents, slides it back to Alastor. ‘Can you fetch me something stronger?’

‘What’s bugging you? I might consider not tellin’ Charlie then.’ Alastor laughs, humourless, at that. ‘I’m serious Smiles. It’s not everyday the Radio Demon comes up to the bar for a drink, and I gotta get some hot gossip for my girl friends. And hey–’ Angel Dust holds his hands up. ‘I got my vow of silence. Not saying a word, okay?’

Alastor rolls his eyes, turning away from the spider. He refuses to tell him anything, not when he'll run his mouth off like a motor. The silence amongst the two stretches on almost uncomfortably, before Angel Dust sighs, resigned, perhaps turning a new leaf of conversation.

‘Guess I gotta start, then… Ya remember when Pentious first came into the hotel?’

Pentious? Alastor wants to ask, the name not ringing a bell. It's when he glances back to Angel Dust gesturing to the mural above the entrance door of the snake, does Alastor recall. The snake. Right. Annoying when he tried to attack, but he was mildly entertaining, if Alastor may put his two cents in. One could say the deer almost misses abusing the snake and his airship, though Alastor would never admit it.

Oblivious to Alastor’s trip down memory lane, Angel Dust continues. ‘Charlie seemed so happy that Pentious wanted to be in the redemption plan. Made me feel like sh*t, honestly.’

‘You didn't believe in redemption, though,’ Alastor finally adds in. ‘If I recall correctly, you were only living in the hotel as a means to escape Valentino and your contract.’ Noticing now that the spider had never served him his drink, the bottle they had been sharing running near empty, Alastor snaps a bottle down between them, two glasses accompanying it. Well. That’s a bit off putting. Why'd he prepare a bottle for two?

‘Yeah, duh,’ Angel Dust frowns, ‘But still. I thought we really had something special.’ He lets out a small, sarcastic scoff, watching Alastor pour a glass for him. ‘It sounds stupid. Sorry, I know you hate feelings and sh*t.’

‘All is well, arachnid.’ Alastor moves onto his own glass, not entirely sure why he had gone to pour one for Angel Dust. Maybe this injury is making him delirious. Nothing a bit of liquid courage won't solve. ‘I'm sure Charlie didn't mean to bruise your ego with her passion. She would rather die than hurt another's feelings. Hell, she feels pity for me.’

His tone falls somewhere on the line of disgust nearing the end. Angel Dust stares at the deer as he takes a sip of his drink, eyes down to the counter. After a few seconds, they lock eyes and Alastor sighs. ‘Well, I suppose it's only fair to share my troubles.. I can't get much more vulnerable than this.’ He gestures to himself, to his missing coat, his stomach. Angel Dust sits up a little straighter, pouring himself another glass.

‘So?’ He prods. ‘What’s gotten the Great Alastor so… ungreat?’

Alastor chuckles. ‘Your idiocy is entertaining. But, alas, it doesn't save me from my dilemma of worthlessness.’ He sighs melodramatically, placing his glass on the counter, swirling a claw around the rim. ‘I admit, I haven't been feeling… Very useful in recent times. From Lucifer shoving his rear into my hotelier position, to, now, even my lack of ability to cook. It gets a chum feeling down, don't it?’

‘You can't cook anymore? The hell are you saying?’ Angel Dust smiles, chuckling a bit. ‘Smiles, you're like, enough of a cook to be rivalling my ma.’

‘Ah, hah.’ Alastor turns his head away, picking his glass up. ‘Don't flatter me, dear, you might inflate my ego to concerning levels!’ He laughs, taking a sip. When he lowers his glass, he shakes his head. ‘But, thank you, my dear, it’s much appreciated.’

‘My dear?’ Angel Dust laughs, wanting to keep this (surprisingly pleasant) conversation going. ‘What, have I made it into qualifications for pet names? Cus it’s gonna cost ya, Smiley.’ The deer scoffs, rolling his eyes as he takes yet another sip, humming in approval, the alcohol buzzing through his body just perfectly. Angel Dust leans an elbow on the counter, palm digging into his cheek. Alastor narrows his eyes in the way the spider stares at him so affectionately, alarm immediately rising.

‘What?’ For he truly lacks the strength to deal with any innuendos today, and it’s only eight. Angel Dust shakes his head.

‘Nothing. Just thinking, Al..’ He sits up, grabbing his glass. Pouring some more alcohol into it, Angel Dust downs the drink, slamming the glass onto the counter. ‘You’re.. Not that bad. When you’re not being an asshole.’

‘Is this a ploy to get your darling Husker off his leash?’ Alastor teases lightly, mimicking Angel Dust’s earlier position. The spider rolls his eyes, tone falling a bit sour as he continues speaking.

‘Aaand there’s the asshole. Was starting to think someone replaced ya.’ Snickering, Alastor takes another sip of his drink, letting the strong taste linger on his tongue for a few moments before swallowing. The angle he sits at proves to be a bit painful for him to drink from, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Not when it’s making him forget his worry in the kitchen. He’s starting to see the appeal Husker has for this.

‘I’m just pulling one of your many limbs,’ Alastor assures. ‘Thank you, Angel Dust.’ He straightens himself, pressing his palms together, in the way Charlie would when explaining a trust exercise or whatever. When Alastor continues speaking, he raises his pitch, mocking Charlie light-heartedly. ‘And because you gave me a compliment, I will give you a compliment now.’ The two chuckle for a few moments, Angel Dust waiting with an anticipating grin for the compliment. ‘Angel Dust. You are…. Not insufferable when you are not flirting with me.’

‘Awh, Al,’ Angel Dust laughs, pressing a hand to his chest fluff. ‘You’re so good with these compliments, it’s making me blush!’ Alastor co*cks an eyebrow, lifting his glass again. He goes to take a sip when he realises it’s empty. That’s funny, he could have sworn he had filled it up just a few minutes ago…

Angel Dust lifts the bottle of alcohol, pouring it into Alastor’s glass for him. Alastor nods in thank you. ‘You’re quite the gentleman, Angel Dust.’

‘Angel’s fine,’ The spider adds on casually. ‘Angel Dust is what… Val calls me.’ He averts his eyes to the side, lowering the bottle with a solid clink on the wood. Alastor shakes his head.

‘Well, that’s certainly no good, Angel. I’ll keep it in mind for later on.’

Sighing, stress well drained from his body, Alastor turns away, looking towards the kitchen, eyebrows creasing. He really doesn’t want to make breakfast, or snacks right now. He really doesn’t feel like it. He was having such a (shockingly) nice conversation with Angel, only to fall right back into his dilemma and stress.

‘Don’t wanna be working, either?’ Angel chuckles. Alastor turns back to him, laughing a little, before nodding. ‘Yeah, me neither. Val’s got me workin’ a gangb*ng today, I hate those.’ Alastor doesn’t want to know what that is. However, he does watch with interest as Angel pulls out his phone, tapping on the screen a few times. ‘Ah, sh*t… I gotta get going now.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous to walk to the V district alone?’ Alastor gestures up and down Angel’s body. ‘Being who you are and all.’ He tilts his head, sliding his glass further toward the innard of the bar. ‘Shall I accompany you?’

Angel snickers. ‘Nice try, Smiles. You aren’t allowed to leave the hotel!’

‘Well, who told you that?’ Alastor co*cks an eyebrow, straightening his head. ‘I’m allowed to leave the hotel, of course, but they’ve given me a curfew for sunset.’ Waving his hand dismissively, Alastor hops off his stool, dusting his shirt down. He has to go fetch his coat, right. ‘Worry not, I’m sure I can get back to the hotel before sunset.’

Angel sends a sceptical look to Alastor, but smiles and nods, getting down from his own seat. He grabs his glass, taking one last drink, before walking with Alastor out of the hotel doors.

It’s not like Alastor really cares for Angel’s safety, truth be told. But, there is an advantage that comes with taking Angel to the V district. They run the centre of the pentagram, and the centre of the pentagram can take Alastor straight to Cannibal Town. It’s a foolproof plan. Once Angel disappears into his studio, Alastor will walk through the district towards Cannibal Town, and head back when the sun starts to set. That way, he can maximise his time with Rosie and be given leeway to avoid repercussions. Of course, he’ll have to deal with Vox, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

His plan is foolproof and Alastor is the best.

Angel begins rattling on about his work on their way to the V district. From his boss being a pain in his ass (“Literally!”) to Vox constantly whining and moaning about his losses against Alastor and his lack of attention from Valentino (Now that’s funny), Angel seems to have enough stories to power the sun. Alastor only chimes in with the occasional wow or question, to give off the impression he’s listening, but really, his attention is drawn to their surroundings.

The moment the buildings around them start to seem a bit too modern for Alastor’s likings, he comes to a stop, allowing Angel to find his own place and lead Alastor through the district. The spider explains that his studio was on the main street of the district, meaning most exits to other territories are pretty easy to get to. Wow. How convenient for Alastor.

But alas, all good things come to an end, and eventually, the two stop in front of a building. It’s tall, lacking windows, but certainly not lacking noise. Angel cackles at Alastor’s visible discomfort, before wishing Alastor a “safe trip to the hotel”. The deer watches his cheery demeanour fall as he approaches the building, eventually disappearing inside.

Now that leaves Alastor to the important things.

Turning, Alastor begins walking north, towards Cannibal Town. He feels giddy to meet his girl friend, so giddy, he nearly misses the way the screens around him corrupt and blend into different scenes. Alastor places his hands behind his back as he watches a display of TVs shift into Vox’s ugly face. It “startles” Alastor to the point he gags and looks away, earning an angry crackle of electricity. The screens return to normal.

Huh. This is strange. Vox normally leaves Alastor alone after his first display of uninterest. But right now, he’s stalking Alastor without a word, smiling and watching him with that ever so irritating eye. Alastor scoffs, rolling his own, not irritating, one coloured eye, and continues moving without a care, putting the watching down to Vox’s psychosexual obsession with the deer. And to think they were once neck-and-neck.

Ha!

Chapter 3: With Matches In The Snow

Chapter Text

The sky begins to grow dim as Rosie bids Alastor a safe trip back to the hotel. While he longs to just stay in town, send a message to the folks back at Hazbin about his permanent residence in Cannibal Town, Alastor doesn’t exactly feel like being yelled at if he gets back about his mischief and whatnot. With a longing look, watching Rosie turn and walk off back into her emporium, Alastor sighs, making his own way back home. To the hotel. Making his way to the hotel. When did he start calling the hotel his home?

By the time Alastor’s presence graces the V district, the streets are buzzing to life with nightly activities. Neon signs illuminate different p*rn studios and gameshow warehouses, others beckon to shady alleyways with promises of fashion shows and quick rushes of adrenaline, through drugs or sex Alastor doesn’t really care. He, instead, hums a jazzy tune below his breath, eyes scanning the walkways, laughing at how sinners startle and run off to the other side of the road, away from Alastor.

The camaraderie of the Vees never truly appealed to Alastor, truth be told. While, a long time ago, he was close as thieves with Vox, the story tells, as simple as it is, Vox outgrew Alastor, got tired of his old fashioned ways, and moved on. Sure, a few tears were shed, from Alastor too, he will never admit, but no lasting damage was made. Vox remained petty Alastor hadn’t seemed affected, belittling him, going as far as to persuade the daily paper into aiding his slander. Yes, it hurt just a bit, as it would with anyone else, watching your best friend insult and berate you, but it was nothing Alastor didn’t get over with due time.

Alastor isn’t heartless, shockingly. He cared for Vox. He knew Vox cared for him. Vox then cared for him too much, and Alastor (“Ever the coward,” He finds his reflection muttering to him,) refused to accept the sentiment. One of his bigger mistakes, yes, but that truth will never surface.

He often finds himself wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t denied Vox’s offer to join him and his band of misfits. Perhaps he would have modernised, perhaps he would have found himself drugged up and full of genuine smiles all the time, perhaps he would have been roped into Vox and Valentino’s… situationship. Or whatever’s going on between them. Alastor does grimace at these thoughts, but, the thought that he could have stayed friends with Vox does butter him a little.

Whatever. What’s done is done, there’s not much Alastor can do about it now. He finds it hilarious, even, to think that Vox may want to have him join, especially after all this time.

Alastor blinks himself back into focus, taking in the electric surroundings he walks in. The streets are too bright, too purple for his taste, and especially far too dramatic. Maybe that’s another reason Alastor never joined Vox’s team. They, shockingly, just didn’t clash. The sinners that do spend the two seconds to look away from their devices all stare in shock, watching Alastor walk by, corrupting their tools and screens. He chuckles at that brief satisfaction, continuing on.

His satisfaction dissipates. Now Alastor’s getting annoyed. Vox has been rearing his god-awful face on every single screen Alastor has passed by now, and he’s getting sick of it. Normally, Alastor would have given a couple insults by now, about his loss, or that video would have started playing, of his fight with Adam, but… there’s nothing. Vox is just watching him as he walks, and while he doesn’t mind an audience, especially when it paints Vox as pathetic as he truly is, Alastor’s getting unnerved.

It’s unlike the television to use his head and shut his mouth for more than eleven seconds. What exactly is he up to?

With due time, Alastor finds himself on a less crowded street of the V district, one lacking the neon signs, the sinners passing by. It appears to be an older fashioned street, windows slightly foggy, displays inside dusty. And to add a cherry on top, Vox seems to be too modern to grab a signal onto any electricity here, so Alastor is left in a peaceful, calmer solitude. Much better. It appears they do have some style, afterall. Good on them.

The products within each store are older and far below the standard Vox normally pretends to rise to, with boxy televisions that seem out of commission, to mannequins bearing outfits that even Alastor can call outdated. No wonder these streets are so desolate. They’re much older, maybe… 1970? 80? That was around the time Alastor had his falling out with Vox. Probably explains it. He was a mess without Alastor.

And hate it as he does, so was Alastor without Vox.

No matter. Alastor continues strolling down the street with his hands placed behind his back, ears up and swivelling around for any potential attackers. You never know— These sort of quiet roads anywhere in the pentagram are bound to have thugs running around searching for something good to knick and pawn. Or it might be some of Vox’s minions coming on Boss’s orders to keep an eye on the deer.

Of course Alastor is more than adept at handling a few sharks, they taste good if they want to, but he doesn’t really feel like adding “cannibalism” to his list of rule-breaking tonight, and he’s quite full from his day with Rosie. Not to mention how Vagatha will practically tear her hair out when she realises Alastor has done several things he was not supposed to be doing today.

Instead, if anyone does try to attack, he’ll just have to injure them. Majorly. That way, their death isn’t his fault. Not directly, at least, so Charlie can’t give him repercussions and somehow punish him worse than keeping him in his room all night to rest or whatever. Sighing, Alastor shakes his head to himself. Ashamed of the fact that one simple slap on the wrist from the princess is enough to get him to stop doing whatever he wants. How the mighty have fallen.

A buzz of electricity catches his attention to his right, to the store displays beside him. He slows his pace, coming to a complete halt, watching a particular stand of TVs all glitch and buzz, stalling. Static and movie grain begins to eat up the surrounding air around the collection of TVs, Alastor tilting his head with an amused grin as they fail to start up. The electricity sparks up again within a moment’s notice, this time, a few actually starting up. Alastor’ll have to offer Vox royalties, he still knows how to operate a box TV. Though, it shouldn’t be that much of an accomplishment, afterall, Vox’s head was a block of cement labelled a TV for a long time.

The few TVs that did start up reveal bits and pieces of Vox’s face, all jumbled and lacking space to fit his entire head. One of the TVs show the corner of his head, another his disgusting red saliva (or whatever that is), another his ugly little top hat. Alastor laughs at the display of patheticness, as the infection of Vox’s face spreads to all the boxes. Within a few minutes of Alastor being patient and waiting, Vox’s face is finally complete among the array of TVs.

‘Do thank me for being so patient,’ Alastor muses, turning fully to face the stand. ‘I waited for you to gather yourself like a pathetic little puzzle.’

Vox smiles back at him, leaning forward, towards the front of the screen. Alright then, if Vox so wishes to be silent, that’s only a plus for Alastor’s hearing. One more second of his voice blaring all around and the deer is sure he would have gone deaf by the ripe age of 110.

Alastor continues speaking for a bit, rambling on and on about how disgusting Vox’s district is, how it’s about high time someone comes in and fixes the place up. Because, in all seriousness, which putrid sinner walks out of the district without a headache? The lights are head-splitting, the noise is incessant, practically everything about the V district is so irredeemably disgusting Alastor can’t put it into words. Vox listens throughout all of this, occasionally pulling a face, but otherwise showing no indication of actually hearing Alastor. All he does is listen to Alastor go on and on about the things that need fixing in the V district, silent, watching.

With that incessant eye swirling too. Alastor finds himself staring at it for a prolonged moment, his voice buzzing out for a few seconds. He goes from talking about the district itself to Vox, how his eye is annoying, his screen is too bright, his outfit terrible and voice even more horrible. Alastor laughs to himself talking about the outfit, especially, wishing to himself he had his cane in tow to broadcast this slander.

‘It’s just so.. Distasteful,’ He says, shrugging. ‘I reckon you lost all fashion sense I had somewhat given you when we parted ways, truly. Neon vermillion and black stripes with navy and highlighter blue? Seriously? Did you spin a colour wheel and pick what you thought best?’ Vox narrows his eyes at that, but remains unblinking, unspeaking. Alastor continues with just as much care as before— Close to none.

‘Not to mention the red outline on your..’ He waves a hand in a circular motion around his face. ‘Screen, or whatever other label you give it. It’s hideous, I must admit, I hate it.’ Alastor sighs, shaking his head as he lowers his gaze to the floor. At this, he notices parts of his mind unclogging, his breathing relaxing— When had he tensed up? Must have been the screen. Rots the brain, doesn’t it.

Looking back up to the TV, Alastor notices the way Vox immediately sits back, assuming his original position, as if he were leaning closer, watching Alastor’s movements more intently. Must be regular Vox behaviour, then. The deer co*cks an eyebrow, watching Vox behave in his natural habitat within a screen, before laughing softly.

‘Look at you.You’re so pathetic it’s funny.’ Vox raises an eyebrow at that, smile growing wide. ‘I wonder what would have happened, had I chosen to stay with you. Nothing good, is all I can say.’ Alastor chuckles a bit more shamelessly at that, shaking his head. When he looks back towards Vox, he exhales through his nose, deciding to revel in the silence for a bit longer, without his irritating voice or weak quips.

And just when he begins to grow used to the muffled world around him, Vox speaks, smooth, like a blade upon thick ice. ‘Oh, Alastor. You’re so f*cking co*cky.’ He laughs, tossing his head back. Alastor blinks a few times, eyes focussing once again on the environment around him, the sky dark, far more darker than when he had first arrived. When did he.. How long has he been standing in this spot? How long was he talking to Vox for? When was mocking Vox so… time consuming?

Vox lowers his head, wiping a tear away, glaring right back into Alastor. Alastor hums, he supposes he could stay. Just a few more minutes, the hotel isn’t on fire. He stares at the swirl of Vox’s eye for another couple moments, getting lost in the black-red-black-red pattern of them, how it almost sends him into.. A trance. Of sorts…

Well that explains it.

Snarling below his breath, Alastor startles, flinching away from Vox and his wretched screens in the middle of whatever the latter was going on about. He snaps his fingers, summoning a tendril from his back. Vox audibly sputters for a few moments, clearly deciding what to do, before the inky appendage rams through the glass, shattering it. It penetrates one of the TVs, in such a way Vox has to move to the side, manoeuvring around the broken television. He visibly panics, before glaring right at Alastor, swirls picking up. But Alastor isn’t looking anymore.

‘I try to have a civil conversation with you,’ Alastor begins slowly, allowing the tendril to wipe technology by technology, ‘And you pull a stunt like this?’ He laughs, mildly incredulous that he had fallen for the trick, though, Vox doesn’t need to know that. ‘They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and you’re truly proving that point for me, Vox, truly.’

Soon, but a singular TV remains, something that shrinks Vox to the size of its confines. He presses up against the glass, smile widening, eyes narrowing greatly. A mischievous look from him has Alastor pausing before destroying the last one. Vox needn’t say a word, his eyes trailing down from Alastor’s face, to his torso. A bout of awareness flows through the deer as the other’s eyes remain in that spot.

Using his free hand not pressed up against the glass, Vox points to Alastor’s torso. His smile stretches across his face in such a way Alastor can see more teeth than eyes, as he follows Vox’s point down to his torso. To the significantly darker red in the middle of it. f*ck.

Wincing, Alastor turns away from the screen, hand flying to his opened wound. The sound of glass shattering echoes in Alastor’s ears as he winds the tendril back into the shadow, hurrying off. As he hurries through the V district, Alastor looks down at the hand clutching his chest. It’s soaked in blood, and his torso burns in pain— He had probably opened it when he had flinched away from the screens… Need to get back to the hotel before someone notices the giant gash in his chest and decides to make a move on him. Kick when he’s down, if you will.

Alastor clutches his chest harder, and hurries off.

**

The lights are on and the yelling is audible, even from the outside of the hotel. Alastor groans, clearing his throat as he looks down at his hand, to the drying blood on it. The walk had, in fact, made his injury feel even more hellish, something Alastor loathes, especially since his shadow transportation is no longer available to him. Not for such long distances.

Wiping his hand on the back of his pants and setting a note to ask Niffty to clean it later, Alastor pushes open the front door of the hotel, squinting at the sudden rise in lighting, the increase in noise and chatter. When his eyes do adjust in those very few seconds, he spots Vaggie and Angel yelling at each other. Charlie is over by the bar on her phone, alternating between tapping on it and raising it to her ear, Lucifer standing behind her muttering things, expression deadpan.

‘And you let him leave?!’ Vaggie screams, drawing Alastor’s attention as he very carefully shuts the door. Angel reels his head back, offended, his four arms deciding between resting on his hips and stretching out into the air beside him. They stand in front of the reception desk, nearing the stairs, something annoyingly unfortunate. Alastor needs to get up those stairs, to the elevators where he can get to his floor.

‘What was I supposed to do?!’ Angel snaps back, leaning forward, towering over the angel and her angelic spear. ‘He told me he could leave! I’m not no f*cking doctor, how was I supposed to know he couldn’t?’

‘Come on, come on,’ Charlie mutters, sitting down at the bar, hunching over her phone. ‘Pick up, Al, please pick up…’

‘Char-Char,’ Lucifer then aids, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Charlie winces, slamming her phone down on the counter with a silencing thud, shutting her eyes. Alastor grimaces, looking around the lobby for a quick way out of this predicament. He could always try and sneak in the shadows, but as luck would have it, everyone’s gotten used to hearing static build up, to seeing the walls become darker every time he uses the shadows. It’s quite the nuisance, he can’t even move a foot without someone knowing he’s travelling. Vaggie and Angel continue yelling, apparently unaware of Alastor standing at the entrance. Husk, at the bar, pours Charlie a drink, sliding it to her. She refuses, so he shrugs and takes it back.

As Alastor clears his throat softly, adjusting his coat, it becomes acutely obvious that he’s not going to be able to hide the blood.. His coat is ruined too.. damnit. Now what does he do..? He doesn't want to be screeched at, as funny as the thought sounds, when he walks by Vagatha. Ugh, he doesn't want anything. Perhaps if he makes it casual enough, he can just.. walk by without repercussions.

Clasping his hands in front of him, Alastor manages a nice, closed-lip smile, and strides forth. He manages to shrink the little bubble of jazz that encases him, just so it isn’t glaringly obvious. His eyes dart to the offenders on this right– Vagatha and Angel– And on his left– The Morningstars plus Husk. Careful now, act casual. Act like you aren’t the main cause of this yelling and incessant noise, act like you aren’t even involved. That’s gotten Alastor through a lot of the chaos in this hotel, it’s going to get him through this now.

He makes it a proud three steps before someone notices him. Lucifer, because who else would have seen him?

‘And where the hell were you?’ He speaks over Angel and Vaggie arguing. The yelling comes to an immediate halt, enough to make Alastor’s static buzzing increasingly audible. Alastor snaps his neck towards the king, offering a wide smile in hopes Lucifer would let him pass.

‘Out.’

‘Out?’ Vaggie snaps from his right. Her moth footsteps thunder towards him, before halting in front of him, glaring, eyes wide, teeth bared. ‘What the hell do you mean, out?! You’ve been gone the whole day.’

‘We've been worried sick, Alastor,’ Charlie interrupts, her expression turning frustrated, and Alastor winces, because when the princess gets mad, everyone gets mad, making this whole thing way more emotional than it needs to be. ‘You could have the decency to at least tell us you were leaving.’

‘Or that you weren’t gonna go back to the hotel,’ Angel sneers from his right. Frankly, all the sources of noise are really annoying him, and the bleeding in his chest isn’t helping. It’s, frankly, a miracle Vagatha hasn’t noticed the blood soaking his coat, but it appears god did grant him this one grace.

‘Are you bleeding?’

Ah. Nevermind.

Vaggie rips her gaze downward towards Alastor’s torso, eyes widening. She makes a reach for his chest, which is when he grabs her wrist, not too tight– It’s never polite to hit a woman, afterall–, gently shoving it back towards herself. Charlie hurries forward, seemingly uncaring for Alastor’s very explicit still in its place three foot distance, as she tears Alastor’s hands away from his chest, revealing the round splodge of blood making itself very known on his coat.

‘What happened?’ She asks, voice assertive, certainly no-nonsense. Alastor hums, taking a respective step back, head beginning to ache. He jumps slightly when he runs into another body and– When did Angel manage to get this close? Should have heard him.. Maybe it was Vaggie’s yelling that deafened him.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Alastor attempts to laugh off, waving his hand dismissively. The movement makes him feel oddly sick, but he coughs that up to eating off meat at Rosie’s. ‘I’m sure it will clear up in a few days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my room, so if you’ll.. Just..’ He tosses his hands back and forth in front of him, coaxing Vaggie out of his way without touching her. She moves, miraculously, but keeps her glare on him as he shuffles away. ‘Lovely. Ta, I’ll be in my room!’

Turning, Alastor mounts a hand on the railing leading up the stairs. He breathes, perhaps a bit too deep, and suddenly, his legs feel very, very heavy. Behind him, he can hear someone’s high-pitched voice say something, but he continues climbing up the stairs, and— by god, when were there so many of these? Time seems to slow on top of this, making the climb that much longer, though Alastor never seems to reach the top.

His sight blurs, his breathing heavy, chest pounding. Groaning softly, Alastor grazes a hand over his chest, pulling back at the sting. Huh. Was his hand always that red, or is he just seeing things? Yelling echoes through the blur behind him, and he swears he can hear his name at one point, but it’s not… clear what they’re saying. Maybe Alastor’s just tired.

Letting go of the staircase railing, Alastor decides to take a short nap.

**

‘He just… Why won’t he talk to us? We’re doing all we can to help him and he’s just being…’ A frustrated growl. ‘A jerk!’

Alastor blinks, yet his vision never seems to brighten, almost as if he never opened his eyes at all. His chest aches in a dull throb that seems to burn underneath his skin, his hands curled up slightly, tired, too tired to move properly. Something wet is on his forehead, wet in the sense he can’t tell if it’s damp or cold. He settles on damp, willing a hand to reach up and take it off. All over himself, his body feels tired, joints bending just enough to pass as deceased.

‘Duckling.. What else did you expect? He has issues. Really bad issues. An overlord like him isn’t gonna trust the first person he sees with a life-threatening injury.’

That’s true. The overlord bit, not before that. Alastor refuses to hand his trust over so easily to some joe on the streets, hell, it took Rosie a few minutes of convincing for Alastor to hint that he might’ve gotten hurt. When she had finally persuaded him to reveal his wound, she was in shock. Not for long, of course, her slaps hurt a lot. No matter, she had bandaged him up well enough, but it seemed to have worn down on Alastor’s walk home..

‘But dad— We aren’t just the first person he sees, he’s known us for… for over a year now! Surely there’s some sort of trust, I mean, he came back to the hotel, didn’t he?’

A soft hum, contemplating. ‘I guess he did… But it could mean anything, duckling.’ Something finally removes the rag off of his forehead, earning a relieved sigh from the deer, forced from his throat. Conversation halts. Hooves step closer towards the bed.

‘Alastor? Are you awake?’ Alastor hums, willing himself to force his eyes open. The lights are dimmed and soothingly warm, relieving Alastor of eye strain.

Lucifer and Charlie both stand over him, their expressions showing their own versions of concern. He is holding a white towel, hovering it over Alastor’s head, apparently having frozen. Clearing his throat, Alastor forces, through the power of sheer spite, himself to sit up, against his many pillows, relaxing into them nicely. He blinks a few more times, adjusting himself, before croaking out, in a hoarse voice, ‘What time is it?’

Note to self. Charlie’s slaps also hurt a lot.

Recovering from the daze of Charlie’s attack, Alastor raises a hand to his cheek, no longer with the energy to even be mad about it. If anything, he tells himself, it was sort of deserved. Charlie reels her hand back with a quick apology, eyes building up with tears, lip quivering, hands unaware of what to do, whether to go back for round two, cover her mouth, or stay by her sides. Alastor stares at her for a few moments, visibly disturbed by her… facial… glitch. Before it hits him with as much care as a piece of sh*t hurled at a wall.

She’s not crying because of him. She’s crying for him.

‘Oh Charlie,’ Lucifer begins, tossing the damp towel onto Alastor’s bedside table. Charlie shakes her head, stepping away, wiping her eyes, causing the king to promptly turn to the deer. ‘Do you know how long you passed out for, Al?’

Alastor will take a guess. One, maybe two hours if he’s pushing it. Charlie lifts her head, eyes still glossy, lip shaking almost violently, and now that’s only making Alastor panic, one of Alastor’s top morals is to never make a woman cry on purpose, Maman taught him that one, come on now. He wants to say something, but he finds himself eerily speechless.

‘A day!’ Charlie answers for him. ‘You’ve been in some sort of coma for a day! You passed out bleeding on the staircase, Al, we were all worried sick!’ Ah. That’s new. Sympathy for the Radio Demon. She launches forward and grabs onto his biceps, ignoring the sudden pop and crackle in static around the three. Her grip hurts as she shakes him back and forth. ‘And sometimes I hate you so much for being like you are! It’s really annoying!’ She sniffs, loud, gross, and continues shaking him back and forth like a ragdoll. ‘I should hate you so much for who you are.’

There’s a small hum of agreement from the two others in the room.

‘But I don’t.’ She releases him, wiping her snot on her sleeve, then using that same sleeve to wipe her eyes. Alastor grimaces, but doesn’t make a comment on it. All he does is watch her with a (albeit incredulous) calculated gaze, as Charlie collects herself. ‘Alastor, I know there’s something, a part of you that really cares about us.. Because why else didn’t you tell us Adam was aiming for you, if you didn’t want us to worry?’

There’s a small hum of disagreement from the two others in the room. Charlie rolls her eyes, managing a little laugh from herself. She turns to Alastor with redder eyes than before, wet and glossy, snot bubbling down her chin.

‘So please. Please let us help you.’

Alastor stares at her for a few moments, unsure of how to be responding in this situation. He turns his head away from her, to his bedside table, and reaches for one of the kerchiefs from the box. It comes out with a low hiss, and he brings it over to Charlie, wiping her nose. Charlie startles, allowing him as he cleans her up a bit. Lucifer narrows his eyes sceptically. When Alastor withdraws his tissue attack, chucking it on the table beside him, he tilts his head.

‘Very.. Well. I will let you know the next time I start to bleed out. As long as you keep smiling, my dear, misery and piteousness isn’t a good look on you.’ Charlie giggles, smiling. She nods, sending her father one last incredulous giggle, before hurrying out of the room.

That leaves two.

Lucifer narrows his eyes even further at Alastor, giving him a harsh silent treatment as the two remain in silence. Alastor sighs, settling himself nice and comfortable back in his pillows, willing to take the risk of shutting his eyes. Then he slips one open. Just in case. Lucifer remains to be glaring into his soul (Or.. lack thereof), crossing his arms with a gradual co*ck of his eyebrow. After a few moments, Alastor contemplates saying something, Lucifer speaks, his tone icy, his words flat and terse.

‘You f*cking idiot.’ Alastor tilts his head, opening both of his eyes as he stares at the king. ‘You didn’t just go to Cannibal Town, did you?’

‘I made a stop along the way,’ Alastor muses, waving his hand around casually, shutting his eyes. ‘Vox was just so funny to anger today, I couldn’t help myself but to taunt his pathetic regime and highlighter land of a district.’

‘I can tell!’ The other abruptly exclaims, throwing their hands up. That causes Alastor’s brows to crease, annoyed, the sudden noise doing wonders to the headache already seeping up at the back of his mind. ‘Did you seriously think I didn’t see you come into the hotel? Did you think I didn’t notice the swirling of your eyes when you walked in?’

Alastor sits up with a sudden alarm in his body. He stares at the king with widened eyes, smiles trained, slightly hunched. ‘Say that again?’

‘The swirling in your eyes, it was like… dark red. What the hell did you get yourself into?’ The king scowls. Alastor turns his head away from the king, just slightly, to look down at his legs. Had Vox really had that strong of a grip on him, that he had been affecting Alastor up until he entered the hotel? How much of his actions then were of his own volition, if his eyes were swirling..? Did Vox purposefully take him back to the hotel? For what?

Finally, with no further response from the deer, Lucifer sighs, shaking his head, lowering his arms by his hips. ‘You leave me no choice, Alastor. If you’re gonna continue sneaking out like that, I have no choice.’

‘What am I, a rebellious teenager?’ Alastor snarls, turning back to Lucifer. The king mutters something along the lines of “You sure do act like it”, before snapping his fingers. He holds his hand out, and in it, a chain.

A chain with a collar attached to it.

The panic that seizes Alastor has him freezing. His eyes widen and his arms begin to shake with exertion as Lucifer approaches with the collar, chain tinkling in his hands. Voices within him scream at him, to run, to fight, to attack, but he finds himself traitorously still as Lucifer loops the collar onto the bed frame, holding the other end out. Alastor stares down at it, then up to the King. Rage begins to bubble within him as they both remain unmoving.

‘Do you really think I’m that much of a fool–’

‘Relax, Bambi,’ Lucifer scoffs, soft. ‘I can already see your neck’s occupied.’ Alastor’s jaw snaps shut so insanely fast his teeth make a small clicking noise. Lucifer turns his eyes towards the floor, eyebrows creasing. ‘Go figure, give humans free will and they give it right back…’ Looking back up, Lucifer shakes his hand offering the other end of the chain. ‘I’m letting you preserve the last bit of your dignity and pick where you chain yourself. Ankle, wrist, thigh, whatever. You pick.’

Alastor stares down at the chain for a few moments. His eyes run along it to the connection between its opposing end and the bed, before they slither back to Lucifer’s hand. He stares at it for a couple more seconds.

The metal is cold in his hand. It thrums with angelic power, as he clicks it open, flinching slightly at the sudden noise it makes. His other hand reaches up and sticks through it, tensing at the lock snapping back into place, connected to the bed. Lucifer nods approvingly, before offering his goodnites. He leaves the bedroom, leaving Alastor to his own devices, chained to his own bed.Alastor grabs one of his pillows, stuffing it into his face.

He screams until his voice goes out.

**

Alastor doesn’t know what time it is when something finally happens in the darkened confines of his room. The curtains are drawn, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing the light blue zap that sneaks through the glass door and into his room. Alastor’s ears pick up, as he gets into a sitting position, watching the rest of his room. His green fire crackles as it always had, bathroom door shut, everything.. Seemingly fine. What was that zap?

Narrowing his eyes, squinting into the darkness, Alastor swings his hooves off the bed, standing. He jerks back, his arm twisting uncomfortably, the chain latching him to the bed offering a slight glow however he hides him. Alastor groans, settling back into bed with a resigned hunch. Oh well. Probably nothing too important. Turning to his side facing away from the chain, Alastor attempts to doze off. He blinks a few times to try to coax his eyelids into falling shut.

Before something catches his eye. Sticking out from the red of his room, and the darkness to it, something bright, blue, and most importantly, too close.

Alastor sits up with his hand flying out to summon something to attack. However, before he can even muster a tendril, hands force him back down onto the bed, pinned underneath the heavy weight of a person. He attempts to open his mouth to yell. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp. The person above him laughs at him, digging their claws into his arms, and it hurts, it f*cking hurts.

Panic, seizing him in more ways than necessary, Alastor looks up at his intruder, thrashing, kicking and jerking off the bed as a means to attack. A hand sneaks it way past his arm, shifting his limbs to be gripped by a single appendage, and grabs Alastor’s chin with a force that makes his neck ache. The two make eye contact, and Alastor halts his thrashing. Calms his breathing. Relaxes his muscles. Focuses on the other’s eyes.

‘That’s a good deer..’ A hand runs maternally through his hair, forcing a shiver through him. ‘Good deer. Just relax, focus on the swirl. Don’t panic, it’s just me.’ Alastor feels his body begin to ease into his mattress, joints falling loose and calm. The hand doesn’t stop, continuing to ruffle his hair, as the other squeezes Alastor’s wrists, pinned above his head.

Something within Alastor tells him to fight. To attack, and bite back, and force the other to scream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he finds his eyes begin to droop, his breathing evening out. The figure above him smiles, wide, hypnotic, withdrawing the hand from his hair, the other from his wrists. Alastor makes no move to lower his hands from above his head, focused instead on the swirl, the bright red swirl planting him where he lies.

‘Go to sleep, Alastor. I’ll see you soon.’ Alastor eyes fully shut, easing into a heavy slumber, ears relaxing, heartbeat calming itself. He finds himself slipping further and further from consciousness before he can stop it. Before he knows it, he’s asleep.

Vox smiles, wide, and exits the deer’s room the way he came.

Chapter 4: Where You Can't Seem To Hold Me

Chapter Text

Swirling eye. Addicting red. Claws digging within skin. Panic. Nothing but. Alastor thinks, for a moment, he’s sure to die, at the hands of his enemy. But he doesn’t. His hair is carded through, in such a way, he wants to drift off. No. No. He can’t. A prolonged moment of shut eyes can mean his death. But Vox persuades him otherwise. And for a second, just for a second, Alastor is reluctant to doubt him. To stay from his grasp. His eyes are so deep and pooling, it seems Alastor can never get away, his words reverberating in his head over and over again.

It’ll be safe, Alastor is told through an unspoken brush, just drop your guard.

Drop your guard, and fall asleep. Spend your nights in an empty bed, wishing I was filling the other half. Look into my eyes with longing. That’s it. That’s a good deer. That’s a good buck. A 50-Point Buck. My 50-point buck—

Alastor sits up with a gasp. His ears swivel rapidly around the room, searching for any speck of noise too unusual. He finds his hand reaching for his chest, aching slightly, lifting and falling with unusual haste. What.. Where the hell is he? Groaning, stuffing the heel of his hand into his eye socket, Alastor blinks, looking around. He’s in his room. Right. His room. The safety of his room.

Swinging his legs off the bed, rumpling the sheets, Alastor gets to his hooves, swaying a tad. Terrible dream, horrible dream. Never. Never, never will Alastor allow himself to degrade himself to… that. He begins to move forward to head to the bathroom, yelping when his hand is drawn back, practically nearly ripped from his socket. Right. Shackle. Shame it is, that that part of last night wasn’t a dream.

Sighing with a tumble back onto his bed, Alastor takes a deep breath. It replenishes his lungs enough for him to focus properly. He glances at the clock on his table. 3.22am. Well, it's not looking like he's going to get any more rest later on. And he can't really stray far from this… Alastor pulls on the chain, scowling at the clanking. All that's left to do is entertain himself, he supposes, as he places his legs back up on the bed, groaning. He runs his hands down his face, and—

His wrists.

What the hell happened to his wrists?

The darkened spots on his ashen skin stand out like blaring lights, horizontal, on both of his wrists, like he had been grabbed, harsh, unforgiving. Alastor hadn’t even noticed them before, but now that he has, he runs an intrigued claw over the skin. It aches in such a way he withdraws his hand as quick as it had come, staring down at the injury. What… caused his wrist to bruise up like this? He hadn’t gotten into any fights, no, none that he remembers. No one had even dared to come up to him in recent times, except, of course, Vox with his silly hypnosis and what…not…

Vox. Vox was in his room. And it wasn’t a dream.

Alastor’s ears stand up straighter than they had before as the deer begins scanning the room. Vox had come into his room. It wasn’t a dream, of course it wasn’t, what sort of fool would believe it was? He had violated Alastor’s privacy and got into his room, but how? Alastor would never bring any sort of filthy electronics into his room, and everyone in the hotel knows too well to keep those disgusting devices out when they enter. So how did Vox manage to garner enough connection to get in?

There’s no way Alastor’s radios are his undoing. Alastor’s radios don’t work as they would topside, they function perfectly without electricity, in fact, it is Vox whose creations are his own undoing. He needs radio signals to broadcast himself, and who runs those waves? But that’s irrelevant, now, Alastor needs to focus on how Vox could have possibly weaselled into Alastor’s room like the mole he is…

Maybe it was a few days back? When that drone had gotten into his room? What an idiot he is, allowing the drone to come in, scan his entire room, before kicking it out. Alastor’s an idiot, the biggest one, for allowing it to do that, invade his privacy in wake of an inflated air of confidence. Idiot. If only he didn’t have this blasted shackle on his wrist, he could get to removing that plague of Vox in his room, but heaven forbid Lucifer doesn’t get his morning sleep.

Alastor is left to sit on his bed and wait. He finds, after a few minutes, that yelling for someone may suffice. So, he does, he lets out a loud croak, hurting his throat, even going as far as to sink down his throat. RIght. Emotional old him had screamed out his miseries into his pillow last night. Lovely. He could go for a cup of coffee, right about now… But, alas, the world has it out for him, and said coffee never arrives, never rears its head to grace him with some relief. Not that it would help much, to be completely honest. The thought that Vox can come and go as he pleases… That disturbs Alastor.

This room is, shockingly, one of the only places in Pride he can get some peace and quiet, but now it’s been breached. Offended in every sense of the word. Alastor hates it. He needs to deep clean this room, as soon as possible, before Vox decides to make round two.

Sighing, Alastor looks over to his wrist, where the chain loops itself, cold and thick, daring Alastor to attempt to try to remove it. He knows he can’t. It’s not his first rodeo with angelic chains, as few know, He will never be strong enough to even lace a scratch into this stupid thing, in fact, it will probably only hurt him more than before. So, with what little self preservation he has left, Alastor dismisses the chain. The time is 3.47am. Lucifer gets up at 7am or so to begin making pancakes in the lobby.

Of course, before all this “You need to rest!” nonsense, he’d never be able to get there before Alastor. But now, Alastor’s grown tired and sleeps for longer, and he can only handle so many pancakes, before he goes insane. As mentioned before, maybe, maybe not.

Getting himself comfortable, Alastor pulls his covers up to his shoulders, and begins waiting for the clock to hit 7am.

**

Alastor has counted 257 seams on his shirt when his ears catch the sound of his door unlocking. His eyes fly to the source of the noise as Lucifer walks in, yawning, a hand covering his mouth. The king rubs his eyes wearily, stopping mid-step when he notices Alastor staring. He lowers his hand from his eye, co*cking an eyebrow.

‘How long have you been awake—’

‘Since 3.22am.’ Alastor lifts his hands and jolts it to the side, creating a piercing noise from the chain, something that Lucifer cringes at. ‘Unshackle me.’

‘Yeah.. yeah.’ Lucifer co*cks an eyebrow, but makes no move to step forward. Instead, he stares at Alastor for a few more unnerving seconds, before his eyes lower to Alastor’s body, his pin straight legs underneath the covers, his folded hands in his lap. ‘What… happened to your wrists?’

‘Vox came in during the night.’ The king barks out a laugh, tossing his head back for a moment. When he lowers it, finding Alastor to still be staring, his smile fades marginally, brows furrowing. ‘He did something to me. Maybe. In my sleep? He made me sleep. He got in. There’s a camera here somewhere. I tried to see if I could find anything but...’ Alastor tugs on the shackle again. Lucifer winces, shutting an eye, baring his teeth.

‘Did… You check the rest of your body?’ He asks, approaching the bed with a disgusting look of sympathy on his face. Alastor grimaces, looking down, to his legs and body. He hadn’t, actually. It didn’t come to mind, and besides. The injury and shackle would make things difficult, Alastor’s not supposed to be leaning down, for obvious reasons. Lucifer notes this realisation, as if reading Alastor’s mind, and turns his gaze to the balcony window. He steps forth, drawing the curtains, darkening the room greatly. ‘Would you like me to help check your body?’

Alastor stares at him as if the duck connoisseur had slapped the deer straight across the face. He co*cks an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly as if to shame the king for even suggesting the idea of him seeing past Alastor’s wrists. Lucifer rolls his eyes. Right, because he hasn’t already seen and learnt a lot about Alastor. His injury, his back littered with deer spots and marks, the chain on his neck, the lottery of it. So, unless he has an unusually shaped dick, there’s not much left to hide.

He repeats this to the other, who sneers at him. But, as recalcitrant he is, Alastor nods, allowing Lucifer to step forward, past the bounds of his three feet rule. Alastor unbuttons his shirt with practised hands, grimacing when Lucifer unties his waistband string. This all would seem very intimate, if seen out of context, Alastor mutters.

‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I drew the curtains,’ Lucifer replies, eyes downcast to make sure Alastor’s legs are unharmed, head nodding towards the balcony window. Alastor hums, agreeing. He makes a small quip about Lucifer being able to think that far, earning a demeaning glance upwards. ‘Hardy-har-har. Asshole.’

Alastor chuckles lightly. This is why he enjoys the king’s presence so much. He’s just so easy to make fun of. People who get mad easily are very entertaining, Alastor finds as he thinks through all the people currently after his neck. Lucifer’s theatrics have… surprisingly taken Alastor’s mind off of the intrusion. Vox’s… intrusion.. Into his room. Via electronic.

Panic seeps back into the deer as Lucifer inspects his tibia for any scratches. Alastor begins looking over him to scan the room, eyes drawn mainly around the balcony, where Vox can come in. For a moment, he thinks he sees something glimmering on the floor, spiking his stress enough for him to jolt. Lucifer groans, reeling back with a hand on his chin, Alastor’s leg having launched right into him.

‘What the f*ck, man…’ He rubs his skin, lowering Alastor’s leg as he follows his gaze to the balcony. ‘Right. He got in.. Uhm..’ Standing up properly, Lucifer moves from the bed to the balcony, looking down at the carpet. He rubs his shoe over the red velvet, back and forth, a few stray bits of dirt or grass (From the missing bayou) jumping up, but nothing else. With a bit of defeat in his eyes, he looks over to Alastor.

‘Do you remember where he started from? Would help a lot, radio asshole.’

Alastor hums, tapping his chin. ‘I only remember I saw him on this side of my bed.’

He gestures to the left side of his bed, the side where the entrance and bathroom lay. Lucifer, on the other side with the balcony, tosses his arms out to the side, frowning. He walks over to the other side, and repeats the process of dragging his shoe through the carpet, waiting for something to jump up from the velvet. Alastor makes a mental note to have his carpet dry cleaned later.

With no end result, Lucifer looks up to Alastor, shrugging once again. He offers, to the deer, that he could have some clones or something come in and inspect the place for him, but Alastor insists he’s fine. That he’ll garner his own time to have a small look. The king shrugs, though, despite his feigned indifference, there’s a layer of concern for the Radio Demon, something that the latter finds quite amusing.

Going from wanting each other’s throats to allowing each other in the other’s personal space, it’s really the flip. If being sliced in half by a brute with an inflated ego was all Alastor needed for the King of Hell to start sucking up to him, he would have done this much sooner. Come to think of it, everyone’s started kissing Alastor’s feet ever since he got hurt. Maybe he should do this more often. It’s quite nice. Until they baby him, that’s when he finds an issue.

The king walks over to Alastor and picks up the shackle binding Alastor to the bed. In his hands, the glowing metal breaks off into small pieces, glitter-like, allowing Alastor to withdraw his wrist, massaging the joint. Lucifer offers his farewells to Alastor, mumbling something about “seeing him in the kitchen later”, before he’s out the door. Alastor grumbles softly, uneasy, looking around his room for any sort of electronic glimmer. But, with no sort of device found, he gets to his feet and begins to get ready for the day.

He vacuums the carpet up, worry increasing for every crackle that comes with the carpet. Soon after, he steps inside the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. The deer grimaces at the mess of hair on his head, the curly locks flying in all directions. When he reaches down to the kitchen vanity, he finds his straightener is gone. Damn Niffty and her unusual care for Alastor’s hair…. He’ll have to go dumpster diving for it later on. When he’s dressed and ready to head out, Alastor reaches for the door handle, though, he makes no move to open it. Instead, he looks out into his room, eyes scanning over every part of it.

Vacuuming the room once again for good measure, Alastor steps out of his room and into Level 6’s hallway.

This time around, Alastor keeps his hands firmly clasped in front of him. He eyes every mirror down the hallway with extra caution, in the case it may be a one-way mirror, before moving to room 661. However, unlike before, his patience is thinner than it should be, and he doesn’t exactly feel like dealing with Mr Trembly Voice. So, instead, he settles for a better option.

Snapping his fingers at his shadow, Alastor gathers its attention and points to the door. The shadow nods, smiling rabidly, excited to cause mishap, before weaselling inside room 661. Alastor sighs, leaning against the wall with his hands on his hips, waiting with a patient smile as the shadow scours through the room. However, his own attention is grabbed when the shadow exits, frowning, waving its hands around frantically. Alastor looks down at it, co*cking an eyebrow.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ It pulls on his pant leg, the very bottom, dragging it towards the room. Alastor narrows his eyes, allowing it to bring it to the door. It disappears underneath once again, and a couple moments later, the door creaks open.

Pushing the entrance open, Alastor is graced with a tidy room. The personal items are still where they were yesterday, bed neatly made, though its resident is missing. To be fair, Alastor hums, it is 30 past 7, later than he would normally wake, he supposes he can’t blame the sinner for not being in the room. So what is wrong with his shadow? Giving it a questioning look, the shadow facepalms, waving its hands around a bit, before bringing Alastor to the vanity, where the personal items are. It slithers up onto the top, pointing at a photo frame on the table.

Alastor picks it up, staring at it with sudden interest. It’s an image of the sinner and some other woman… In a very neon-looking district. They hold co*cktails and smile at the camera. He narrows his eyes, holding the photo closer to his face. In the background, the V Tower can be seen.

No wonder that device got into his room. There’s a mole.

His shadows carry him down the room, past the five other floors, to the lobby. Yes, it hurts, his injury screams at him to take it easy, but he doesn’t care. Alastor waltzes past the bar and Angel and Husk, into the kitchen. There, Charlie, Vaggie, and Lucifer all reside, doing their own thing whether it be chatting, drinking coffee, or making pancakes, respectively. They all look at Alastor as he shuts the door behind him, turning to the others. Charlie smiles at him.

‘Oh, good morning, Al! How did you sleep?’ She gives him a cheesy look, wincing, akin to her father. ‘I would have come to wake you up at five, but I thought you would want the extra sleep.’

Alastor doesn’t respond. Instead, he strides further into the kitchen, leaning on the counter, moving forward. Vaggie gives him a strange look, lowering her mug to the surface, raising an eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Room 661,’ Alastor explains. ‘He’s working for Vox.’

A loud clatter erupts from the stove. Alastor turns his head to Lucifer, who curses under his breath, picking his spatula up from the middle of one of the fires. He turns back to Charlie and Vaggie, who both exchange a glance, before focussing on Alastor. Charlie is the first to speak, ever the optimist, offering a polite smile, pressing her hands together.

‘That’s… A really strong thought, Al!’ She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How could you tell?’

‘There was a photo,’ He explains, standing straight as Lucifer dishes a pancake in front of him. He’s not hungry. ‘They were in the V district. The V tower was in the back. I want them out of the hotel, they can’t stay any further.’

Silence falls over the kitchen like a wave. Vaggie purses her lips, raising an eyebrow. ‘The sinner… went to a district known for its nightlife and partying… and you deduce they work for the Vees?’ She scoffs, incredulous, shaking her head as she picks her coffee back up. Alastor narrows his eyes, seething at the indifference from the moth. Before he can even think to voice this annoyance, he startles, a hand placed on his back.

‘Al,’ Lucifer mumbles. ‘We checked your room. There was nothing. You… Maybe you can take it easy? A bit? The stress you probably have won’t help your injury.’ Alastor’s mad Lucifer is right, that his injury roars and howls across his body. The latter slides his pancake closer to Alastor, who stares down at it, before giving the king an incredulous smile. A pancake? That’s all they can offer for Alastor being in danger? He could be potentially assaulted in his own room and all they accommodate for him is a pancake?

Alastor looks at Charlie for help. She winces, turning her eyes down to the counter with a sense of shame. Vaggie offers no different result, something which Alastor despises. His smile narrows and he picks up on the way his static begins to pop and crackle in anger. He straightens himself, shaking Lucifer off of him, forcing himself to relax in order not to give himself a migraine due to the static.

With another harsh spike in static, Alastor turns and exits the kitchen.

Angel waves him over as Alastor makes his way to the bar. He offers a polite smile and pats the seat beside him. Husk seems less enthusiastic, but Alastor couldn’t really find himself to care as he all but falls onto the seat, leaning forward, head resting in his arms. His eyes meet the cat’s, and the cat nods, turning his back to prepare a drink for the deer.

Alastor’s relationship with Husk has been… tense, if anything, since the extermination. The cat had hugged Alastor—albeit with a bit of reluctance— when Alastor had returned from his little slip up after the extermination, but other than that, he had steered clear of Alastor. Hell, their interactions had been so strained, one would think they had killed the other’s pet, but no, instead, all there is to their bond, is a chain. A chain, and a dull memory of their lives together topside.

So imagine the overlord’s surprise when he hears that Husk had actually been the one to care for him when he had passed out, initially. He had been the one to step up to the job of switching out his clothes and washing his hair and whatnot while Alastor was passed out. Husk was the one to mention Alastor could probably use a rag over his head when he had fallen for the second time two days ago. Alastor could guess that Husk cares, now, but he’s not an idiot. The man’s probably sucking up to him, either in the hopes that his sentimentality will wipe Alastor out, or his injury will.

Sighing, Alastor raises his received glass to Husk as a thank you, lifting his head up enough to have a drink. The cat grunts, and turns back to Angel with a faint smile on his lips. Because, yes, they’re dating now, aren’t they? Alastor could care less for their relationship, as long as it doesn’t affect him. But if he had to voice an opinion, it’s gotten Husk more easy-going, more willing to “go pick up my meat from Cannibal Town, will you? You can stop by Angel’s on the way..!”, or to “wipe down all the mirrors in the hotel, won’t you?”. Alastor reckons he’s received less middle fingers than ever in the past few weeks. Miracle, really, he’s come so accommodated to that singular claw, he’s even given it a name. Maurice. Husk seems like a Maurice.

The deer tunes back into the conversation around him, blinking at the bottle of whiskey that had been seated beside him.

‘No– What, I– No! What? Ask Alastor then!’ Angel scoffs, gesturing to Alastor. The deer looks over, albeit a bit lazily, co*cking an eyebrow. He holds his claw up above his resting head, swinging it back and forth apathetically. Panic’s become so engraved into his body, and he’s just so.. Unusually tired, being up and alert since the ungodly hours. He can’t find it in himself to be proper when his body feels like it’ll topple over any moment.

‘Hmm?’

‘Alastor,’ Angel begins, ignoring Husk’s brief flash of panic, then reluctance to involve the overlord. ‘Okay, ‘magine there’s a button in front of you right. If you press it, you can see one year into the future but you can’t change anything about it. If you don’t press it, you can go into the past, but you can’t see what you do in the future. Would you press it?’

Spinning in his seat so his back leans against the counter, Angel props his arms up on the wood, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘Husk over here is telling me he’d go into the past, but if I could go into the future, I could f*ckin’ make a living off of fortune tellings!’ A small series of oohs leaves Angel’s mouth, as he realises something. ‘Wait, you can do voodoo and all that sh*t right? Could you read futures?’

‘Even if I could,’ Alastor drawls, sipping the last of his drink, ‘I’d go into the past. Before I go into said past, I already have a set goal, I know what to change, and if I mess something up—’ He waves his hand around loosely, raising his head. ‘I could just do it again. And what I would give for an opportunity like that.’ The mood visibly drops from the last clause. Angel frowns, his smile fading slightly.

But, surprisingly, Husk is the first to speak.

‘Uhm. Boss, I know it ain’t my place to be askin’, but.. Are you doing alright?’ He opens up the aforementioned bottle and pours some into Alastor’s glass. A quick glance he sends to Angel (Something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Alastor) has the spider leaning to the other end of the bar, turning the dial on a small radio seated there. Jazz and rye.. Mimzy must have let something slip.

‘Fine. Just, had a rough morning, is all,’ Alastor laughs, waving his free hand around. Sitting up properly now, things start to make more sense to him, and– How much has he already drunk? The world past a few yards is swaying. Angel tilts his head.

‘What? What happened this morning?’

‘An old friend came to visit,’ The deer explains, reminding himself to be mad at his openness later on. ‘I couldn’t exactly call for help and fight, you see. He had made sure I couldn’t.’ Alastor’s glass hits the counter with a quiet thud, and he peels back his sleeve. Both demons lean in closer to the bruises on his arm, sharing their own looks of alarm. ‘I’m, understandably, a bit afraid of his return.’

‘Oh, sh*t, Al,’ Angel mutters, grabbing Alastor’s arm (As much as the static spikes in the surrounding area), pulling it a bit closer to his face. ‘Vox..? Was it Vox?’ Alastor grimaces. Who else could it possibly be? Who else is so obsessed with Alastor he has his coffee order memorised like second nature? Followed him around like a little stray dog fed one-too-many scraps?

‘Did you have a look for any sort of device he mighta planted?’ Husk grumbles, tapping Angel’s shoulder to release Alastor once the static gets a bit too intense to be comfortable. The spider does so, leaving Alastor to turn his attention back to the cat. He nods, mentioning his double vacuum session. Husk nods. ‘Alright. Well, eh, if you need any help— Not that I’m saying you will, if you need it and I mean need— just holler. You got a whole hotel here to help.’

‘Appreciate the offer,’ Alastor shrugs, once and for all abandoning his glass. ‘I think I’d best be heading to do other things. Dinner won’t be cooking itself, and you know how… eccentric, our king is with his meals.’ The three share a laugh at that. Alastor stands, tipping his head to both demons, before turning on his heel and heading for anywhere else in the hotel.

**

That night, with his wrist reshackled (this time with a longer chain— Rejoice!) and comfortable in his night-dress, Alastor sits in his bed. He watches with rapt anticipation, the balcony door, waiting for that zap of electricity to show its face, to make a scene. This time, his voice is back and he’s made sure his yells will reach all the way up to Vox's asscrack, Alastor will make no mistake. Vox will have his head mounted as a wall TV before he could say “Video Killed The Radio Star”.

But, the return never… returns. Alastor stays sitting, eyes unblinking, waiting for the moment he lets his guard slip and the assault repeats. But nothing ever happens. The sky remains dark, silent save for the sinner screaming in the distance, and Alastor remains awake. At times, he promises, he hears a creak in the floorboards, a call of his name from his door, but there’s no one ever there when he sends his shadow to go and check. He promises he sees something move in the corners of his dark room, but there’s nothing. There never is.

Alastor remains upright in his bed, still as a corpse, watching that little crack between the curtains, flashing his room to the entire world, waiting for Vox to arrive with his too-bright screen and his irritating red eye and those horrid words and coos. One would think he’s talking to a baby, with how he spoke to Alastor. The deer scowls at the thought, clenching the sheets harder beneath him.

When the sky begins to light up between those curtains, Alastor feels like death reverberated. His limbs feel heavy and unstretched, body unstimulated in a way that has him biting his wrist just to feel something, an action he halts when blood begins to draw and summons a permanent ache in his body. His eyes tease slumber every other moment, but he keeps them open. Hunger wracks through his body, reminding him of just how long it’s been since he’s eaten, but he makes no move to find a snack.

When Lucifer arrives, Alastor is seconds late to respond to him. Every small comment the king makes has Alastor responding moments later, every brush against skin has Alastor’s skin prickling. Sounds that erupt from the king send Alastor spiralling into irritation, all but kicking the man out as soon as his shackles disappear. He’s tired and irritated and feels like all things terrible, but it doesn’t stop him from his hotel duties, oh no.

That day, he sends his shadow to deal with 661 in replacement of him, ordering it to be as scary as it could possibly be, in hopes of scaring the mole off. While Alastor receives numerous screams, no-one comes running out of the room with aims to leave, no-one but his shadow. He heads downstairs only to be greeted with Charlie ranting about her stupid little trust exercises. On any other day, he’d be happy to put on his little facade of participation, only to disappear later on, but today, Alastor grimaces, nodding his head to Charlie, before heading to the bar for a drink. He really needs it, and, thankfully, both the spider and cat are in no position to judge him for it. Alastor doesn’t fall asleep that night, either.

The next day, Alastor feels even more sluggish than before. He hops into the shower for a cold wake-up, but it doesn’t really help. Alastor gets out before the water and thoroughly soaks his chest fur, and heads out to the hallway. There, he snaps his fingers again at the shadow, hoping for round two with 661. His shadow appears with another look of defeat. Alastor scolds it, before heading downstairs. Today, Charlie and Vaggie are ordering some sinners around with some Marco Polo game, but Alastor doesn’t even bother looking long enough. He sits down at the bar, snaps his fingers at Husk, and lowers his head onto the counter. WHen Husk dares to offer a protest, a spike of static has him falling into compliance. Angel tells him to take it easy. Alastor tells him to mind his own business. He, again, doesn’t fall asleep that night.

And, by the third day, Alastor is a mess. He wakes up, unbothered to look in the mirror, for he knows the mess he looks. Snaps his fingers, puts his clothes on, and steps out into the hallway. Today, Alastor manages to scare 661 successfully. He walks up to the door itself, pounding on it with such force it rattles, before hiding in the shadows. The sinner within opens the door, looking up and down the hallway, before, uneasily, stepping back inside. Alastor sends his shadow after, aware of the result, and begins taking the elevator down to the lobby. This time, Charlie is playing a board game with her father. She acknowledges the deer with a concerned look, but Alastor can only reciprocate with a half-assed smile, moving to the bar. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps running out of the lobby. Alastor celebrates with a stronger drink than usual. Husk mumbles something about not wanting Alastor to fall into a habit. Alastor tells him that those words are rich coming from Husk. Husk doesn’t say anything to that. Alastor counts it as a win.

And, like every other night for the past few days, Alastor lays awake on his bed, staring at the balcony door.

Chapter 5: Can't Seem To Let Me Go

Chapter Text

Charlie watches… that enter the lobby. She doesn’t even know what it is, the black mess of weird red symbols and shadows, concealing the core of this inky… shadow-ness. It’s been growing around Alastor for the past few days, the static surrounding him becoming more intense, the agitation he normally never shows showing like an open wound. Which… maybe Charlie shouldn’t be using that simile, it’s not very appropriate right now… But aimless!

It’s getting really bad, all this time, when she’d reckoned he was having extra long sleeps, he was staying up. According to dad. At least. They’ve been getting along recently, Dad and Al, with the whole “Angelic wound across Alastor’s chest and him passing out and all that jazz”. Charlie’s happy. But she wishes they got along under less… life threatening circ*mstances.

Shaking her head as if to refocus herself, Charlie feels her eyebrows dip in concern as the black shadowy mass known as Alastor lumbers over to the bar, all but falling down on the stool. Angel said he had to leave early this morning, so Alastor’s new drinking pal is gone. Doesn’t save him from another drink, of course, Charlie’s memorised it from how many times he has said it out loud. Rye whiskey, a pinch of lime, two cubes. And, unsurprisingly, that’s exactly what is slid to Alastor, apparently having been premade. He doesn’t even seem to want to complain about the lukewarmness, he just drinks, as he has been.

That’s the routine, Charlie thinks to herself. He gets up, checks on the other residents on his floor, heads downstairs, drinks, does very odd jobs around the hotel— She caught him in the chimney just yesterday cleaning the soot—, and when the sun begins to set, he cooks, and calls it a night. The next morning is only rinse and repeat. Imagine her surprise when, by the second day out of three of all this mess, Vaggie had come up to the princess and her father in the kitchen. She had whispered how she was worried, how Al “can’t get sh*t done when he looks like he’s about to snap like a twig”. Lucifer had agreed, mentioning how he seemed a bit too on edge to be normal. Charlie, then, wanted to try to downplay the situation to shock, but her words fell short when Alastor had come into the kitchen. He had gone on about how some guy was a mole, and, eventually, he left. It made Charlie feel even more useless than before.

She’s getting off track.

Today, by the fourth day of Alastor having this weird routine, Charlie decides to put her foot down. She dismisses her stacks of paper regarding more exercises, and storms up to the bar. Just as a hint, she makes sure to slam her feet down on the floor extra hard, to let Alastor know she’s approaching. It’s honestly really sad, she finds, his vigilance hasn’t been what it was a few days back, he’s slower to react to things and even slower to know what’s going on around him. It makes her wonder if it’s the alcohol he’s downing like air or his sleep deprivation.

While she approaches, she hears Husk and Alastor talking.

‘Has he been in your room since then?’

‘No, no. I think whatever I did the first time worked plenty. It doesn’t save me the trepidation, friend, it’s difficult to shut my eyes. I’m afraid, stupidly, that he’ll be looming over me when I reopen them.’

‘You’re always welcome to sleep in my room. Not in a weird way, uh, you can.. I’ll sleep on my couch.’

‘And hear the noises erupting from you and Angel every night? I will pass.’ Husk scoffs, rolling his eyes with a smile. Alastor even lets out a little chuckle, which causes Charlie to hesitate, slowing herself to a leisurely walk. It sure would be really mean to just… go and ruin the mood by bringing it up. Alastor’s never been one for confrontation. Maybe she shouldn’t. Save it for another time. When he’s mad but not mad mad, just mad enough so she can talk to him without being slaughtered. Not that she wouldn’t be able to handle him, but no! She doesn’t like wondering if she’s able to kill her friends or not.

A thunk on the wood ahead of her brings her out of her thoughts. Husk curses, drawing Alastor’s glass away from him, placing it on another part of the counter. Alastor’s head rises once again, turning to his empty hand, then back to Husk. ‘Husker. Why’d you take my drink?’

‘Jesus Christ, Al, f*cking look at you. You can barely keep your eyes open for more than a few damn seconds. Kill me all you want, I’m cutting you off.’ Husk scowls, picking the glass up, just out of Alastor’s attempted swipe. He turns, and dumps the drink down the sink, earning an ugly screech from Alastor. ‘I can’t do this f*ckin sh*t no more. You being drunk sucks.’

Alastor stares for a few moments. Charlie remains, albeit awkwardly, standing in the space between the sitting area and the bar. ‘Husk. I am giving you five seconds to start remaking that drink. And if you don’t, god help me—’

Husk narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. He stands with a bit of sass in his posture. ‘Do it. Make it to five.’

Charlie then proceeds to take note of the ever growing black antlers and the increasing radio noises. She moves before her head can catch up with her, standing between overlord and ex-overlord. Alastor stares down at her—Yes, because he grew, why wouldn’t he?--, and tilts his head, eyes squinting as if trying to figure out when she had gotten there. Charlie laughs, defusing the area as she waves her hands up and down, signalling to Alastor to maybe not be the same height as the chandeliers, and to calm down. To her relief, he does, and soon, he’s standing a foot above her.

‘Ohh-kay! I see we’re all… just a little bit tired, it’s totally fine! We all get a little weird when tired, don’t we, Husk?’ She glances back at the cat. The cat nods slightly, anger high in his body. Turning back to Alastor, Charlie smiles. ‘How about this, Al, how about, you take the day off, and relax a little?’

Alastor blinks a few times. ‘I don’t want to relax. I would like a drink.’

‘Right! Good on us for using our words, we love to see it. But, but, but but…! How about, we do some reading? Or some cooking? You love cooking, right? We could cook!’ Alastor tilts his head, once, and only once, before sighing through his nose. He shakes his head, dismissive, and says,

‘If it will calm your theatrics. But I would like one bottle of rye from now on.’

‘Okay! Yeah! That works!’ Charlie claps her hands together, quickly apologising when Alastor’s ear flinches and he faintly bares his teeth.

And so the quest to make Alastor fall asleep begins.

**

As Charlie sits in one of her many offices a few moments after the confrontation, papers scattered around her, she reckons she has this rationalised— She has charts for every resident's likes and dislikes, pastimes and jobs. It’s actually sorta easy to prepare when you know them long enough. Take Angel, for example. He likes loud people to be around, like Cherri Bomb, but he hates loud people, like Alastor. His pastimes include spending quality time with Husk (They’re so cute together, ahh!) and Fat Nuggets, as well as spending some time partying. Angel’s job, aha… Charlie tries not to think about his job too often, last time she did, they all saw how that went with Valentino, and all, ha…

Regardless! It’s really easy to nail once you spend enough time observing them in a totally-not-creepy way. So far, in the year or so she’s known Alastor, she can deduce he likes people who match his energy, so to speak, being loud, outgoing, and most importantly, sinful. Like Mimzy and Rosie. He dislikes people on the too loud side, those who talk too much, and his general “stay away” group is men. Which is weird, but who is Charlie to judge? His pastimes, he likes to cook, read, hunt, kill, eat, and… Okay, maybe just.. Shorten that list a little..

Charlie crosses off several things from the “Pastime” section of Alastor’s chart.

He likes to cook, read, and spend time sewing and taxidermying! She’s seen a few of his works, they’re really life-like! A bit too perfectly stuffed, but that must mean he’s good at what he does. And his job is being the hotelier, managing his radio show, and co-managing Cannibal Town, though, Charlie’s pretty sure that last part is unofficial. So! She has the Great, Mysterious Radio Demon mapped out. All that’s left is to try and find a solution.

Scrunching up her papers in her hand and tossing them in the bin while hurrying out of her office, Charlie turns the corner to see, quite shockingly, Husk and Alastor having what looks like a normal conversation. Husk even chuckles on occasion! But, he is still serving Alastor drinks, so Charlie’s gonna have to cut it short, as much of a bully she feels.

Stepping forward, Charlie claps her hands a few times to summon the eyes of the deer and the cat. She smiles widely, footsteps hesitating when she gets a bit too close to Alastor’s shadow-voodoo-thing. ‘Okay! I think I found a good solution for you, Al.’

Clapping her hands twice, the environment around them changes. They’re in the communal library, found not too far from the lobby. Alastor, having been sitting down, stumbles a bit, the seat disappearing from underneath him. Husk catches the man with a quiet “Gotcha, Boss”, before helping him right up. Then, with his eyes scanning the library, Husk sighs, and makes his leave back to the bar. Charlie gestures to a comfortable, reclusive sitting area in the far corner, a warm lamp towering over an old recliner chair— A 1931 model, to be exact. She wanted everything to be perfect.

‘So, Al! What would you like to read?’ Charlie hurries over to the older section of the library, scanning through the books Dad had collected back when they were new and sinners from the Depression were falling. ‘Gatsby? Mrs Dalloway? That one’s made by a female author, if that means anything… Ooh! Ohh! What about The Waste Land?’

Holding the three books, Charlie turns around, holding them in her arms. She smiles, finding Alastor settling himself into the seat, tentative, as if cautious not to fall over in the chair. The way he lays down, with his hooves propped up on the feet rest, seems… uncomfortably stiff. He lays there with his hands finding their way to the arm rests, looking at Charlie with an expectant gaze.

Hm… Oh! Maybe he needs something to hide his figure? Charlie knows that Vaggie always likes to have a blanket to hide her body when she lays down, though Charlie likes to tell her she has an amazing figure, she respects her… Getting off track!

Charlie claps her hands twice, and a red blanket appears over the deer. She hears him squeak in surprise (Awhh! He squeaks!) as the blanket descends over his body, covering his head. He struggles within it for a few moments before ripping it off, eyebrows dipping, slightly agitated. Charlie steps forward, wincing apologetically, and places the books down beside Alastor. He looks at them, then back to Charlie.

He smiles, a bit more genuine than before. ‘Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll have a little read.’ Charlie gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up, before twisting around and escaping the room.

Then, a little while later, Charlie re-enters the library, maybe an hour or two later. The moment she steps through the door, a book comes flying for her face. She jumps, leaping out of the way before turning her gaze to Alastor, who stands on the opposing side of the library, body frozen in the relieving end of the action, eyes widened. He stutters out a muted apology, righting himself, before lowering his gaze to the floor. There’s a look that sends pangs of empathy shooting through the princess– He’s ashamed.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Charlie smiles, picking up the book— The Waste Land. She places it on some random table strewn in the library as she approaches Alastor, smiling. ‘Why’d you get upset, Al? What was wrong?’

‘It was giving me a headache—’ Alastor groans, hands reaching up to clasp at his hair. He turns away. ‘It’s stupid, it’s frivolous, all the words are a jumble and none of it is getting into my stupid head, I can’t focus, the world spins and–’

‘Wait, wait wait.’ Charlie smiles, reaching up to drag Alastor’s hands down, trying to ignore the strands of crimson hair that follow. ‘It’s fine, we can always do something else. How about cooking? You like cooking! We can make… Hm… What should we make?’

Alastor stares down at her from the corner of his eye, smiling faker than ever. He then looks ahead, before turning to her once again, eyes cautious, unsteady and bleary. ‘Alright. We can make some beignets.’

‘Oh! Yes!’ Charlie cheers, happy for the change in mood. She allows Alastor to lead the way out of the library, buzzing. ‘Your beignets are the best! I gotta know your secret, Alastor, they’re so good I could just— Ughh—’

‘Let’s… keep it down. Shall we?’ Alastor and Charlie, together, enter the lobby, where— Hooray! Angel is back— sinners stare at the two questioningly, only to turn right back to their devices and tasks at hand. Charlie nods at the order. Quiet, she can do quiet, she’s quiet all the time. And if she gets too excited, she’ll have to take a hike, which is fine.

The two step into the kitchen, where, to Charlie’s complete joy, sits Vaggie and Lucifer. They both appeared to be having a nice chat before the two had entered, as nice as a chat gets between two in-laws. Alastor greets them both with a nod, eyes narrowing at the crowd in the kitchen, though, he supposes, he can’t kick them out when he was the last person to arrive. He moves over to one of the shelves and pulls the door open, using a tentacle or two to lift himself up— A faint snicker can be heard from Lucifer— to the very back of the shelf, to the unseen, most shadowy places. Alastor hits the floor with a soft thud, a thick, old cookbook in hand. He had made it himself— A collection of all his recipes and ones learnt in his time during Hell and whatever else he remembers from topside.

Alastor flicks through the yellowing and stained papers, stopping on one specific one. He notices the irritating closeness of Charlie over his shoulder, and snaps the book shut, sending her jumping back. He reminds himself to laugh at it when he isn’t feeling like murdering someone for the contact. The book teleports itself to another hidden spot in the kitchen, and Alastor sets about ordering Charlie around. He duly looks at the two fallen angels, and tells them,

‘If you’d like to help out, chums, you may. But if so, this is my kitchen and therefore not a word goes out of my order.’ Lucifer had refused. Vaggie shrugged after a quick prodding from Charlie, and joined in.

Alastor watched as the two started mixing things together. Warm water, sugar and yeast must go together to make the first mixture– ‘No, no— ‘Vaggie, the water must be warm. Warm, or the yeast won’t activate, and not too warm that it kills the yeast. Do be careful.’ Alastor grimaces, leaning back against the island as he continues on with the recipe. Lucifer tells him to at least try participating if he’s such an expert. Alastor tells him to step in then, if he’s such the connoisseur, try to step into the kitchen made for two people, occupied by four. The two continue on with their recipe. Alastor finds, the more they continue on, the stupider mistakes they make, the more irritated he gets, the higher static rises in the room.

‘Charlie, dear, let me— No, you’re pouring it too fast, it’ll spill– Ah, well, look at that, what did I say?’

‘Did you refrigerate the bowl, how are you already putting it in the deep fryer– You didn’t refrigerate the dough?’

‘Well it’s too late now– You can’t just take it out now. Go on, finish what you started. Go on.’

Eventually, he’s just about reached his limit. Watching Vaggie whirl the powdered sugar over the deflated beignets, so carelessly, a screech of static as the three other residents whirling around to face him. Alastor clenches his fists, watching the tray of beignets sadly deflate into the counter, before sighing, throwing his hands up in the air. These buffoons can’t even make beignets properly, how is Alastor supposed to relax when he can’t even trust them to make beignets?

Charlie laughs, holding her hands up, waving them down to get Alastor to relax. ‘Uh, so. I think it’s getting sorta obvious you won’t be able to calm down…’ She tuts to herself, looking down towards the floor. ‘What about.. We get you to Rosie?’

Vaggie scoffs, incredulous. ‘The whole reason he’s staying in the hotel is because he went to Rosie—’

Lucifer chimes in, wincing slightly, in such a way it reminds Alastor that he and Charlie are still related, the way they both wince so similarly. ‘I don’t think he should be going across the pentagram right now, in his state, duckling..’

‘Rosie?’ Alastor asks, his static easing almost immediately. Charlie smiles, looking up. He smiles, tilting his head. ‘Very well. Let’s go to Rosie’s.’ Charlie holds his stare for a few more moments, nodding. If it works, it works, she guesses.

**

Ever since the extermination, and Charlie’s fight with Adam being broadcast, she’s actually gotten more respect from sinners passing by. While she hates the fact that it's because they’re scared she’ll hurt them, a win is a win, so she won’t be complaining anytime soon. Even Katie Killjoy said she was good for something (even though that thing is violence), which Charlie will take as a win!

The V district is lit up as it normally is, Charlie notes as the two pass by the district. She walks alongside Alastor, a co*cky smile on her face, glaring at anyone who passes by, daring them to mess with her. Though, one thing she duly notes is, they don’t seem very intimidated when seeing Alastor, in fact, a few of them garner a malicious smile, until they see Charlie behind him. It’s kinda... Charlie feels bad for him. It must really be hurting his pride and all, she doesn’t want him thinking she’s stealing his thunder.

Neon street signs and poster boards flood the roads and sidewalks, allowing for the two to (sort of) navigate their way. Honestly, Charlie’s just kinda following Alastor, he seems to have passed by this area a lot, which is weird, considering he has to go out of his way to pass the V district if he wants to go to Cannibal Town. She repeats this to the deer, who hums, turning his gaze away from the floor. Only for a moment, though, Charlie notices that he barely takes his eyes off the cement. Weird.

‘I’m sure you know Vox and I..’ Alastor squints, searching for a word, hands placed behind his back. ‘Have a history, dear. Consider this a sort of mockery to him. I walk by here to tell him, my walk could have been strut under much different circ*mstances. I wouldn’t be here flaunting my individuality if I had joined him.’ He laughs, humourless, co*cking an eyebrow, eyes trailing a crack on the floor. ‘Nothing past that.’

‘Oh,’ Charlie drawls, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

She knows Alastor doesn’t really do romance. She recalls, on Valentine’s Day last year, she had asked Alastor to pretty please do a special broadcast for all the couples out in Pride. He had nodded with an earnest smile, and said he would get right onto it. The rest of the day was filled with songs about heartbreak and hatred. She didn’t find it funny, but apparently, Alastor found it hilarious. He was still giggling days later. So, it wouldn’t really make sense for him and Vox to be exes, right? That sounds weird. Maybe friends? Is their history a really bad friendship breakup?

Charlie hums aloud, placing one of her hands on her hip as the two walk. She looks up to the deer, in hopes of gathering some sort of semblance of longing, but she finds none. Instead, she finds… Fear? Alastor’s eyes dart back and forth between the road ahead of him and the ground, his hands fidget behind his back, nails digging into the pads of his fingers. Charlie can see a very very faint outline of his tail freaking out, flipping up, forcing itself back down, the like and wonder. He’s scared. Why? Charlie always chalked his dislike for electronics to be just that, dislike. So why is he… afraid of looking at a screen?

‘Did something happen the day you came back from Rosie’s?’ She finds herself asking, leaning forward to make it into Alastor’s peripheral. The way his eyes widen just that little bit and his ears stick up straighter tells her all she needs to know. Charlie’s gaze tightens and she puts her best stern expression on, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing to worry your adorable little head about,’ Alastor coos, reaching up and ruffling Charlie’s hair affectionately. He pulls away in time to dodge the swatting of her hands. Frowning, Charlie huffs, steeling her expression, putting her hoof down as Princess of Hell. Alastor glances at her, raising an eyebrow. A challenge. Command me, princess, she can hear him think, command me to talk about my issues in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable setting, where I will feel awkward and be more inclined to shut my feelings away.

Oooh…! She doesn’t want to do that to him..

Sighing, Charlie exhales all the air left in her chest, and goes back to watching Alastor interact with the V district. Surprisingly, she.. Hasn’t seen Vox yet. Their rivalry is pretty intense, and, if she remembers right, about a week after Al had first shown up, and he had that weird… hom*oerotic rap battle with Vox, Vox was always watching. Drones, cameras, mini-recorders she’s found littered in the hotel every now and then. But right now, nothing. No rear of his head, or his toothy smile, or his red eyes, or his– Yup Charlie can see why the two overlords were associated now… It’s a shame they split for whatever reason, she reckons it would have been really cool for them to have come to the hotel together.

The screens remain playing their daily advertisem*nts and p*rn snippets as the two pass by, falling into a quiet stroll through the district. Well, quiet is a way to put it, Alastor keeps on flinching everytime a screen changes… Hm. Charlie looks off to the side of the main road, spotting a smaller street branching into another section of the district. It appears abandoned, the stray piece of rubbish drifting through, on the cracked pavement, store windows looking considerably older and more… Alastor themed.

She comes to an abrupt stop at the turn, staring down the road. Alastor steps forward a few steps, before turning, raising an eyebrow. ‘Charlie? What’s wrong? We oughta get to Rosie’s before nightfall, you know how this… blasted district gets.’ He ends the sentence with little more than a scowl in his voice. Charlie smiles, looking over to him while shaking jazz hands down the road. The deer squints, suspicious, stepping closer to her to peer into the branch of stores. What is she on about now…?

With due time, Alastor finds himself on a less crowded street of the V district, one lacking the neon signs, the sinners passing by. It appears to be an older fashioned street, windows slightly foggy, displays inside dusty. And to add a cherry on top, Vox seems to be too modern to grab a signal onto any electricity here, so Alastor is left in a peaceful, calmer solitude. Much better. It appears they do have some style, afterall. Good on them.

Alastor’s breath catches in his throat. His muscles begin to tense all over as he stares further into the abandoned section of the district. Red eyes find Charlie’s, who smiles brightly up at him, making the daring move of advancing forth. With much hesitance, an unspoken question in her eyes, she takes Alastor’s wrist, lightly clenching it, before tugging. Lightly. Very lightly. Alastor grimaces, too tired, body too uncooperative to listen to him and pull away.

‘I noticed you really didn’t like the screens,’ She chuckles, gesturing with her free hand to the main road. ‘We could go down this one? It looks a lot older…’ The princess turns her head, tilting it around to check out the street. She moves forward without another word, without confirmation from Alastor. He, admittedly, squeaks in surprise as he’s dragged down the road.

‘Charlie, dear, we can’t—’ Alastor cuts himself off, clearing his throat. When had his voice gotten so soft? He’s not some teenage boy anymore… Maybe he’s just tired, that’s something that happens, hm? ‘This road may be dangerous, dear, we shouldn’t…’ He clears his throat once again, eyes scanning the parameter as his claws slip into his collar, tugging lightly. His vision is slightly blurry, blinks seeming to last minutes. When had it gotten so stuffy, good lord… Charlie spins around back to him, empathy waning in her smile.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine! I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, but–’ Alastor snaps his mouth shut, the movement aching his weary joints. His eyes squint a tad, swallowing a wad of saliva, his footsteps falling hesitant as he finds himself on that oh-so familiar road. What is this? This is pathetic, he shouldn’t be… afraid. The great Radio Demon, afraid of a little picture box? Pah! Alastor’s better than that, he knows it. Just… not right now. He’s not feeling it… right now.. He’s not afraid. Just tired of Vox’s shenanigans, is all. He can walk down a road, he destroyed the TVs that tricked him last time afterall. This will be fine, and besides, Charlie is here now, at least she has her senses in order.

Right. Alastor isn’t afraid. He’s just calculating.

The two step onto the abandoned street together. Alastor tries his best to string his thoughts in enough of an order to try and explain what exactly the section had meant, what it was, what it never will be again. He explains how he faintly remembers when Valentino had come along, joining Vox— This was the small area he was assigned to handle. Over time, the two grew closer and combined their sections as equals. The same happened with Velvette, and soon enough, this section was deserted, never to be touched again. Alastor is tempted to mention, actually, that this very area was the area Vox offered to give him when he gave his offer to join him, but the deer holds his tongue. A story for another time.

‘Awh, that’s so sad,’ Charlie mopes, ‘That they just left this place. They could have done something really cool with it!’

‘Think of it as a time capsule, my dear,’ Alastor smiles. ‘A lot of overlords pick a very personal place for them to preserve. I have one of my own.’ A small area in the outskirts of the ring, the forests, to be exact, where Alastor’s cabin and personal radio tower are. His first tower in Hell, actually.

‘Oh, really?’ The princess gleams. ‘Where is it? Can we go see it sometime— What happened there?’ Her hand flies to Alastor’s right. The deer follows, landing on a shattered reflection of himself, pieces of glass hanging from larger pieces, the televisions within broken. He shatters into hundreds of pieces, parts of his face reiterating, staring at this broken window store, the TV’s all broken within. His vision sort of swims looking at it, but he chalks it up to tire.

Alastor blinks a few times, eyes focussing once again on the environment around him, the sky dark, far more darker than when he had first arrived. When did he.. How long has he been standing in this spot? How long was he talking to Vox for? When was mocking Vox so… time consuming?

‘I’m sure it was just some lowlives looking for a quick pawn,’ Alastor smiles, waving his hands out to get Charlie moving along. The princess frowns, staring at the display of broken glass and electricity. It sparks, dull, dying, causing the deer to scowl down at it, as if to command it to die already. But, bless her heart, she dismisses it and the two continue down the district, to Rosie’s emporium.

He’s practically a corpse on two legs by the time they reach, sun setting over Pride, blinks slowing, movements slowing. The day’s activities had woken him up just a little bit, but of course, because nothing ever goes right for him, it had only pushed his need to sleep further down in the day. Charlie’s words go as they come, Alastor processing them for a good moment, before wondering if she had even said them to begin with, or if he was just imagining it. The princess says something to the effect of,

‘Are you sure you can get to the emporium from here?’ Alastor nods, mumbling something under his breath, looking ahead into the street lights illuminating cannibal roads and nightlife— There isn’t much, but it’s the thought that counts, Alastor supposes. They’re all very old-fashioned, dare he say even older than himself, so times to rest come early in the night. Charlie shakes his shoulder lightly, startling the deer, bringing him back down to Earth. Or… Pride.

‘Are you sure, Al? I don’t want you getting hurt,’ She insists. ‘I can take you there, just in case..’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Alastor smiles, holding a hand up to mute her next words. It was he, afterall, who insisted he could get to the emporium on his own, that the princess should focus on getting back before dark lest her family burst a blood vessel panicking. Charlie opens her mouth to say something, closes it, but smiles. ‘Good night, Charlotte.’

‘Night, Alastor.’ She tilts her head, baring her teeth, a small squeal escaping her the way it always does when she wants something. Alastor stares down at this alleged heir to the throne, before exhaling, a smile spreading across his face. He nods. Charlie gives him an enthusiastic squeak, leaping forward with her arms around him. Alastor pats her head in reciprocation, feeling the claws of insomnia make ill of him the more she touches.

The girl withdraws just as quickly, and hurries off with one last goodbye. That’s the last time he’ll be seeing her for a while.

Raising his hand to his face, Alastor digs his fingers into either side of his temple, rubbing back and forth as he sways on his feet. Exhaustion really begins to creep in for him, as he opens his eyes, putting all his concentration into stopping seeing doubles… Ugh. His head pounds against its confines and his limbs seem sluggish and uncooperative. It feels like manipulating a puppet with tangled strings, the way he moves like a mess. Maybe.. He’s in Cannibal Town afterall.. Maybe he could benefit from closing his eyes. Just for a moment. The cannibals wouldn’t dare eat him, afterall.

Alastor’s eyes begin to slip closed, drawn in by the thought of finally resting after the longest time. He tips forward, slipping over his own feet, in welcoming arms. Body, too heavy to operate. Head too big to lift up the chest of this figure… Who’s lifting him up..?

‘Woah there, big guy. Careful Al. You were about to fall.’ A small whine is all that escapes Alastor, truly deprived of sleep, though he feels safe with this person, the aura of a friend surrounding them. Hands manoeuvre around his body, and he’s lifted off the ground. He can’t find it within himself to complain. Practically melting into the soft touch, the grounding hold. ‘Yeah, you’re a sleepy guy, aren’t you? I’ve seen the way you’ve been bending backwards for that hotel of yours, hm?’ Alastor allows himself to lean his head on the figure’s chest, body truly relaxing.

‘Cmon, let’s get you home.’

Chapter 6: So I Can't Find Surrender

Chapter Text

Alastor's having a dream.

Nightmare, really.

‘Ooh..! Poetry!’ Alastor laughs, watching the angel hit the support barriers of the hotel with a loud crash. Dust rises in his wake as the wood breaks and collapses. A growl erupts from the angel, launching himself in the air.

‘I'm gonna wipe that sh*t-eating grin off your face.’ His axe flies into the air, growing with a swirl of golden power, holy, angelic. Alastor almost falters, looking up at the offending weapon. ‘Cus radio… Is f*cking… Dead!’

The beam shoots down for the deer. Alastor raises his cane as protection, in hopes, the power within will be enough to protect him. Blinding white lights fill his sight, sending his head spinning, in such a way Alastor feels as though he’s already hit the floor, dead. But, alas, good things mustn't come to the sinful, and he finds himself on his feet, cane up in front of him.

‘What just happened?’ Alastor relieves his hands of their upright position. Staring at his broken cane. His eyes scan the two pieces of broken cane, feeling energy drain within him, sending his frame shrinking, his energy, or lack thereof, catching up to him. ‘Fff uck. ’

And he only has a second to look up.

Angelic steel rips through his chest, drawing a scream from his lungs, punched out, leaving him breathless. He flies back, eyes shut in some false hope to lower the pain, body afloat in the air. Strangely, he's tempted to believe he's died. His back cracks against a brick wall, sending him to his hands and knees with another grunt. Alastor's chest burns and screams in pain, knees wobbling against concrete, elbows straining to keep up with him.

In a blurry haze of delirium and shame, Alastor collects his staff, resting his back against the wall. He almost forgets Adam is there to begin with, groaning softly, head resting on the brick. ‘Have to disagree with you there…!’ His voice comes out blurry, yet somehow clear, and trembling, and weak, and pathetic. ‘Radio's not dead. But it is ending this broadcast…’

In one last attempt to save himself, shadows consuming in, Alastor lets out a pained laugh, disappearing. The shadows hurt even worse. Travelling through them hurts like knives being stabbed all over him, and just when it all becomes too much, when Alastor’s sure he's about to die—

He wakes up. A gasp tears from his throat, claws clenching the sheets beneath him. His eyes race around the room, hasty, panicked. Silk bed sheets beneath him, dressed in more.. Comfortable clothes than before.. Sweatpants and a shirt, to be exact, akin to a patient in a mental asylum.. Why would… Rosie doesn’t dress like this, he doesn’t remember Rosie’s emporium being like this . His bed, queen-sized, sits in the middle of a wide wall facing the rest of this new, unfamiliar bedroom. To the right on the other side of the room is a desk, chair tucked in, and to the left, a door, shut. A small hallway, barely one, more of a fork path, sits to the left of the desk, a bit off centre with the bed, disappearing into a… bathroom?

Where the hell is he?

Getting to his feet, weariness overcrowding his senses, Alastor blinks a few times, focussing on what lays in front of him now that he stands— A bayou, blocked off by a window. Window door, actually. He reaches forward, touching the glass, before flinching back, as if the window had burnt him. Beyond it lays a beautiful, lush environment of a bayou, deer prancing around, toads and frogs and fireflies making themselves known. It’s perfect. Too perfect. Alastor finds, leaning a bit closer, fibreglass embedded into the bayou, into the window.

A screen. He’s staring into a screen. Alastor flinches backwards, stumbling to the point his knees hit the bed and he buckles, collapsing onto his back, staring up at the room. His eyes widened, staring at his own darkened reflection, the face of a TV glaring down at him. Screen on the roof, screen in the window, screens on the walls, there are screens everywhere. He needs to get out of here. Figure out where he is, and destroy the perpetrator over and over again for their deeds.

Getting to his feet once more, Alastor keeps his gaze locked onto the orange-gold tilting below him, at his own faint reflection, guiding himself blindly to the desk. His hands feel around the mesh back and the soft cushioning, giving him the strength to look up long enough at the desk. It’s mangrove wood, bright orange and saturated, grain shifting side-to-side. On it lays a small notebook and pen, as if waiting for Alastor to start writing, or drawing. He reaches forward, plucking the book from off the desk.

It hits the wood just as quickly. Of course there’s a screen embedded into the desk… Where is he? Who held him when he had passed out? He thought it was Rosie, wasn’t it Rosie? They even said how they.. Saw… Ergh.. Alastor needs to— He just needs to focus on getting the hell out of this place. The longer he looms here mourning over his own insolence, the quicker his death will arrive. He’s weak, he can barely even teleport himself down to the lobby from his room, let alone wherever he is right now. As much as he loathe admit it, if someone were to come and attack him, he wouldn’t be able to fight back much.

Okay. He just needs to relax for a moment. Think this through. Go step by step, all the way to the beginning, and try connect the dots as to who, what, where, and why. Sitting on the bed with his elbows on his knees, Alastor stares down at the tiles, not daring to look up at the artificial bayou, though he can see its vague reflection in the tiling. Alright. Focus, and take apart this pile bit by bit.

Vox got into Alastor’s room. To get ready to fight back, Alastor didn’t go to sleep for the next four days. Sleep deprived and unfocussed, he went with Charlie to Cannibal Town— no, to the Cannibal District . Charlie had left him at the “blending” of the Cannibal and V district, the area where the districts merge in a way, separating territory from territory. So Charlie left him there, and he began walking to the capital, Cannibal Town. Did.. Did he even make it there? Alastor just remembers tripping over his own legs and falling into someone’s arms… Their energy was strange, nostalgic and familiar, and they spoke in a way as if they had known Alastor for years. So Alastor let them manhandle him… They were saying something. But what? Alastor was so tired he couldn’t get a thought together.

Trying to think, Alastor squints down at the floor. His brain struggles to come up with the dialogue, filling in the gaps with lines he knows for a fact didn’t occur just yesterday. Rosie asking him where he was when he first got to Cannibal Town with Charlie… No, that for sure didn’t happen… yesterday.. If it was yesterday. How long has he been asleep? Is there any sort of.. Clock, or time, or calendar? Something, anything to tell him where he is right now?

Standing, Alastor keeps his gaze on the floor, eyes darting up only to make sure he doesn’t run into a wall. His legs are wobbly and his joints are tired and exhausted as he navigates to the desk. Claws sneak under the bottom of the desk, pulling on the ledge, searching for a drawer or some sort. But, the pulling is rewarded with nothing, not even the desk moving forth a bit, causing Alastor to withdraw himself, grimacing. Either he’s unbelievably weak, or the desk has been welded to the floor. Part of him wants to believe the latter, but, truthfully, he leans more towards the former.

Looking down, Alastor gets to his knees, hands planted on the cold vinyl, peering at the legs of the desk. How there lays a silver, layered weld, emitting all-to-familiar holy energy. So it is welded… While it does lift his ego a little more, it simultaneously makes him worry. How did this person get their hands on angelic steel? Carmilla is the only dealer in Pride with that material, and even then, it is not cheap. Wanting to focus on power and souls when he got to Hell, Alastor forgot the importance of money, meaning he couldn’t buy a lick of the material unless he had a middle man with him.

Sighing, Alastor rises from the floor, daring to raise his head enough to have a look around the room. He spots a bedside drawer on either side of the bed, heading over to it without delay. Yanking the top one open. Alastor spots a notepad, and more pens. Refills, then. The bottom one has… his night dress. Maroon, satin layering, with small buttons and a small opening for his tail on the pants. How.. He hasn’t even worn these in months, much less in public, even in the hotel. How did…

Biting back a pure noise of fear, Alastor slams the drawer shut, hurrying over to the other on the opposite side of the bed. He kneels down, pulling the first open. Inside is a tissue box and other sanitisation needs. The bottom one has undergarments. What the hell is this? Who brought him here, to this… hotel room? A hotel room made especially for him, with his night dress, his undergarments, down to the last detail.

Standing and shutting the bottom drawer with his hoof— His hooves have been cleaned, Alastor notes, they no longer possess the dirt and grime normally wedged within them—, Alastor turns to the rest of the room, a hand rises up to the back of his head, rubbing against the soft fuzz of his undercut. No hair to pull from there, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. The scratching of his claws against his skull.

He finds himself walking to the little partition area leading to the bathroom, pushing the door open. The inside is sleek and modern, tiling black and matte, a large bathtub laying in front of him, not one, but two showers overhead. It’s shielded behind a glass pane and window. A sink lays to the right, and a toilet to the left, hidden around another smaller wall. Nothing can be picked up, another thing Alastor notices, everything is welded to where it is, the soaps, shampoos, the like. One of the only things able to be picked up is a small… packaged soap. Similar to the ones Alastor would have put in hotel rooms when cleaning them. It’s a mock, he tells himself, a taunt and a ridicule of what he is. Whether this be intentional or not, Alastor narrows his eyes and looks elsewhere.

And, of course, a screen on every wall. Within the mirror, on the walls, behind the bathtub. This must be a personalised Hell for Alastor. He steps out and shuts the door behind him, travelling back into the room. His eyes travel to the fake bayou screen again, to the door flaunting its handle. Walking over, Alastor grabs the handle, fiddling with the weird lock design for a few moments. A click sounds, followed by an ecstatic exclaim from the deer, behind he pulls to the right, trying to open the door.

The sound of blaring fills the air. Alastor cries out, grabbing his ears and forcing them down onto his head, muffling the noise. Every single screen that he despised displays nothing but red, bright red, almost blindingly so, in the middle of it, a message in white. A bright white, one that’s blurry if Alastor glances at it too fast, just barely being able to make it out as he whimpers in pain.

HAHAHA NICE TRY YOU CAN’T LEAVE

Like a taunt. Horns and blaring alarms erupt through the room, sending Alastor head pounding, bending over, hands pressing harder onto his head, sending his ears freaking out, trying to rectify themselves. His body topples and he groans in pain, getting further closer to the floor, knees to his chin, leaning against the bed. The sound goes on and on until Alastor’s sure he’s gone deaf, sure his ears are pouring blood like a faucet.

His ears stay ringing long after the song fades away, leaving him to sit on the floor in his own suffering. And, when he gathers the courage to open his eyes, the screens have gone either blank or back to the bayou, as if nothing had happened. As if Alastor is the insane one, as if Alastor’s imagining the noises and screens. Alastor finds the courage to lower his hands from his ears, muscles aching, bringing them to his face. A bit of red is spilt over the palms of them, sending Alastor wincing, like a pathetic little child.

Wiping the blood on his slacks, Alastor stands once again, reeling away from the lock on the door, moving elsewhere in the room. He chooses the desk, hoping to use the chair at least to break the window. Looking down at its wheel, a hand on the armrest and back, Alastor scowls. A little metal roller planted into the floor lies on either side of the chair’s wheels, the chair embedded into them, unable to escape its linear path. In, and out from the desk. This… kidnapper thought of everything. It makes Alastor even more nervous than before.

There’s only one other thing left to try. The front door. As tacky and cliche as it may seem, Alastor truly has no better option to use right now, no better escape. It’s been made obnoxiously clear that the window door is no way to go, the bathroom providing much less. Vents in the room are too small for him to stick into, and even then, the idea of crawling through the vents blind and dumb is even worse than staying where he’s meant to be and enduring whatever.. This is.

Moving towards the wooden door, Alastor stares at it up and down, squinting at it. His claws slink up the material, ear pressed against it, listening. Unlike what he had sort of expected, there appears to be another room beyond the door, not a wall, the door a false hope. Brows dipping, Alastor withdraws his head, reaching for the handle. He twists it, pushing. Nothing happens. As a second resort, he pulls. Nothing. Groaning, Alastor grips the handle, stepping back, and rams his shoulder into the door. It rattles, but does nothing. Rattling is something. Rattling is something.

Alastor tries again. And again. And again, and again, and again, until each impact draws a whimper from his throat, each impact hurting his shoulder over and over again. He steps back, defeated, clutching his shoulder, wincing slightly at the pain his claws bring to his skin. Maybe… Maybe he could try.. Kick it? He’s never tried it before, but it sounds easy enough. Moving a bit further back, Alastor raises his right leg up in the air, preparing it to strike. Reels it back, behind him, and shoots his hoof up.

Pain shoots up his leg like a splinted branch. He grunts out, hopping back on his left, keeping the hurt foot hovering above the floor. The door jolts, wobbling, before settling down, slightly loose. Yes..! Yes! It’s breaking. Alastor just.. Needs to do that again. Easy. No problem. He raises that same foot up once again, wincing at the way it protests in pain. No matter– If he’s lucky, he can get back to the hotel within the day and just explain he had come back from Rosie’s early. Swinging his leg upwards again, hitting the door with the base of his hoof, Alastor cries out, tumbling backwards. He falls flat on his ass, the door giving in, swinging open with such force it hits the wall behind it.

The room is silent, no alarms, no blaring, save for Alastor incredulous chuckle, dissolved into a groan of pain. He looks down at his hoof, at the cracked edge of it, pulsing in agony. No time to worry about that. He needs to get going. Getting to his feet with struggle, Alastor stands, limping inside the darkness of the newly discovered room. It’s almost pitch black inside– Alastor can’t seem to find a light switch or anything— clothing taking up the left and forth walls, all akin to his suit, though he can’t see what colour. No door. There isn’t any sort of door. Not that he can find.

Pushing past the clothes, Alastor blindly feels the clothed walls, his foot screeching, almost unbearably, in such a way Alastor’s knees buckle. They hit the floor with a shudder running up the deer’s spine, forcing another wince out of him. His hands drag along the wall, digging groves into the drywall. He pants harshly, landing directly on top of the crack of his hoof, sending a flash of pain coursing through him, blinding him. The pain of it is so intense, so numbingly intense Alastor collapses, hitting the floor of the dark room, on his side.

His panting intensifies, clawing out his lungs harshly, so sharp and stabbing Alastor can only lay there on the floor, enduring the pain, forcing his body to blink. The way he rests on his side, open-mouthed like a dying dog, drool begins to leak from his lips, sending another bout of shame from him, another wince of shame. It almost brings him to tears. Almost. How far down has he sunken, hm?

The Great Radio Demon, put down to a whimpering, drooling mess on the floor of what seems to be a closet. How the mighty have fallen. Was he ever mighty? He couldn’t even beat an angel.. Put up the shield, yes, but… Weakened after a single hit. He’s pathetic. Utterly, completely pathetic. He’s no legend. He lies, but a myth, in his own heap of self loathing combatting a sadder god complex.

No. No, no no. That’s what the person who put him in here wants him to think. He can’t. Alastor won’t allow himself to submit this easily. It’s pathetic. It’s out of the question. Out of the f*cking question.

Sitting up, groaning softly, Alastor wipes the drool off of his chin, wiping the back of his hand on his slacks. His hoof screams in pain, aching like never before. Alastor grunts, hands pressing against the floor, getting to his one good foot. Steps are painful and his mind screeches, static popping and crackling all around him as he walks, limping, into the bedroom once again. He winces at every flash of pain, trembling over to the bed frame, leaning over it to use as a support to finish off the journey. Alastor falls onto the bed, wincing, sitting down and placing his bad hoof onto his other knee, inspecting the damage. A crack runs up and down the front of his hoof, new, threatening to break a piece off. It hurts like Hell after Hell.

Alastor longs to just teleport away, at least, out of this stupid room. But who knows how painful shadow travel will be? The holy energy within his wound.. It sort of repels his magic, such a contradictory situation, banning Alastor from the mere thought of trying to hide in his shadows. When escaping Adam, the pain was almost unbearable. Alastor truly thought he would die, in his shadows, listening to the screams and whispers of his victims as his body floats in the dark ethereal. Feelings during the trip was akin to being set alight, without the fire, feeling the heat spread across his body like wildfire, burning his skin and blistering his scratches and scars. Reliving the bites of hounds and the gunshot through his skull.

Then, Alastor found himself in the rubble, near his tower.

Trying it now would be less painful, he’d guess, but he feels hesitant, unwilling to try it, unwilling to potentially end up in a more dangerous place than he already is in. The only pain he’s experienced so far is simply the pain of repercussions, trying to open the window door, having his ears bleed just that little bit. So far, Alastor would dare say, he’s safe. Safer than out there, if he were to travel. Not like he can, and not far. Hell, even in the hotel, he could only ever travel, perhaps, to the kitchen and then to the bar, no further than that, and it would hurt relentlessly. It would make his wound ache and his head pound and his eyes weary, as if hit with a bout of poison, infecting his body and his lungs and all the rest of the terrible things in this world.

Grimacing, Alastor looks down at his hoof, running his claw along the crack. He supposes it would do him no good to let it rot like this.. The bathroom might have something he could use. Of course, that would mean limping back over there, then to the bed again, but the pain could be tolerable as long as Alastor can avoid an infected limb. Lord knows, despite all these accommodations, this napper probably wouldn’t help Alastor out if he were to hurt himself.

Swinging his bad leg back onto the floor with a soft hum, Alastor squints, lifting himself up to his left leg, leaning his weight. His right foot touches the floor, carrying his weight, only for a few brief moments, not wanting the weight to linger for too long. He’d die before admitting how many sounds of pain escape from his lips on the short walk to the bathroom, sparking tears in his eyes. Upon reaching the bathroom, claws scrape down the front of the vanity, to the drawer underneath. Alastor pulls it open, ducking his head to look inside. Mouthwash (Like he’ll ever use that…), hair products (Like he’ll be using that too), and… Aha! Medical Kit.

Alastor, sitting on the tiles, spreads his legs out in front of him, bending over with the medical kit in hand. Placing it by his right hoof, Alastor pops the kit open, handles rummaging through the items. All the normal items, more modern items Alastor doesn’t really recognise.. Ugh. Regardless, Alastor withdraws himself, groaning at the ache in his back, in his hands medical tape, bandages, and regular tape. He draws his hoof closer to his chest, wincing at the slight strain it gives his leg. The bandages are placed around his hoof first, wrapped firmly, tight and sturdy. It provides a slight, pulsing ache, but nothing Alastor can’t handle. He’s been through worse.

Holding the bandages in place with one hand, Alastor makes reach for the tape, unwinding a bit. He miscellaneously wraps it around the hoof, because, with all honesty, he has no idea what he’s doing. Throughout his life and past, he was always… The one causing the need for healing, not really being the one healing. He only really ever got Husk or Niffty to help him out, if he really got hurt that bad.

Once the tape seems.. Adequately placed, Alastor sits back, sighing, tossing the tape back into the kit. He doesn’t bother shutting the vanity drawer, or put the medkit away, getting up to his feet. Somehow, it hurts even worse to walk on the right hoof. Alastor would rather die than hop to the bed. The journey, as before, is long, unbearably painful, and pathetic, limp after limp angering Alastor more and more. All this trouble to open up a door that led to a dark closet. Great. All that shame, and self-loathing, and reflecting on his god-complex, and getting that much closer to opening up emotionally, only to come face-to-face with fabric, no door, and the audacity to not even put in a light switch.

Falling back down on the bed, Alastor sighs, running a hand through the front of his hair, dishevelling it further than it already was.. Great. He’s sweaty from the pain and kicking doors out and practically crawling back and forth across the room four times. The deer doesn’t want to admit it, he truly doesn’t, but he.. Needs to change clothes. Normally, with his magic, snapping his fingers would clean out his suit well enough, but alas. No suit, and no magic. He’s about as strong as a declawed cat. The only outfit in this room he’s found has been.. The disgusting replica of his pyjamas.

Grimacing, Alastor glances around the room, to every screen glaring directly at him, co*cking an eyebrow. They couldn’t be any more subtle with this? At this rate, with the shamelessness of his captor, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Vox who nabbed him. Though, ha. Vox couldn’t manage to lay a finger on Alastor if he could help it. Oh well, there’s not much he can do. If this person decides to leak his bare skin to Hell, at least they’ll find him shameless about it. A show of shame is leverage against him.

Which brings another thought to his mind— What exactly does this person achieve by putting him here? Torture by screen? Pathetic! There’s no way. Perhaps they want to test their luck with Stockholm Syndrome? Alastor’s never been one for love, the romantic or sexual kind. It simply won’t work. He tells himself, if something as audacious as that is ever pulled by this person, he’ll simply murder them in cold blood right there and then. There’s no way, no way, he will ever find himself doing something as embarrassing as relishing in another’s touch. Eugh. Gross. Now his mood is even more ruined, look at that. At least it’s taken his mind off of his worthlessness. Good things come with a pinch of salt.

Shuffling to the bedside drawer closest to him, Alastor leans down, pulling the bottom drawer out. His claws rub against the satin material, plucking it out, holding it up. Just like his, if not a bit altered. Ugh. The next few moments are the most distasteful moments of changing out of his clothes he’s ever had the distaste of experiencing, placing his sweaty, gross shirt next to him, replacing it with the satin shirt. He slides it over his head, satin pressing against his body nicely, cool. It’s… not that bad.

Next come his pants, something which he slides off with a bit more hesitance, aiming to avoid the bandage on his hoof as much as possible. He pulls his waistband down, leaning on the bed frame for support, revealing his boxers. Bringing his right hoof up to his chest, Alastor sinks the pants through, dropping them on the floor and doing a little jump with his left to get out of them. He collapses back onto the bed, grabbing the newer pants, and pulls them up, resting them on his stomach nicely. Alastor quickly does up the string.

His pants are soon replaced, and he sits in his satin pyjamas in his new room with an injured hoof. Not the best… But it’s alright. Alastor can handle it. He can handle it. He always will. He just needs to figure out who exactly has kept him here, what their weaknesses are, and get out of here once he regathered his strength. Easy. Alastor can do this. Even if it will take him a while. A long while.

Placing his head in his hands, Alastor sighs, running his fingertips through his hair, the very points of his claws brushing against his roots, getting caught, pulling hair off his head. It feels good. Takes his mind off of the weight of his situation. It fails to have pressed into him, the stress of the moment, the reality of his circ*mstances. Weakened, unknowing where he is, locked in a room with a broken hoof, one he caused himself no less. Hell, he doesn’t even know how long he’s been passed out for, how long the timeframe was between his passing out and waking up here. Pathetic. His enemies would laugh at him like a clown in a circus tent.

Grimacing, Alastor lowers his hands, shaking them frantically, as if trying to get a bug off of himself, removing the strands of hair off of them, falling onto the tiles. ‘I’m okay,’ He tells himself, underneath his breath. ‘I can do this. I can handle myself. I can put a kibosh on this, go back to normal, figure this out. This is easy. I can do this. I will get out of here.’

And he won’t stop until he does.

**

Rhythmic tapping of claws on a monitor desk, followed by an excited squeal. ‘He’s so cute. Just woke up after a week, already broke a limb. Ah, that is so him of him to do. Look at him whimpering!’

A sigh, exasperated, followed by the pinching of eyebrows. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re so gross… Is that— Is his hoof going to get infected or something?’

‘Yeah.’ A smug smile gleams at wooden doll.

‘Don’t look so proud of yourself.’

‘But he’s so cute! Look at him, come on. You ever seen someone whimper and cry as pretty as he does? And he’s so smart, too! Patched himself right up, even used the pyjamas I got for him!’

‘That I made. Seriously.. This better because you actually want him with us, not because you have some psychosexual obsession for him that you can only jerk off to if he’s in pain.’

Silence.

‘I… don’t know how I should be responding to that.’

‘Don’t. Fix up his hoof before it gets bad. And make sure you don’t start slacking off because you finally have the real co*ck to jam up your ass instead of that freaky ass dild* you custom-made.’

‘Which I now realise is inaccurate, thanks for reminding me, Velv.’

‘Tsk. Pervert. I’m out of here.’ Footsteps disappearing towards the door, then, an abrupt pause. ‘And I’m serious. Fix his hoof, and don’t slack. I’ll let him go if you do.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘You know damn well I would.’

Chapter 7: And I Can't Keep Control

Chapter Text

As of recently, Vaggie hasn’t really kept up with what the f*ck is going on with the hotelier at Hazbin. Pisses her off, how difficult he has to be just when things are turning for the better. But, then again. She’s sorta sorry for the deer.

When he had returned to the hotel the day it was rebuilt, she could feel the holy energy emitting off of him, but with the blood of exorcists everywhere and the fact that he pissed off somewhere mid-fight, Vaggie had dismissed it. She had continued to ignore it as things slowly moved back to normal, daily shenanigans, if not with an added sinner or two.

Vaggie had chalked up his delayed reaction times to the fact that he just doesn’t sleep. She had reasoned his temper and slow movements were due to the fact that he was just feeling leisurely. All those signs, and it still came as a shock when he had passed out after fighting those sharks.

Vaggie could see how the fact that he couldn’t do anything “useful” was getting to him. She knew it all too well, the feeling of incompetence. Not being able to be as useful as others. So yeah. Sue the moth. She feels like an asshole for not noticing anything. But, it’s too late to go and rectify things now, the man being in the cannibal district for the past week or so. Vaggie’ll just apologise when he gets back.

Speaking of getting back.

‘It’s been a week,’ Charlie mumbles, pacing back and forth in the sitting area. ‘No word from Rosie? Or Alastor? He should have shown up unannounced, she would have sent a message…’

‘Babe,’ Vaggie smiles, sitting on one of the couches. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. They’re probably just… slicing a sinner up. Or whatever cannibals do for fun.’ CHarlie glances at her lover, lips pursing, then looks back ahead, continuing her pacing. Vaggie sighs, soft, eyebrows furrowing. She hates seeing her wife so stressed out. It makes her feel stressed, too, stressed to find a sort of solution, a sort of way to rid of the panic.

‘But not a single word?’ Charlie raises her hands to hold her elbows, pacing with her eyes scattering around, searching for an answer on the walls of the hotel. ‘There has to be something wrong, she wouldn’t… Rosie isn’t the type of person to notice something like this and not mention it.’

Vaggie doesn’t know Rosie very well, honestly. She had known the woman was an overlord, and Alastor’s friend, but she hadn’t searched much after that. It was when Charlie and Vaggie met up once again at the gates of the hotel, Charlie with an army in tow, Vaggie with their weapons, did she see Rosie for the very first time.

The cannibal had this look of pride on her face, maternal in a way, hands clasped together as she stood next to Alastor. He looked indifferent to the happenings around him, typical, but Rosie seemed she actually cared. So Vaggie took a liking to her, even if the two hadn’t spoken much.

‘Well..’ Vaggie gets to her feet, drifting over to Charlie, holding her arms, firm, grounding. ‘What could I do to get you to calm down?’

Charlie winces slightly, eyes darting to the side, searching for an answer. The other releases her for some space, allowing her to think. Her little goat ears (Something Vaggie adores) flick a little by the sides of her head, as she thinks. And, after a few more seconds, the goat lights up, worry not quite gone, but significantly resided. ‘We could go to Cannibal Town!’

Oh. That’s. Not what Vaggie expected. Cannibal Town is a wild and animalistic place, Vaggie has seen it while passing by the district occasionally. The people there think with their hunger, ravaging, spraying blood and guts and everything everywhere just to eat. It’s a part of being a cannibal, the insatiable hunger, a starving never satisfied, never subsiding. That’s why half of the cannibals— Alastor included— Are skin and bones. Hunger.

Cannibals don’t think before attacking someone for a quick snack, Vaggie knows, they’re wild, the hounds of hell. Even overlords tend to lose themselves to the craving, abandoning civility for a piece of meat hitting the right spot. Alastor has. Vaggie has no doubt Rosie has, too.

Vaggie summarises this to Charlie. The woman smiles, soft, tilting her head with a little chuckle. ‘I think you’d find I’m actually a sorta celebrity there.’

‘Babe.’ The moth places a hand on her wife’s cheek. ‘You’re a celebrity… everywhere. Daughter of Lucifer, heir to the throne, remember?’

‘Right. But I’m a celebrity celebrity there.’ Charlie’s gaze turns more determined, slapping a first over her open palm, smile widening. ‘They wouldn’t hurt me. Rosie wouldn’t let them. And besides, we’ll be with mostly her when we’re there!’

‘I dunno,’ Vaggie whispers, withdrawing her hand, placing it at the back of her neck. ‘Is it really safe? We’ve seen cannibals when they’re… dangerous.’ Referring to the bloodlust hanging in the air at the base of the hotel, during the rebellion. Charlie shakes her head, fists clenched, taking a little step back from Vaggie. Her tone is lighthearted and fun as she speaks.

‘Let’s go to Cannibal Town! I’m sure it’ll be fun! We got this!’

Who is Vaggie to say no?

**

‘No!--’

‘Angel, you little bitch. Behave, or I’ll put you on the most painful torture sex for the next 12 f*cking hours.’ Gripping his chin, Valentino leans in close, staring Angel in the eyes, smoke pouring in his face. The spider winces, his knees trembling, hands shaking. They lay on the couch in the mainroom of the Vee Tower, Angel underneath, Valentino lingering over him. ‘Now. I’m gonna go and grab some of our fun little toys I need to test, okay, amorcito?’

Angel struggles to get the words out of his throat. His voice hesitates several times before he can form a cognitive sentence. ‘Yes… Val.’

Valentino chuckles, running his fingers down Angel’s cheek, pressing into the short fur that lay there. ‘And then, we’re going to try them out. See how much they make on the cameos of those perverts. Okay, amorcito?’

Does he even have a choice? ‘Yes Val.’

‘Good.’ Releasing the spider’s chin, Valentino steps back, hand on his hip. He stares at Angel’s naked body, dragging his tongue across his teeth, before walking off, a hip sway in every step, a trail of pink smoke following him. Angel sits up, wincing, rubbing his arms as he looks up, up and around. The common room is widely empty, his throat is parched. He needs a drink.

Swinging his legs off of the couch, Angel gets to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly, and walks over to the kitchen, uncaring for his nudeness, his bare skin being revealed to the world. A level of indifference fills him, as it always has, as he opens up the fridge, searching for some ice cold water to drink, glass in his lower set of hands. Do they have no ice water…? You’d think they would with how many times Val and Vox get it on here… Wait. What’s… that?

A plate, with some raw meat on it. That’s weird. Last time he checked, none of the Vees really eat meat. Not raw, they always get fast food meat or restaurant meat. You know, the high class, tacky sh*t. Sliding it out of the fridge, Angel stares down at the slab of meat, frowning. Confusion overrides him even more.

This is venison— He should know, having had to cook for Al while he was bedridden. It strictly meant either venison or sinner meat. Nothing else, or Al wouldn’t eat it. And Angel would have rather died than head over to the district where his tit* could feed an entire village, as nice as Rosie is. Why do the Vees have venison? Raw venison?

‘What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?'

Angel jumps, hands stumbling with the plate, scrambling to shove it back into the fridge. He looks over, eyes widening, body tensing as Vox’s blue screen comes into view. He scowls at the spider, hands behind his back. His hatred for Angel isn’t well hidden, his disgust for the p*rnstar, his scorn. Angel puts his four hands up, panic flooding him. If Vox tells Val Angel was snooping, he’s going to be in so much trouble.

‘I was just… Lookin’ for some water.’

‘Over there,’ Vox snaps, head nodding to a water cooler in the sitting area. ‘I put it there so you didn’t have to invade my tower.’

‘Oh,’ Angel breathes, looking over. ‘S…Sorry, mister Vox, sir. Won’t happen again.’

‘Better f*cking not. Get out of my sight. And tell Valentino to keep his p*rn on his level. Now scram.’ Vox shoves past the spider, reopening the fridge door, kneeling down to check on the venison, claw feeling the meat. Angel stares at him for a couple of seconds, before nodding.

‘Yes sir.’ Angel walks out of the kitchen, uneasy, just as Valentino comes back into sight. One ridiculous thought comes into Angel's mind, though one so ridiculous the spider is tempted to let out a little laugh as he follows Valentino to his room on the common level. Alastor eats venison too.

But he’s over in Cannibal Town right now, probably stuffing his face with sinner flesh. Angel doubts a single slab of venison will get the Radio Demon to join them. Ha! Al with the Vees… Sounds like a f*cking nightmare. Good thing it’ll never happen, at all, a hundred percent. He’s actually sorta thankful— If Vox got it on with Alastor all the time instead of Val, Angel’s job would suck so much more.

And… let’s be real. Alastor and Vox? Not going to be a thing anytime soon. Or ever, honestly.

**

Charlie and Vaggie hold hands with one another as the two walk through Pride. It’s about the morning or so, ever since Vaggie had managed to calm Charlie down from her little panic session. That’s why she loves her mothy wife. She’s so grounding. Charlie hums a soft tune to herself, watching a robbery go down in the local clothing boutique, a man getting stabbed to death in the midst of a heated fight with his partner. As Hell always is, as Charlie is used to it. Hopefully one day she could make this the unconventional!

As most would say, it’s always good to dream.

Swinging their hands back and forth, Charlie steps a bit closer to Vaggie. ‘You know, Vags, I always thought you and Al got along really well!’ Vaggie snorts, unbelieving, looking ahead of where they walk, making sure to gesture to any corpses on the floor. What would Charlie do without her? ‘I’m serious!’

‘What made you think that?’

‘I dunno..’ Charlie hums, lifting her eyes to the pentagram roof, tapping a nail on her bottom lip, a slight pout forming. ‘You managed to organise that advertisem*nt when I was gone, right? Surely something had to have happened for you two to come to an agreement!’ Without waiting for Vaggie’s very mean response, Charlie continues. ‘And there was that time you said his cooking was good and he squeezed you in for that little hug.’

Vaggie shakes her head, looking off to the side. Her hand around Charlie’s tightens, as the other reaches up to tuck some hair behind her ear. Common Flustered Vaggie behaviour! Charlie knows her too well for her to cheat her way around showing her true feelings!

Together, the two step into a more bright and neon environment. Neon arrows point into different stores, flashing, grabbing the attention of nearly everyone to pass by. Well too bad! Charlie’s too used to this district to know what jerks the overlords are. Sinners stare into shop windows and advertising screens perched along every building, glaring right through the glass, into the hypnotising swirl beneath all the flashy words and bright pictures.

Not that Charlie actually knows that, she isn’t really looking at the screens right now, they’re kinda weird to look at. But it’s typical and peak consumerism. Looks like being the daughter to Pride and ergo being able to summon whatever you want does have its perks at times. Good to know!

‘What’s that prick doing?’ Vaggie whispers below her breath, hand withdrawing from Charlie’s (much to the latter’s dismay), glaring around them, at all screens and maps and whatever else is technology.

Several other words whisper out from below her breath, something that Charlie frowns to, following suit of being aware of the surroundings. Instead of bright and flashy advertisem*nts bracing the screens, there are… Well, is Vox’s face. Filling all the screens, staring at the two women with a vicious grin, left eye pulsing threateningly. The princess frowns.

It’s unlike the television to use his head and shut his mouth for more than eleven seconds. What exactly is he up to?

‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Vaggie,’ Charlie tries to redirect, looping an arm around Vaggie’s far shoulder, as if Vox were to come out from his screens and snatch her away. ‘He’s probably thinking… “Oh look at me! I’m Vox, the big media overlord that no-one knows about! I’m so strong and buff, but where is Alastor? No-one pisses me off more than Alastor, oh no!” .’

The Vox’s surrounding them on every screen abruptly frown, sending an unimpressed look to the princess and her princess. Hey, she kinda sees Alastor’s liking on bullying someone like Vox! It isn’t nice, but what Vox is doing is even worse. Vaggie chuckles, gaze darting off to the side for a moment. Expression relaxing into a fond smile, Charlie holds Vaggie a little bit closer to her.

‘Don’t worry, Vags. He’s probably looking for Alastor, since we’re here. Wanting to pick another fight.’ Vox’s smiles widen, the screens seeming to glow brighter at the comment, as if proud. Like a puppy presented with a sugary sweet, kinda. Wow.

Nevertheless, Charlie smiles, holding her lover dear, watching the Vox screens slowly reduce overtime, slowly move from big screens to smaller screens to even smaller screens, something which, honestly, is sorta adorable, seeing such a tiny overlord on a GPS map in the middle of the road. Neon signs grow less luminant, less proud, and less eye-blinding, allowing Charlie’s eyes to relax, properly processing things into clarity, and not a blurry mess.

Looks like they’ve reached the merge of districts! This is where Charlie left Alastor a week ago. Man, he must have been so happy to finally be with Rosie. He was so stressed and tired at the hotel, but now he’s sitting in a nice spa chair, cucumbers over his eyes, hair wrapped in a towel, given mani-pedis and foot massages and baths. Charlie should know, getting your hooves trimmed after having them grow out is so liberating.

Imagining Alastor in a fluffy pink bathrobe with the classic spa outfit makes Charlie giggle to herself a little. Vaggie smiles, shoulder bumping up against hers. The two enter the Cannibal District, ready to bear witness to a pampered deer and far too much blood and gore.

This time, cannibals actually do recognise Charlie! They tip their hats and curtsy as Charlie walks by, earning a small laugh and bow back. She and her lover approach the emporium, as always, customers streaming out of it. Thankfully they allow the princess to pass by and into the building, into the heated air and the nice fabric smelling aroma. Rosie’s voice overpowers all of the chatter and noise within the area.

‘Telling you what, toots, if he ain’t givin’ ya no money, he ain’t gettin’ no honey.’ Her loud, snorting laugh that Charlie’s found herself to love. ‘I know that’s damn right!’ The crowd, now noticing the presence of Charlie and Vaggie, part ways to put Rosie into a spotlight. She leans over her desk with a wide smile, invested in some sort of consultation with a customer.

‘See here, honey, if he ain’t treating ya like royalty the way he would with the Princess a’ Hell h’self, you come to me, yeah? Head on right over, I’ll get ‘im sorted out.’

The cannibal nods frantically, jumping up and down before rushing out of the emporium. Rosie waves her goodbye, watching the cannibal leave. Her eyes fall on the nearby area, on the princess and Vaggie. Her eyes, though dark sockets, light up like stars. ‘Oh goodness! Speak a’ the devil and he shall appear! Charlie, baby!’

Moving around her counter, Rosie smiles, gliding over to both younger demons, hands on her hips. ‘Where have you been, sweetie? I’ve been waitin’ onna visit for Aunt Rosie, and– Oh, who’s this little critter?’ Turning her attention to Vaggie, the woman grins wider, flashing her teeth, sharp, ashy pink, pinching the moth’s cheek. Groaning, the latter tugs away slightly, but does grin when Rosie ruffles her hair. ‘Well ain’t this my lucky stroke? Meeting two licks a’ royalty on the same day? Must be important!’

Charlie giggles, pulling the overlord in for a tight hug. Rosie withdraws, turning to Vaggie, almost expectantly, but the moth just smiles, bowing her head once. The overlord chuckles, snorting lightly with a hand over her mouth. ‘So this is the girl you’ve been on and on about, hm, Charlie?’

Eyelids drooping slightly, her expression turns sly as she leans over, drawing both girls in close. ‘You know, old Al’s gone talking about you sometimes, says you’re the lovebirds a’ Hell. Your aunt Rosie here said he was lying, that you two were gonna hafta be the most doting couple in Hell for even him to comment on it. Excited to see ya prove ‘im right!’

‘Rosie,’ The princess laughs, cheeks glowing a little brighter as she steps back. Vaggie smiles, exhaling slightly, looking over at her wife. The latter’s face changes with a shake of her head. ‘We’re actually here for another reason, other than to visit you.’

‘Oh, really?’ Rosie beams. ‘Alright, let me just clear out the area, hon. It’ll take me two seconds, why don’t the two a’ you just hurry on down there, by that window down the hall, have a seat while I dig up some nice treats for you two?’ Glancing at Vaggie, the overlord continues, her voice a whisper. ‘And from the looks a’ you, you could use a proper meal. I think Al’s “never hungry” habit is sticking to you too, ha!’

Suddenly it makes sense why Rosie and Alastor get along so well. They both manage to fish out an insult no matter what the conversation is.

Frowning, Vaggie follows her lover down the hall, as instructed, sitting at a small little table with fancy and cushioned chairs. The one Vaggie sits down in is opposite Charlie, besides them a wide window, facing the Cannibal District, ergo, the rest of Hell. Further in the hallway, where the two had just come from, she can hear Rosie yelling at the top of her lungs, waving her cannibals out of the emporium, saying something similar to an “early closing tonight ” for a “special couple consulting”!

Vaggie feels her cheek redden, as the yelling subsides, and the heels of the overlord move towards them.

Rosie comes back into view, holding a few serving trays. She sets them down on the table– Pinky fingers, crackers and cheese, as well as fried… calamari. Vaggie wasn’t expecting fish, but honestly, the Brooklyn in Rosie’s voice is making no attempt to hide itself.

‘Now,’ The said overlord begins, clapping her hands lightly. Another identical chair summons itself in front of the table, between the two girls. ‘What can I do for you? You already pickin’ a fight with Heaven so soon?’ She laughs. ‘What a troublemaker, you are.’

‘Ehm.’ Vaggie clears her throat, seeing as Charlie’s too busy making her cracker and cheese sandwich. ‘No, actually. We—’

‘Oh. My. Goodness.’ Rosie gasps, placing her hands on her cheeks. ‘You really are a fallen angel! You got the X and the grey hair, and— Awh, you two are so cute! Sword of Pride and the Shield of Modesty! What a Romeo and Juliet match, you two.’ She sighs exasperatedly, throwing her hands in front of her.

‘Old Alastor goes on about you two all the time, have I mentioned that? He’s not even insulting you two! That’s a feat! He hates all my husbands, even if they are pretty trashy…’ Rosie taps her chin with her index, looking off to the side. Shaking her head,she refocuses herself. A sparkler shines, despite her eyes being voids of black. ‘But where are my manners, dear? I’m so sorry, do go on.’

‘Right,’ Vaggie mumbles, tucking her hair behind her ear. Charlie takes a bite out of her cracker-and-cheese sandwich, paying close attention as she chews. ‘We came here to ask how Alastor was doing.’

Rosie’s smile falters a bit, as she raises an eyebrow. ‘Is..’ Then, a sudden sternness overtakes her features. ‘What did he do. Is he buggin’ up?’

Charlie pauses mid-chew. Eyebrows furrowing. ‘No.. Nothing like that.. Uhm–’

‘Then, real chat, dearies,’ Rosie begins softly, leaning back in her seat. ‘Last time I seen him, he’s been acting all high n’ mighty but inside, I can tell he’s been aching and limping in secret.’ Frowning, the overlord leans forward, snatching a pinky off the table, chucking it into her mouth. ‘He better not be doing those ridiculous chores, Heaven forbid. How is he nowadays?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to ask,’ Vaggie cuts in, leaning forward in her seat, hands gripping the cushioning. Her patience is growing thin, does this woman ever stop to wait her turn to speak? ‘Where is he? How’s he been doing? It’s been a week since we left him to stay with you, and there hasn’t been a single word— A single sign of him ever since we did.’ Taking a deep breath, Vaggie gestures to Charlie. ‘She… we, were just worried about him. It’s unlike him to stay here this long without a word.’

Rosie stares at them for a long moment. Her eyes are squinting slightly in thought, chewing on the pinky. She spits out the nail and bones of the pinky into her hand, quietly apologising before covering it with a tissue, setting it on the table. Pensive, silent. Finally, she speaks. ‘I.. have no idea what you’re on about, dear. Alastor hasn’t come to the emporium for around about a month.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Charlie chirps, voice tight, expression strained. ‘I left Al at Cannibal District. I watched him walk into the district.’

‘Then,’ Rosie counters, ‘He never went to my emporium. When did you leave him here?’

‘A week ago, maybe?’ Charlie mumbles, visibly cringing at the information. ‘He was having a hard time sleeping, so the hotel thought it was best for him and us, if he went here.’ She manages a small chuckle, eye twitching. ‘Please tell me this is some sort of joke.’

Rosie purses her lips, getting to her feet. The chair behind her collapses into a pile of bones, withering away as she swirls her dress around, turning her back to the two. ‘Follow me. We can ask some a’ the residents ‘round town if they’ve seen him.’

The two are quick to get up from their seats, following after Rosie as she exits the hallway. ‘Though, I doubt it. I know Alastor, no matter how bruised and beaten up he is, he always comes to the emporium when he happens to be in my district.’

She waves her hands around, tone fallen serious. Pushing her emporium doors open, Rosie steps out first, pushing the door enough so Vaggie can make it out before it shuts with a silencing click. It’s still around midday— Charlie and Vaggie had left pretty early—, meaning people are found walking and enjoying life around town. Plenty of people to pick from.

The presence of a princess, fallen angel, and overlord draw attention quick– Makes their job easier, Vaggie guesses–, people surrounding the three with admiring looks, as if watching animals in a zoo enclosure. Rosie places her hands on her hips, peering through the crowd. Vaggie tries to follow her eyes, but by the time she could assume Rosie’s looking at some little kid with flowers in his hand (‘Awh, he’s proposing to his crush!’ Charlie had whispered to her), Rosie’s pulling some older, plumper cannibal out of the crowd.

‘Bentley!’ Rosie clasps her hands together, smiling. ‘Bentley, this is the Princess, you’ve met her. Charlie, Vaggie, this is Bentley , Alastor’s favourite butcher!’

Bentley looks afraid, to say the least. On his head is a flat cap, covering his balding head. Wrapped around his torso, a yellowing, old white shirt, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled back to reveal his plump, hairy arms. Tied to his waist, a stained apron. Definitely fits “butcher”, alright.

‘Hi, Bentley!’ Charlie greets, waving politely. The butcher seems to be halfway between running and passing out right there and then. ‘Have you seen Alastor recently?’

‘Unfortunately not, y’highness,’ Comes the response, voice gruff and soft at the same time. ‘He hasn’t come in since he last came. Didn’t order anything, just saw him passing by my store and waved.’ Lowering his head to the floor, Bentley lets out a quiet apology, as if ashamed not to have done anything. While Vaggie narrows her eyes, Charlie assures him it’s fine, and he disappears back into the crowd. Rosie sighs, defeated, turning to Charlie and Vaggie as the crowd disperses.

‘There’s really only one other cannibal that might’ve seen him,’ She drawls, rolling her eyes as she waves her hand around. ‘And that cannibal. Huh. That cannibal.’ Charlie frowns.

‘Susan?’

‘Susan,’ Rosie admits, attitude slipping. She seems reluctant to even say her name, much less speak to her.

But, nevertheless, responsibility overpowering emotion, Rosie takes the two away from the emporium, further into the marketplace of the town. Stalls are bustling with business and life as women shop for limbs and blood, placing it into their woven baskets, dressed in their fancy dresses. A few greet Rosie as she passes by, something she returns, before mentioning Alastor. They always say no.

But, there’s always this Susan, apparently, who should help out. Some little cannibal children run around the three, laughing, dressed in their little outfits with their happy little smiles. Vaggie watches them run off. If she hadn’t saved one of these little things… Nevermind.

‘So, Rosie, I was wondering,’ Charlie mutters as they pass by another stall, this time selling carving knives. ‘How exactly do you get your souls? Overlords need souls, right?’

‘Sorta,’ Comes Rosie’s response, mood seemingly easing at the conversation. ‘To be an overlord you need to be able to claim a whole lot of land, like the Vees, who take care of the centre and one of the sides. That, or be powerful, like Alastor, who, while owning the forests, is just really strong. Now, what do you need to do either of those?’

‘Souls?’ Vaggie chirps in.

‘Men! Soldiers. And, loyalty is hard to come across these days. So you force their loyalty by owning their souls.’ Gesturing to the lessening stalls on the sides of the cobblestoned path, Rosie continues. ‘If you’re a cannibal, you don’t need the contract. If you are, my contract is always the same. You can stay in Cannibal Town, live with the residents, enjoy a nice, danger-free life. But, you aren’t allowed to leave, have to eat like us— Afterall—, and you give me your soul. Nothing too shabby, tame, even!’

Vaggie looks out to the residents crowding the streets. They all smile and laugh and talk to each other as if they’ve known each other all their life, akin to the way Charlie would have known Vaggie, Alastor would have known Mimzy. It is pretty nice here.. Not as wild and dangerous as she thought it would have been, she’ll admit. Could actually get used to this. But, alas, good things never last, and soon, Rosie guides them down a smaller road, thinner, far less crowded than the ones before.

They come upon a small clothing boutique, in the less crowded part of town. The lights are on but the inside is obscured, windows blocked, sign shining open. Rosie sighs, shaking her head, pushing the door open. Charlie steps in first, quickly followed by Vaggie. The inside is as Vaggie expected— Walls are covered in different fabrics, all fluffy, velvety, the like. Beneath them, the floor is blanketed in numerous textures and carpet-like designs, at the very back, an elderly woman, stitching.

‘Welcome!’ She says, looking up. Her eyes run across the three women, and her facade drops. The woman narrows her eyes, hands never pausing in her stitching, staring at the three with angered eyes, specifically at Charlie. ‘Oh. It’s you. Ready to kill off the other half of our town?’

‘Susan,’ Rosie greets instead of Charlie, the cheer in her voice long gone, a hand on her hip. Her voice is laced with poison and her words are sharp and straight to the point, as if trying to keep the interaction as short as possible. ‘You seen Alastor around here?’

‘Who?’ The woman grunts, co*cking an eyebrow. Vaggie squints at the clothing she wears, finding it oddly familiar… Is that— Is that the outfit Alastor made her dress up in when he first came to the hotel? During that song? That asshole… Vaggie’ll have his head when they find him.

‘You know damn well who I’m talking about,’ Rosie snipes, narrowing her eyes. ‘Now, you seen him or not?’

Susan shrugs, grunting roughly, looking down at her stitching. ‘Nah, I haven’t seen that eyesore of an overlord. You ask me, it’s better he stays gone. Now, if you aren’t gonna buy anything from me, get out, you’re stinkin’ the place up!’

Rosie sighs, baring her teeth. ‘It’s obvious we aren’t getting anywhere here, girls. Let’s just go.’ Vaggie lets out a little exclamation, incredulous, as Rosie begins prodding her out of the store. That quick of an interaction? For what? They just wasted all that time to be insulted like that?

As she makes it out of the store, Charlie sends one last glance to Susan. The woman raises an eyebrow, setting her project down to her lap. Charlie sighs, defeatedly, and turns her back to the store door, letting it swing shut behind her. But right before it does, and the door presses against its frame, Charlie hears Susan call out.

‘I know where he might be, though.’

Chapter 8: You Turn Me Inside Out

Chapter Text

The same routine has been driving the deer insane for about another week, entirely. Alastor hasn’t used his voice ever since he first woke up . It feels hoarse and unused whenever he even tries to get a groan out, or a sigh. Whoever’s kept him in this capsule of a room, they’re.. Definitely up to something. Alastor doesn’t know exactly what they’re intentions are, but he’s not going to butter up so easily. Not like that.

The door to that closet was sealed once again. A warning, it could be perceived as, but if Alastor wasn’t one for ignoring all signs of danger. His next aim is to get past that door, tear it down, escape this room with the same four walls and the same orange tiles and the same schedule everyday. His lack of an escape plan is driving him more insane than he’d like to admit, and, even worse… He’s actually waiting for someone to come and help him.

Yes, it’s gotten that bad. Everyday Alastor sits at that desk and stares at the door, waiting for it to burst open, someone running through, ready to help him get out of this place. He’s even getting so pathetically desperate he wouldn’t mind if Vox saw him in this state, as long as the stupid TV gets him out of these confines. Hell he might even thank the TV by not ending his life.

Ever since Alastor had had that little incident with the alarms, trying to open up the screen bayou door thing , no other sounds other than his own have blessed his ears. He’s spent hours with his ear pressed against the locked door, but there’s never any chatter past it. Sometimes he swears he can hear movement, the sound of someone shuffling around, but there’s never any chatter. No talking, no groans, not even the sound of breathing, or any sort of life past the door. Thus, Alastor’s believed he’s sunken to the point of audible hallucination. Ironic for a radio-themed captive, hm?

Alastor blinks a few times, opening his eyes up. He’s hunched over the desk, the notebook covering the screen embedded into it, arms folded and holding his head up. The first thing he lays his eyes on is the bayou, the artificial bayou, causing the deer to sigh, shutting his eyes, readjusting his head to hide into his forearms. He feels positively drained. That’s another thing to adjust to in this place, the tire. The insomnia. Alastor’s just been so tired ever since he got here, despite sleeping through a good majority of the night most days. The only rare times he does wake in the middle of the night, whether it be from a bad dream or his body energised and ready to go, the bayou’s sky is dark, and there’s a faint whirring from the locked door.

He wants to chalk it up to being forced to sleep. Drugs in his food that he hasn’t noticed, sedatives in his bath that he inhales. Something that sends him into such long slumbers. But, truthfully, it has to do with the fact that Alastor no longer has any responsibilities in this room. All he has to do in this room is just stay there, there is quite literally nothing else to do .

Whenever he wakes up, everywhere but the bed— He refuses to sleep on that bed, not when there’s a screen on the roof, watching him sleep—, there’s a tray of food on his– the desk, warm and nicely spiced. Not that Alastor is thanking this person. He can just appreciate culinary expertise when he sees it.

A pair of fresh clothes are on the chair with the desk, just like his, if not a bit… eugh . Modern . Instead of his regular collar, it’s splayed out, high, concealing the sides of his neck, covering his jaw, though barely. And he has a scarf. He barely touches it, he refuses to let it brace his being. It smells like factory and machinery, nothing homey, nothing authentic. Alastor is disgusted by the entire outfit, but, unfortunately, it’s either that or sweaty clothes.

Not only this— Whoever this is prepares baths. Baths. Every morning there’s a warm bath with bubbles and Alastor despises it. It is terrible. The fact that he doesn’t let these baths go to waste irks him even more. It’s warm, it’s soapy. The scent always reminds Alastor of baths he would take long ago, in his earlier days of Hell, when he would still care for the blood on his skin, when he would still retch at the thought of deaths at his hands.

Alastor used to take these with Vox when they were but regular sinners, taking on Hell together, overlord by overlord. He recalls faintly, while not romantic, the two would sit in the tub together, knees to their chest, rubbing soap over themselves— Occasionally each other– in the water.

Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they wouldn’t. And sometimes, very rarely, all they would do is let a few tears drop amidst a soapy embrace. The 20th century in Pride was harsh for both of them, being aspiring overlords, aspiring Lucifer and Lilith. But, the two were convinced of one thing— All they needed was a hand to grasp onto when fallen into the mud.

…Huh.

That’s what the bath’s scents and additives remind him of. Pitiful ambitions. Partnerships long forgotten, held over heads like a slab of meat above a shark tank. Perhaps that’s why Alastor's not so reluctant to take them. Eugh. Sentimentality. How disgusting.

And one more thing! Because there are just so many things to complain about in this blasted place. His right hoof– There was a crack running up to the nerves, from when he had kicked the door down, it had hurt like Hell when he had bandaged them up. And then, when Alastor woke up the next day, it was… healed. No crack. No pain. He had woken up and flexed his hoof a few times, out of curiosity, and when it was alright and not killing him, he had briefly debated creating another crack in his hoof out of spite, to see how patient the captor is with him. Pah! To think they could get him to soften up for them.

One could say he has freetime. He never had much of it before, not since the hotel. It’s so agonisingly boring to have freetime in this place, that Alastor thinks this is his final nail in the coffin. With nothing to do, he sleeps, writes in his stupid little notebook, and paces around his room all day. What better activities are there to do?

Sighing, now too lost in his thoughts to get anymore rest, Alastor sits up, stretching his hands over his head. His eyes squeeze shut at the dull ache that runs through his body, as he turns around in his chair, facing the rest of the room. There’s a tray of food and coffee on his bed— A slab of raw venison, with a pastrami sandwich, also with venison. Two pounds of calories, that’s enough to get Alastor through the day without starving. More than enough, actually. Smart bastards.

Grimacing, Alastor gets up from his seat— On his healed hoof, in case he hasn’t made that clear enough— and steps over to the tray. He gazes down at it, picking the coffee up. Still steaming, it wasn’t left here long ago. Taking a small sip, he grimaces, drawing it away. No sugar, one milk, just as he always ordered at cafes and whatnot.

This is Vox-level obsession, to know his coffee order, Alastor will have to offer this new captor royalties for being able to keep up with the creep. Why does it come as such a shock to the public that Alastor can tell Vox wants to stick his dick into him? It’s not that difficult to tell at all. Alastor would point it out during their fights, but that only drags him down to Vox’s level, so he refrains. Apparently that means he has absolutely no idea about Vox’s wanton.

Placing the mug back down on the tray, Alastor turns, stretching his hands over his head once again, a small little groan escaping him. Nice stretch, especially after being hunched over that desk for so long.

He’s getting off track. As he said, Alastor hates the baths. But there’s a sort of affection that lies with these baths, how they remind him of older days and cleaner consciousnesses, comparative to now. Alastor can’t help but go ahead and take the baths. They’re already prepared, all he has to do is get in and sit for about 30 minutes thinking about the decisions that had brought him to where he is, before getting out and walking off. The baths always have these scented oils and a book at the side occasionally. But, all good things have their mould, and the books offered are a bit modern for Alastor, enjoyable regardless.

So yes. He likes the baths, that acknowledgement locked away in the deepest parts of his head. Sue him. Wouldn’t anyone? He hasn’t felt this relaxed in years , and loathe he does to admit it, it’s almost like some getaway. Save for the captivity and unnecessary screens set all over the place. Vox fanatic? Alastor will never know.

Stepping into the bathroom with the newer clothes (Heaven forbid he has to go change out there , the screens up to his neck), Alastor nudges the door shut, inhaling the eucalyptus that rises from the bathtub, from its soapy water. He locks it with a small click, turning to face the very unnecessarily big mirror that takes up an entire wall, only stopping at the bathtub’s designated area. It has an anatomy akin to the bayou-screen outside, so Alastor can only assume it’s either a two-way or one-way mirror. For his captor’s sake, it better be two-way.

He sighs, falling into a much familiar practice of grabbing the toilet paper from aside the toilet, rolling it out, and soaking a whole wad in water. The deer spreads it flat, and covers the three screens surrounding the bathtub. It’s gross, to do this like some adolescent in the school bathrooms who isn’t given attention at home, but he’d rather do this than have to deal with being watched as he takes a bath. And besides, he hasn’t received repercussions, so either this captor is allowing it, or they haven’t noticed. Or a third option where they can still see and admire Alastor’s effort, but the deer doubts they can see through wet toilet paper.

When the three screens are adequately covered, Alastor brings his hands to his night dress, unbuttoning the cloth before politely draping it on the corner of the towel rack. His pants soon follow, and Alastor spares no time hopping into the tub. Last thing he needs is to spend time flaunting his nude skin to the potentially one-way mirror wall. That would be more embarrassing than horrifying.

Keeping his hands above the water, Alastor looks to the small desk at the side of the tub, muscles and back relaxing at the hands of the warm, bubbly water. He reaches over and grabs one of the books, attaching it to the contraption of a simple string for page turning, and settles in fully. How utterly domesticated he must look, embarrassing indeed, at least he isn’t being watched here. So he’ll allow it.

Humming to himself, a jazzy tune from the nice 20’s, Alastor sinks into the tub, far enough his chin brushes against the bubbles. A few attach to his skin when he lifts his head up, something he grimaces to, but doesn’t complain. There’s no-one to complain to, afterall, he’s alone in this room with the strange shuffling during the day and the whirring during the night.

It is eerily similar to how Vox would charge himself when the two would live together in their ramshackled apartment in Rosie’s district. They would lay in their one-room unit, cramped onto the same bed together, the air so hot Alastor was sure he would pass out. Then, their biggest concerns were getting red fur all over the place and draining all the electricity trying to get Vox charged. Alastor would be a liar to say he doesn’t miss those days, getting sh*tface drunk, or high, and killing overlords together. The rush of adrenaline was nice. He misses it, just a bit. Ew. All this eucalyptus is making him emotional.

Focussing back on his book, Alastor continues humming, skimming through the dialogue. It’s a short story, barely 20 pages. Very much past Alastor’s time, but he does find himself enjoying the read. It’s quite entertaining, short, to the point, just how he likes it. Similar to other classics he had read in school and in his general adult life, a whole plethora of what is now considered a “ classic ”. He remembers reading the Great Gatsby when it had been released, purely for the fact that the author had a few other good reads. Nine chapters, 180 pages, a short read, nothing shabby. While reading back in ‘26, Alastor was indifferent, it was certainly nothing to write home about.

It was when he was rereading it in the parlour a few months ago, did Vaggie spot him, striking up a conversation about him reading “classics”. The girl was.. What was it, a 2010 sinner, died around about the time. Alastor didn’t know it was a classic. Didn’t understand how it could be one when there were several other stories that were far more impactful.The two got into a nice conversation about it, and for the first time in quite a bit, Alastor didn’t mind an elongated moment with the woman.

Either way. Alastor shifts his legs a little, noticing how the water is starting to shift from warm to lukewarm, and sighs. It seems he’s been thinking for much longer than he’d like to admit.

Sitting up, Alastor braces the sides of the tub and gets up, shivering at the embrace of cold air against wet skin, and steps out. His hooves quiver slightly, something he grimaces at, reaching for the towel. He keeps strictly to the designated bathtub area, not wanting to get the entire floor of the bathroom wet, and dries himself off, making sure to get himself completely dry.

Then, cautiously, careful not to get anything bit of his clothing wet, Alastor dresses himself and steps into view of the mirror resting above the vanity. He smiles wide, adjusting his bowtie (It’s much smaller now, slightly irritating), and runs his hands down his coat. Then he turns, and steps out of the bathroom.

His stomach growls slightly, a hand reaching to silence it. Alastor moves over to the bed, to the sandwich and slab, and sits down beside the tray, hands on his lap, staring at the food. Everyday he does this– Stares at the food and debates whether or whether not to eat it. Embarrassingly so, he knows he always will, so the little back-and-forth in his head is pointless and a waste of time. It’s good food, he has enough respect to admit that. Whoever cooked this either has very good culinary skills or knows Alastor’s palette well.

He doesn’t want to find out which, for the answer he is afraid of, so he tries not to think about it. Instead, he reaches for the provided utensils, twisting his body to face the tray a bit more proper, and begins cutting away at the venison. It’s soft and juicy just to the point it doesn’t pool, spiced in a way that gets Alastor humming once again, enjoying the raw meat.

He eats in a way that reminds him of that deer he had the morning of that overlord meeting, where he had to deal with the little egg critters. Only one of them is still alive… What was his name? Frill? Fred? What a shame. They were quite useful. He remembers that overlord meeting he was holding in practically hysterical laughter— Vox was too coward to face Alastor, so he sent in Velvette. Ha.

Alastor didn’t understand half of what Velvette was saying during her little argument with Carmilla, to be completely true. He got babe, kisses, all that affectionate jazz– He grew up surrounded by women of similar speech, so it came to him like another language. But other things were just a blur to him. He had no idea what she was saying.

Alastor can tell Velvette is just as the other two slobs. co*cky, arrogant, in over their heads. It’s slightly cringeworthy to see her being affected by such negative influences, but what can you do? It’s difficult to deviate from the roots that rose you from the ground.

Finishing off the slab of venison, Alastor moves onto the parmini sandwich. He recognises it as New York cuisine. While he’s no Northern American expert, he can certainly tell a “ sandwich ” isn’t meat with two pieces of bread on top of it and the bottom. Nevertheless, it gets him through the day, so you won’t find him complaining any time soon.

Chewing, Alastor sighs, shaking his head. Good grief, he had only woken up about an hour or so ago and he’s already ready to collapse. Forget Pride, he should’ve been sent to Sloth when he died. Maybe the bath had just made him lazy, hm? What a heavy fall. But, regardless, Alastor moves onto continuing the sandwich, taking it bit by bit, eyelids drooping with every bite. What a strange predicament he’s found himself in, a loop of bathing, eating, writing, and sleeping. Finishing off the last two pieces of meat, Alastor hums softly, dusting his hands atop the tray, catching any crumbs, and reaches for the coffee. Hopefully it’ll wake him up some more.

Anywho, he has this theory. The exact reason as to why he’s been locked in here. Yes, he has amenities, a bed, nice scenery (Albeit on a disgusting television), warm baths, all the things worthy of calling a vacation home. But, the kicker here is Alastor hasn’t had to use his voice in days thanks to his isolation, his clothes are new and he’s being fed widely the same range of foods everyday. His microphone is still in disrepair, and he doesn’t doubt the longer he stays here, the more distant he’ll become with his well crafted Transatlantic, the very accent that shapes him to be the Radio Demon the way he is.

Whoever’s stuck him in here wants to enact a sort of White Room Torture .

Alastor had done some research on it during his days topside. The watered down version of it is to simply strip someone of their identity by locking them in a room and giving them the same schedule without any interaction, human or whatever else. Essentially Alastor’s situation. This captor wants Alastor to forget who he is, who he was, and then, when he’s a blank slate and in need of a purpose, they’ll swoop in and reshape his being to fit them. But Alastor isn’t that weak-willed, and the captor made one mistake.

The notebook.

He abandons the tray on the bed after dusting off the spot of which he had sat, bringing his coffee with him to the desk, pulling the chair back on its embedded path before having a seat. The coffee thuds against the wood, a muted noise as Alastor reaches for his pen, flicking the notebook open. This notebook allows Alastor to log each and every day he’s spent in this place. So far, it’s been for at least two weeks. One week, he spent asleep (Asleep! Can you believe that? He was so tired on the walk to Cannibal Town he went ahead and passed out for a week !), and the other, he’s been spending time following this routine of bathing, eating, sleeping, and writing.

The deer keeps his logs short so he doesn’t run out of paper anytime soon, and keeps his strokes small and precise, so as not to waste the ink of the pen. All the entries are the same, save for the specific date— He hadn’t kept track before he was taken, regrettably, but he does remember the day. He was kidnapped on a Thursday. It has been two weeks, so today is a Thursday as well. Picking his pen up with his coffee in his right hand, Alastor begins today’s entry.

My name is Alastor. I am The Radio Demon. I endorse Hazbin Hotel, run by Charlie Morningstar and Vaggie Morningstar. Today is Thursday. It has been 14 days since my capture. I will get out of this place. And I will kill the person responsible.

Setting his pen down, Alastor sighs. Good lord. It appears the coffee has made him even more tired, somehow. Leave it up to Alastor to consume caffeine to the point it has the opposite effect on him, hm? Scooting the chair backwards a bit, Alastor gets into the position he always gets into when wanting to sleep. He shouldn’t. He should focus on getting out of here, mastering his kicks and trying to manifest his shadow, which is only another issue. But, he doesn’t, because he is just so damn tired , he can barely think straight without needing to take a pause or trail off in his own head.

So, Alastor places his head within the confines of his folded arms, and shuts his eyes.

**

‘You shouldn’t.’ A crisp step on orange tiling. ‘Dude, I’m serious. If he wakes up he’s going to chomp your arm off. Didn’t you say he didn’t allow it, even before he ditched you?’ That’s a familiar voice. Feminine, heavily British, sharp and annoying. Alastor’s too tired to dig further into his head than basic diagnostic.

‘Okay, first of all, you’re a buzzkill.’ Another familiar voice. Alastor feels a small rush of nostalgia send a chill up and down his spine. Too tired. He’s not bothered to try to figure it out. Figure anything out.

‘Second of all, I sprinkled enough Xylazine in his food to border safe and cardiac arrest.’ Well. At least it isn’t Alastor being lazy. That much lifts his ego, even by a morsel.

‘ Third of all, he didn’t ditch me, there was a misunderstanding and he wasn’t open to communication, so he left for an indefinite amount of time.’ Another step. Alastor’s left ear tenses, picking the noise up. A loud, irritated sigh sounds from behind where the step had landed.

‘This is really f*cking weird. What you’re doing is really f*cking weird.’

‘It is not weird. Think of it as… persuasion of alliance.’

‘So… being really f*cking weird.’

‘Shut up!’

Another set of footsteps. These ones are crisp and slightly muted, heels clicking and softening from wear. The smell of sweetness and drugs causes Alastor’s nose to feel weird. Everything feels weird. He can’t find it in himself to open his eyes. They feel as though they’re being weighed down. What’s going on?

‘Ooh, is that your new boytoy? Can I pet him too? I heard the ears get those stags rock hard.’ Boytoy? Alastor recognises the name. He thinks he heard Angel Dust say it once, a passing conversation with Husk at the hotel bar.

‘Eugh.’ Well at least he and this anonymous woman share the same reaction.

‘Go away, no. It isn’t going to be sexual. I’m just going to pet his ears, it’s not like that.’ Another step, the first person walking closer. Alastor can feel the radio waves in the air begin to intensify, so much so it forces a little noise out of him, a low hum as he moves his head to the side, cheek on his arms. Sounds freeze all over.

‘Is he awake–’

The female begins speaking, hasty, quiet. ‘Sh! Don’t you have Angel Dust to be f*cking right now? Go away!’

‘Both of you, go,’ Speaks the voice closest to Alastor. He can’t find it within him to look up, or open his eyes at all, but the radio waves, if they’re anything to go by, are calm and soothing to Alastor’s head. Kind of like when he had finally fallen asleep in the Cannibal District, when that person had caught him.

Two footsteps recede down, out of the room, and a door slides shut. Slides? He could have sworn the door they might have come from was a push and pull. How else did he kick it open? There must have been two doors, then. A push, and a sliding one he missed in his delirium. Well, at least he knows now.

Alastor feels something hit the top of his head. It’s solid, a hand, most likely, with electricity thrumming through the tips of the fingers, claws scratching his scalp just right. But it doesn’t feel right. There is a hand on his head, someone in his room, most likely his captor.

I will get out of this place. And I will kill the person responsible.

His eyes fly open, renewed with an energy he did not have before. Alastor forces his head to lift, prompting a startled gasp from the hand’s owner, withdrawing. The deer twists his neck around, cracking it inhumanely, eyes widening at the person who stumbles backwards, away from him. Their eyes are wide, their hands hovering in the air, panic written on their screen, tacky suit replaced for something more casual.

He can’t believe it. He refuses to believe it.

‘ Vox.’

The man smiles wide at the recognition. But he barely manages to say anything. Alastor lurches forward, his body heavy, sight blurry, limbs like anvils. Vox startles as the two crash to the floor, narrowly missing the bed’s leg. Alastor sits on top of the TV, lips curled back to reveal black gums, a snarl leaving him in a way that’s almost animalistic. His claws are raised above his head, swiping down for the TV. Vox shoves the heel of his hand directly at the deer, jutting into his jaw, biting down on his tongue. Blood pools in his mouth, his swiped claw faltering, landing as a skim across screen.

It leans an etched line in its wake, red liquid dripping down the deer’s chin. Static begins to rise in the area, harsh, unforgiving in its waves. Vox reaches up, grabbing Alastor’s collar. He drags him down, meeting him in the middle, and slams his head into Alastor’s. The deer cries out, dazed, halting in his attacks.

Vox latches onto Alastor’s biceps, using the weight and sway of their bodies to shove aside. He clambers on top, holding the other’s forearms to the top of the deer’s head, scowling. Alastor’s head shoots up, teeth bared, snapping his jaw, more akin to a shark than Vox is.

Vox takes a few moments to stare down at Alastor, at the blood leaking from his bitten tongue, the widened eyes and predatory glare. Staring down at the deer, as his resolve is weakened, bites slowing, head lowering to the ground. It’s almost poetic, in a way, like watching a buck slowly accept the bullet ending its life, the slowing breaths, look of serenity.

Vox comes upon a sudden realisation, watching Alastor wear himself out, losing himself to the tire and Vox’s hypnosis.

‘You’re so beautiful.’

Alastor’s eyes swirl, in a way so undeniably transfixing, maroon lines amidst avid red sclera, eyebrows furrowing, smile forming sharp. Vox manages a little smile of his own. That’s his Alastor, his loving buck— Still fighting despite Vox’s orders in his head, still scowling despite Vox telling him to calm down. Vox would have honestly been far past disappointed, if Alastor just went lax in his control, just gave in. Knowing that there’s that little bit of stubbornness refusing to listen to his head despite it all makes Vox unbelievably fond. He needs this man in his arms. He needs Alastor .

Alastor’s eyes go half mast, eyes swirling, the blue light of Vox’s screen reflecting on his face.It’s a lovely hue, it goes with the deer so well. Vox hums, sneaking his hands underneath Alastor’s back, lifting Alastor up. The screens around the room emanate the same swirl, drawing Alastor’s eyes, no matter where he goes, or looks. A deep hum transfers itself from Alastor to Vox, chests pressed together, a hum of protest, wanting to escape firm hold. But Vox knows Alastor doesn’t want to. He needs a hug after this long. After so much time without Vox.

Standing, Vox heaves Alastor up onto the bed, laying him out flat. The screen above keeps Alastor’s attention, so Vox feels safe to let go of the deer, standing back. Looking at him splayed out on the bed. So f*cking beautiful . Vox could act on desire right now, listening to Alastor cry out so pretty, cheeks flushed, begging for more of Vox’s body, more pleasure, all while staring at Vox, refusing to break eye contact, refusing to stop wanting the shark. Vox would make him beg, so cute on his knees, for a brief graze of Vox's skin on his. Vox would spoil him. Better than that hotel ever could. But no, Vox wouldn’t, not for now. He wants Alastor to stare into his eyes willingly, without the spiral. He needs to be patient.

Vox slinks forward, hands sneaking to Alastor’s coat buttons as he sits on the bed, in between Alastor’s splayed legs. He latches a claw onto each, undoing them. Alastor lets out a little protest, eyes squinting, but never closing, the swirl too irresistible, the fogginess too vast to escape. The TV lifts Alastor’s torso off the bed, leaving his touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary. The deer is so warm. So nice and lovely.

Alastor whines, and it takes Vox a few moments to focus. It’s such a cute noise. He remembers hearing it when Alastor would cry, about life in Hell, how much he missed his mother. Vox would always be distracted during the talks, Alastor’s tears would be an addiction, a trance of the deer’s own.

‘I know, I know,’ Vox whispers softly, into Alastor’s ear, chuckling at the way it flicks. ‘You’re tired, I can tell, Al. So sleepy, you get so sleepy sometimes. Isn’t it nice, though? No more of that toxic princess and all those fools who use you . I would never use you. I’ll get you relaxed. The most relaxed buck in Hell.’

Moving back a little, Alastor’s coat falls to the bed, moved aside by Vox. Vox moves onto his suspenders, unclipping them, letting them fall in a messy pile with the coat. A long, and labouring process it is, but it’s all the more worth it, legs touching legs, Alastor staring at Vox’s screen the further and further Vox shrugs Alastor’s clothes off. Alastor whines, softly, turning his head away, eyes failing to follow. Peering at Vox.

When Vox reaches Alastor’s waistband, his shirt and coat abandoned, Vox pauses. Lets Alastor lay back, against the numerous pillows, and admires his body. A slight puff of fur comes from Alastor’s chest area, elevated by deer anatomy. It gets paler towards his skinny stomach, something Vox frowns at. He has to feed Alastor more than he does.. But that’s a concern for later. Reaching forward, Vox splays his hand out on Alastor’s upper abdomen, claws sinking into the fur.

Consider Vox surprised when another hand clutches at his wrist. The grip is weak and sleep-deprived, Alastor keening slightly. ‘No..’

‘No?’ Vox parrots, co*cking an eyebrow. He doesn’t want Alastor to be afraid of him. ‘What no, buck? What don’t you want?’

‘Don’t…’ Alastor trails off, giving a weak shove to Vox’s hand. The television nods, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. But not without a little electric shock that makes Alastor flinch, letting out a small yelp, goosebumps spreading on his skin. So cute. But he doesn’t want to overwhelm Alastor yet.

He instead reaches for the waistband, resuming his task before he had gotten distracted. Alastor reaches up for Vox’s moving hands, but they fall onto the bed with a small noise. ‘Shhh… It’s okay, I’m not doing anything. I’m just going to change your clothes. I don’t want you sleeping in that annoying coat, hm?’

Reaching to Alastor’s bedside drawer, Vox pulls it open, pulling out his pyjamas, setting it aside as he quickly pulls off Alastor’s pants. It comes with a bit of protest, Alastor refusing to lift his hips, but Vox manages, with a tiny bit of coercion, to get him to lift himself up enough for the television to get his pants off. They’re slacks, he had asked Velvette to include them himself. Alastor looks so good in slacks, the way they’re tailored to show off Alastor’s body, tight in all the right places. It was a shame, when he was still at that tacky hotel, that any footage of that ass would be hidden by the glitching, but now Vox can see it up close and in real time.

Vox holds the shirt above Alastor’s head, before hesitating. Should he really risk letting Alastor go for a second? Who knows what he could do in that one second. He was a little mad when Vox had initially arrived.

Frowning, Vox shuffles further onto the bed, moving closer between Alastor’s legs, and places the shirt onto his own lap. Staring at it. Ultimately, he decides to unbutton it and rebutton it. It’s not the worst— He won’t get to see Alastor’s messy hair when the shirt rubs all over him trying to get it on, but he does get to move closer to the deer, having an excuse to hold him tight.

He gets to work unbuttoning the shirt, making quick work on it as Alastor lays on the bed. It’s about halfway through unbuttoning the buttons, does Vox notice heavy breathing. He looks up, co*cking an eyebrow, and immediately frowns. Alastor lays on the bed, arms pin straight, eyes squeezed shut. He’s muttering things underneath his breath, static heavy, panting harsh.

‘I’ll kill you. I will kill you. I swear to god I'll kill you. I promise it.’

Vox laughs, reaching forward, placing his hand on Alastor’s cheek. The deer’s eyes fly open, head shooting to Vox, scowling. ‘Shh. I promise you’ll like it here. Just relax, okay? It’s nice to have you back, Al. I missed you.’

‘I will put your head on a stick!--’

Vox’s grip turns harsh. The tips of his nails dig into skin, as Vox leans in close, left eye pulsing. ‘I really don’t want to do this to you, buck.’

Alastor’s panting slows, gradual, until Vox can’t hear it at all, the scowl in his smile gone. ‘Don’t make me force you, buck. It’s the last thing I want to do, to hurt you. Not when you’re finally here.’

With Alastor sitting up, Vox makes quick work of wrapping the shirt around him, getting his arms through the sleeves, laying him back down. He does the same with Alastor’s legs, a taunting process of lifting a hoof into the arm, holding it firm when Alastor tries to kick. So stubborn. Vox loves it.

But, eventually, the fun comes to an end, Alastor laying in bed, staring at the screen mounted onto the roof, trying to move away, fingers twitching, knees locking up, then relaxing, trying to escape Vox’s grasp, the cloudiness in his mind, the mud in his thoughts and reactions.He makes the hypnosis so beautiful, a trait Vox would use forever if he could, just on Alastor, only on Alastor. It’s something Vox can’t wait to see with due time. All in due time. He must be patient, must wait just a little while longer. Vox wouldn’t mind having to wait another seven years, if it means having Alastor love him.

And the deer will love him like he does Alastor.

Chapter 9: And Then You Want Me Outside In?

Chapter Text

Susan wasn’t as much of a let-down as Rosie woulda guessed. Infact, her answer had honestly stunned the overlord for a few moments before she could get herself into gear. The outskirts of the cannibal district, the old hag had snapped —revelling in Charlie’s gratitude, her smug looking face also looking quite punchable— right in the merge of Alastor’s forests and Rosie’s district, there’s a small swamp that Susan had noticed housed a small camp. She had seen it for the first time while on a walk around the district.

It was small and barely above the muddy water, a bunch of wooden rubble, but it appeared to have been recently interacted with. She had assumed it was some random sinner looking for a temporary place to stay and left it alone after realising they would have to build the thing. Seeing now that Alastor is gone, and how he loved his bayous so much, Susan came to the reasonable conclusion that the swamp was his.

To be completely honest, Rosie barely remembers the last time she went to that swamp. She faintly recalls Alastor making it within the early days of the two’s friendship, when he was still jumpy and settling into the fact that he was in Hell. He had been so proud of it, the fact that he had made it with his bare hands— Getting himself very muddy in the process—, Rosie couldn’t help but let him keep it, even if she didn’t fancy the way her dress would get wet and gross. It took him a bit of practice to get the cabin to deconstruct and construct at will, like the cabin was a lock, Alastor’s presence the key.

Overtime, Rosie and Alastor’s bond grew. The deer started having more and more “sleepovers” in the emporium, fewer reasons to escape to his cabin. He lived in the cabin when he met Vox, lived in it when they had tore apart. Hell, he had lived in it then, too, when Rosie received a wall of radio silence, for an entire decade, without a word, without a warning.

Well, she’s fairly certain Alastor and Vox had had their falling out in that cabin. Her memory isn’t exactly pristine. Rosie does remember, however, watching Vox storm by without a farewell, Alastor following soon after, tears streaming down his face, the ugliest smile she’d ever seen him wear etched onto his face.

So Rosie forgot about it, never going near the edge of the district. She never really needed to, anyways. Alastor was gone. There was no reason to go and visit old memories that would always spoil her mood. Overall, Rosie’s been avoiding this cabin like the plague. Not only because it most likely does contain plague, long abandoned and uncared for, but also because the memories are just… a lot. They sit a box in an attic of a long forgotten home, something never to be recovered.

But here she is now, walking alongside Charlie and Vaggie, a tense silence that none of them want to break with passing conversation.

Charlie’s had this weird grin etched onto her face ever since they had departed Susan’s crappy boutique towards the swamp. It looks like she’s trying to summon Alastor but also not trying to summon him by appealing to his facial standards. Vaggie’s been walking next to her with her hand in her lover’s, clenched tight and her body language stiff. Susan had mentioned that she had last seen the cabin in disarray, but wouldn't be surprised if it was prim and proper just like its tacky owner and his tacky suit. Not funny. Scaring the girls is one thing, but insulting Rosie’s clothing while wearing her hat is outrageous.

Nevertheless, Rosie sighs to herself, hands clasped firmly in front of her as the three begin to approach the outskirts of Rosie’s district. The buildings are run down and any cannibals who do see them yelp and run off into their homes. Such a sad place. All the outskirts are— When a demon like Alastor owns the outline of a ring, it’s only a matter of time before overlords stop caring for those areas towards the forests.

Mud squishes underneath Rosie’s heels, as she lifts her dress up a tad to spare it. It smells like rotten eggs and death as the three walk, Charlie coughing numerous times to expel the smell out of her lungs, waving her hand in front of her face. Vaggie looks over at Rosie, and dares to speak words that no-one has been brave enough to even think. ‘So, does this cabin actually exist, or was that lady trying to be a pain in the ass?’

‘Pain in the ass, yes! Cabin existing, also yes!’ Rosie smiles, coming to a stop in the foggy water, her pause sending ripples of muddy water in the swamp. ‘It’s right here!’

The three pause, looking around the clearing of which they stand. All there is, is ankle-deep mud, wet and thick and brown and green all the same. Trees loom over the three like threats, and there’s a faint noise of an animal somewhere deeper within the forest. All this love of lady nature, but not a single man-made poison. Vaggie raises an eyebrow, placing a hand on her hip.

‘Here?’ She asks, as though talking to a five year old with nothing better to do besides tease and prod at the bear. Rosie, however, nods passionately, gesturing with a hand to the mud. Vaggie shakes her head, slowly, as if dealing with an insane woman, hearing her latest conspiracy. The cannibal laughs.

‘What? Didya really think old Alastor would leave his house out in the open like that?’ Rosie snorts, waving her hand dismissively. With this motion, a wave of dust flies from her open palm, landing into the mud.

There’s silence for a few moments. But there’s no physical movement. Vaggie sighs and turns to Charlie for a long trip back to the hotel, when she pauses. Listens to the silence hanging in the air. Or, more accurately, lack thereof. Splashes and rumbles of water begin to rise from behind her, prompting her spin back around, fast enough her jaw doesn’t fall until after a few seconds. Wooden planks rise from the water, wet and mossy, connecting together akin to a drawbridge. The sounds are quick, wet, and creaky, as if this practice hadn’t been completed for years.

Within those few seconds, Vaggie is met with Alastor’s cabin.

She stares at it for a prolonged moment, before Charlie steps forth, squealing happily. Vaggie manages to string along by a hair, following her princess up the ladder onto the small porch of the cabin. The wood is damp, and along it swamp plants have strung, something Rosie grimaces at as she climbs up shortly after, standing on the soggy surface, heels digging into soft wood.

The chances Alastor is in this porch are close to none, really, but Rosie would like to savour these memories rebirthing from the moss ridden planks. Is this a waste of time? Potentially. Potentially not. The cannibal likes those odds, so she decides to keep quiet. She walks to the door and whisks her hand gently, catching a ring of keys fallen above her hand. The overlord sorts through the selection, plucking out an older fashioned key, inserting it into the hole. Swinging open, the door clicks open, allowing the three inside.

It's fairly obvious the cabin hasn't been touched in a while. Even Charlie notices, her expression dulling slightly as she looks around. Vaggie runs a finger over a dusty surface, resulting in a thick layer of grey sticking to her hand, something she wipes onto her dress with a grimace.

The cabin itself isn't big– With no roof aside from the one tilting towards the sky, rooms are dictated with cloth strung on lines, separating area from area. Alastor’s powers weren't what they are now back then. He couldn't summon much aside from small tentacles and minions who were very much defiant. Hence why the cabin is so poorly built.

‘It’s hand-built,’ Charlie realises, eyes widening. Almost as if she’s trying to distract herself from the fact that the cabin is empty, untouched before interaction. ‘Wow! He built this himself?’

‘Took him ages,’ Rosie explains, smiling with a hint of reminisce in her eyes. Distractions are good. But they can’t be elongated like Charlie is trying to do. ‘Speaking of him. Alastor!’

No response.

Rosie sighs, stepping further into the home, moving some of the cloth walls aside. The fabric she does shove reveals a small tub, wide enough for two people, still filled with murky water. There's some bloody cloth hanging on its side, dried to stay in the shape it was left in. Rosie doubts the blood was Alastor’s. Inside the metal tub, the water is humid in a sense Rosie feels the wetness on her fingers, but not the temperature of the water itself, almost as if the liquid exists as a being outside of physicality. Just as the rest of the cabin. Frozen in time. She withdraws her wet fingers, shaking them a bit, before moving out into the main room.

Vaggie sighs, glancing to the door, almost as if it were to disappear if she had looked away for too long. Charlie, instead, pulls aside another cloth. Behind it, a portable stove, the most “modern” Alastor was ever willing to go, sat on the wooden floor with cooking utensils around it. There're two plates of rotting food, unidentified. But, aside from the rotting, they seem untouched. Rosie, standing outside, leans a bit to her side to look at the plates, a frown overtaking her expression. Bathwater having been used, food ready to be eaten, everything otherwise unscathed.

The cabin is a capsule of the night Alastor and Vox had their fight.

Rosie makes a note to herself, to talk to Alastor when they do eventually find him. Wherever he’s gone off to, which isn’t far. He promised he wouldn’t leave like that without another warning, ever. And if Rosie doesn’t know how sincere the man with the silver tongue is with his promises. So she promises to give him the most intense scolding the man’s ever received when he gets back.

‘Alastor hasn't been here in years,’ Vaggie mutters below her breath, crossing her arms, beginning to pace back and forth between Charlie, who leaves the kitchen as was, and the door. ‘That hag led us nowhere.’ Rosie sees why Alastor liked her. She’s got moxie. Moxie, and a hatred for Susan.

‘I agree.’ The overlord looks at the two women with an upset smile. Her brain scrambles to come up with a solution that isn’t useless, that could actually help, but her mouth before her brain can. ‘How ‘bout we check where you last left him? See if anything's around?’ We can figure something out there.’ Charlie nods, though reluctant. The three leave the cabin to fall back into wooden pieces, a pile of rubble underneath muddy water.

Onto the merge. Rosie only ever goes there to head elsewhere in the ring, mainly the hotel, or Carmilla’s district for overlord meetings. Everytime she does pass by the V district, she’s always due for some staring, from sinners or overlords she stands indifferent. The schedule for overlord meetings with the two cannibal overlords is to meet at the building itself and sit next to one another, but sometimes she catches Alastor walking through the V district followed by Vox, so she waits for him at a street corner she knows needs to be passed, and walks with him from there. Of course, since the extermination, there hasn’t been any word of a meeting. None Rosie’s heard of.

‘I left him here,’ Charlie starts up, drawing the cannibal from her thoughts as the three come to a stop. Neon lighting dances in the distance, further from the quiet and old theme Rosie’s put to her name. The merge between V and Cannibal, it seems. Charlie points down to an oddly specific spot on the concrete road, looking up to the other two.

‘That’s lovely, dear,’ Rosie smiles, clasping her hands together. ‘Did you see him walk off? Where to?’

‘Uhm…’ Charlie trails off, biting her index nail slightly. Vaggie pulls her wrist away from her teeth, gripping the princess’s hand tightly, weaving their fingers together. Charlie smiles, turning back to Rosie. ‘I kinda turned around and left.. But I do remember hearing… Someone talking?’

‘Talking?’ Vaggie suddenly speaks, her eyebrows drawing tight. ‘Who?’

‘It was..’ The princess frowns. ‘I dunno who it was, but I know it was a man. Like, mid-50’s, definitely.’

‘A lot of people in Cannibal Town are mid-50s,’ Rosie informs helpfully, lowering her clasped hands to her hips, smiling politely despite the desperation for some sort of useful information clawing at her frontal lobe. Instead of informing Rosie exactly where Alastor is and how many people she has to consume to get to him, Charlie hums, impatient.

‘I can’t…! Remember who it was. Their voice was really familiar but I can’t figure out who it belonged to!’ She sighs, exasperated, drawing her hands up to her hair. Vaggie frowns, holding both of her lovers hand tight and near. The moth whispers something to calm the princess down, resulting in two eyes landing on Rosie.

Rosie herself lets out a sigh. ‘I’ll put out an announcement, dears. For now, why don’t you two head back to your little hotel to see if anyone there knows anything?’

Vaggie nods, pulling Charlie’s hand closer to the two’s chests, kissing the back of it softly. ‘Let’s go, my love.’ And as they walk off, Rosie huffs, shifting her weight to one side, a hand on her hip.

Guess Alastor was right about the most doting couple in Hell.

**

He wraps his coat around himself. It makes him feel better, after being violated like that, tossed and turned, used and abused. Looking in the mirror prompts a spark of hatred to rush through him, though the fate is inevitable, his reflection staring into him from multiple viewpoints. The more he breaks them, the more they return. And how he hates that.

How could he have ever let himself fall to this pile of trash? Practically asking to be abused, letting himself be drugged and dragged into this sort of… f*cking hypnosis that hurts him so. People were wrong to believe he could be redeemed, especially the cat. Angel’s just a dumb p*rnstar anyway.

Sighing, he turns away from the standing mirror eyeing him down in his room, moving to the bed with a soft oomph forced from his lungs, his coat draping over him. Valentino is due to come in for cameos any moment now, and all Angel’s to do is wait and stick around in his room. Not much to do. There’re sex toys waiting for usage by the foot of his bed, his phone’s dead and busted from the last time Valentino had thrown it, and he’s tired all over. He aches and hurts, and no doubt will it intensify later, from his future plans.

Charlie and Vaggie had returned from Cannibal Town all panicky with their knickers in a twist. Husk had given Angel a drink as the cat had asked how Alastor was, some faux sense of concern in his voice. Angel vouched for it on being secretly hoping Alastor was dead.

Charlie freaked, reaching for her hair and pulling slightly. She had explained that Alastor wasn’t in Cannibal Town, that no-one had any idea where he was, that he had just gone missing. Husk sighed, turning his back. He said something about how Alastor was not dead. If he were, Husk’s neck would have felt a lot lighter.

The princess had frowned for a few seconds before turning to Angel. And there was that look in her eyes that had sent the spider reeling back, shaking his head. ‘No, no no no. No. I am not asking Valentino.’

Well god-f*cking-damnit. Look where Angel is now.

He groans, sitting up with a begrudged look, glancing at the small clock on his bed desk. Valentino should be showing up anytime soon, and Angel is bound to get his ass kicked for even bringing up someone from the hotel at work. He was banned from even mentioning the hotel ever since Charlie had shown up.

Normally, when in the common room and Valentino was asleep, Angel was allowed to rant, scott-free, to Husk on the phone. Vox would be there and not say a word. Velvette was the same. In recent times, Angel finds Vox tensing up at the mention of the hotel, his mood visibly souring after. But Vox’s jealousy of Angel is no secret at all, so the p*rnstar chalked it up to nothing. Velvette only ever finds an excuse to walk away if Angel mentions it. Which is weird, but it’s probably because Alastor’s gone missing after all three of them made his failure such a big deal.

The door clicks open. Angel feels his breath hitch slightly, watching the door with rapt interest as Valentino walks inside, clutching his camera, eyes scanning around. His expressions silken when he sees the p*rnstar on the bed, legs slightly bent out in front of him. The overlord steps inside, closing and locking the door behind him, placing his camera on the bed.

‘Already picking the spot, Angel?’ He asks, his voice smooth and words sweet, in all senses of the word. Angel nods, swallowing a lump of spit in his mouth. ‘Good boy. You’ve been behaving yourself today, haven’t you?

Angel focuses on his hands, gripping the bed sheets, his heartbeat racing in his chest. The way his skin seems to prickle and words seem like boulders escaping his throat. He almost forgets to speak. ‘Yes.. Valentino.’

Valentino hums, low and seductive. ‘You want something from me, don’t you?’ He crawls onto the bed, in front of Angel’s legs, using his finger to nudge one of his knees apart. Angel leans back, perhaps on instinct, as Valentino gets between Angel’s legs. ‘What is it, baby? Do you want me to suck you off? Get you high and mighty in front of your boss?’

Angel lets out a noise, not desperate, or begging, or even suggestive to start. A noise, simply of pure hesitance, a noise of fear, a rat wandering far too close to a mouse trap, ready to set off.

‘Go on, tell me,’ The moth urges, moving forward, in Angel’s personal space, his breath hot on Angel’s face. ‘What is it you want me to do for you, querida araña?’

Angel pushes the words out of his chest. ‘I have a question. About someone at the hotel.’

Valentino seems off put by the question. He stops his advances, sitting back on his haunches with a playful grin, laughing slightly as he speaks. ‘Should I not be the one asking you about your silly little playthings at the hotel?’

Angel manages a slight, fake chuckle as he speaks again. ‘It’s.. uhm. Overlord stuff.’

The moth’s expression darkens abruptly. His smile begins to grow, pink teeth shining, bringing his gold one to the spotlight. Leaning forward, Valentino places either hand on the sides of Angel’s shoulders, forcing the spider onto his back, resting on the bed.

‘Oh. I see. You want to talk about the radio demon.’

All Angel can do is nod slightly, cringing, bracing for impact. A slap to the face, Val grabbing his chin, a suffocating kiss. Something, anything to put Angel back into his place.

It never comes.

‘What about him, estrella?’ Valentino hums, tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Do you want someone to act as him? Make it so his kinky little tentacles grab you from all angles, f*cking you in all holes? Is that what you want? My naughty spider.’

‘No, no,’ Angel panics, shaking his head. ‘I was.. Just. Just wondering if you’ve seen him, lately. He ain’t been showing his face at the hotel, so… uhm.’

Valentino chuckles, amused. ‘I haven’t seen him at all, my love.’ Sinking down, their foreheads pressed together, a flick of Valentino’s wing starting the next camera recording. ‘Now, how about you make a f*cking show tonight?’ Angel sighs, resigning to his fate.

‘Yes, Valentino.’

**

The hotel’s been made aware of the news. The Great Radio Demon, missing without a trace… For the second time. Jesus Christ. Husk knows the guy’s a drama queen, but this is much. Well. Maybe he’s being a tad bit harsh. The day Alastor had walked to the bar, looking like a paranoid mess, when he had shown Angel and Husk his bruises, Husk, admittedly, was a bit disturbed.

It just seemed impossible for Alastor to get hurt, let alone be all scared and jumpy and paranoid at every little noise and sound. Husk had known setting Alastor to Cannibal Town was the right choice. What the hell happened to him on the way, Husk doesn’t know. Stopped asking questions a long time ago.

He sits in the parlour with the rest of the group as they all discuss in hushed, quiet voices. As if afraid the wrong person will overhear. Who? It’s the middle of the day, people are either f*cking, fighting, or both. They whisper like talking too loud will get them killed, but Husk can’t judge— He’s not even participating, waiting and listening to the conversation, a bottle of booze in his hand. Rye whiskey, actually, to celebrate the momentous occasion of Alastor pissing off, hopefully for another decade. Hooray.

‘Val said he hasn’t seen him either,’ Angel whispers when Husk puts his focus back on the group, rather than his own thoughts, ‘But honestly, I think he’s lying. He has seen Al, and if I had to put and lock my two cents in, I’d say he has something to do with his disappearance.’

‘We can’t go around accusing people of that,’ Charlie smiles, awkward, strained. ‘Well, not yet, but we have to search every nook and cranny of Pride before we move onto kidnapping. I mean– It’s Alastor. Anyone who would try to attack him would be stupid!’

‘Yeah, of course, duckling,’ Lucifer mutters, leaning in closer to the impromptu circle they’ve made, ‘But Alastor was tired. Tired, paranoid, and most importantly injured. He could hurt someone as bad as a bug could— Scare 'em off, sure, but once they get past that scare…’

There’s a quiet tapping on the carpeted floor. Niffty’s smalls hands run across Husk’s back, onto his head, leaning off of it. Downside to Alastor’s disappearance— Husk is now Niffty’s beanpole to climb.

‘A bug?’ She pants, smiling, needle shining sharp in her hand. ‘Where’s the bug? Bugs don’t scare me, the bad boys can trust me to kill all the bugs in the hotel.’

A wave of quiet crowds over the group. Husk lowers Niffty to the floor. A con of having Niffty around in the hotel and keeping her busy ever since Alastor had left, is she has no f*cking clue where he’s gone off to. Both her and Husk are used to Alastor just randomly disappearing time-to-time, so she probably knocked this up to just Alastor being Alastor. Eyes fall upon the ladybug, something her smile falters at, eyes darting around. Her next words come out in a hasty breath.

‘What’s wrong why are you all looking at me like that.’

‘Niffty,’ Charlie begins softly, reaching to splay a hand in her red hair. Niffty turns to the princess. Vaggie butts in.

‘Alastor’s missing, we don’t know where he is, he might be dead by now, probably is, congrats you’re free, condolences Alastor is dead.’

The silence in the room could have killed an elephant. Niffty stares blankly at Vaggie for a few seconds. Just.. staring. Her brain begins working at maximum performance as she comprehends the words, forcing them to make sense in her head. Eyes widen and heads are slightly brought back in fear as a small whimper escapes NIffty. Her own pupil is blown wide and her shoulders have visibly sagged, tears pooling at her eyelashes, clumping them together.

‘The.. Bad boy is dead?’

No-one responds. Niffty swivels around to Husk, her vice, temporary grip on reality. The cat nods, solemnly, taking a drink of his booze. Niffty whimpers. Her whimpers turn to sobs, sobs turning to cries, and soon, she’s nothing but a blur of motion, running from the group. Charlie calls after her, but she doesn’t glance back. Loud sobs fade down the hallway.

‘Well that was a sh*tshow,’ Lucifer whispers, turning his gaze back to the small group. ‘Before we start actually assuming he got kidnapped–’ For which the answer is pretty clear, yes. ‘Does anyone know any other places he could’ve gone to?’

‘I mean,’ Husk finally steps in, waving his booze around. ‘There is one more place. Really remote, pretty sure only a few people knew it existed.’

‘Well,’ Lucifer answers, smiling, ‘That list is about to grow by a few.’

Husk shrugs. Not his circus, not his clowns. ‘Follow me.’

**

It’s really humid where the group walks. Of course, Husk flies oblivious to this, hovering above the mud and grimy water that sticks to their pant legs. Who the hell lives in a place like this? The cat had said that with owning the forest of Pride, Alastor, in his early days of being an overlord, had made a little camp for himself in the forest, deep within. As he said, only a few people had ever seen it, Husk included, and even then, they were not allowed to enter the camp. Only look at it from afar while hunting.

Speaking of hunting.

Lucifer sparkles another rabid deer into a rubber duck. The rabid animal, teeth bared, eyes stark white and intent murderous, disappears, landing in the water as a small duck with deer spots on its back. Are all the deer he’s going to meet this rabid? First it was Alastor, now these little.. Things?

Fireflies shoot around overhead, zooming by, causing small little awes and noises of adoration. Trees stare down at them, creating a wet canopy that drips onto Lucifer’s head every now and then, humid and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable asshole, uncomfortable territory. Checks out.

Lucifer sparkles another crocodile into a yellow duck. It squeaks pathetically, waddling off in the swamp waters. The group clap and send their small “thank you”s and “wow”s before continuing on, wading through the mud and swamp water. While he hates it in this scenery, the sweat dripping down his back, the hair sticking to his forehead, Lucifer will admit the view is nice. Ambient sounds, water trickling, crickets chirping, and frogs sounding prove to be relaxing and eases a few of Lucifer’s nerves.

‘How much further is it?’ Angel complains, his chest fluff having deflated due to the sweat. Husk shrugs. ‘What? What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I just know to keep going this way,’ Husk explains, gesturing to the trees beside them. ‘Look. Slash marks on the trees.’ And indeed, there are. Large, gashes within the wood, soggy and grown over, but visible. ‘He told me to follow these if I ever needed to get to his cabin. Emergencies, he said.’

Lucifer supposes this is an emergency. And judging by how much deeper and newer the slashes are growing, they’re not far.

He shoots a cloud of glitter at another deer. This one turns into an Alastor themed duck, something he picks up to add to his “weird annoying” duck collection. Hopefully no-one noticed him do that. That would be embarrassing.

Just wish the cabin was a little closer.

But, good things do come to those who wait, and the group is braced by a clearing of trees and knee-deep mud. Lucifer wades through the material to see what exactly the group has stopped at. A wooden cabin sits in the centre of this clearing, with small windows and a smaller chimney protruding out of it. At its left is a tall, rackety radio tower, swaying with the flow of the wind, barely standing. Lucifer grimaces, looking back down to Husk.

‘The door’s probably gonna be locked,’ The cat explains, grumbling as he moves over to the cabin. He tries the handle, and, as predicted, it is locked. He sighs, shifting over to the window, cupping his claws above his eyes to peer inside.

A loud crash has him jumping back with a hiss.

Angel steps over the kicked in door, hands in his pockets, looking around. Charlie yelps, following soon after. Vaggie is quick to hurry after the two. Lucifer and Husk remain outside, near the door. ‘Are you insane? Why’d you kick his door down?’

‘Relax. He’s not gonna be coming here anytime soon. And if he was, one little apology woulda fixed him right up.’ Lucifer peeks inside, but upon catching a whiff of rotting corpses inside, he decides for his sanity not to have a thorough look, sticking to the outside smell of rotting egg.

‘It’s the same layout as the cabin at Rosie’s,’ He hears Charlie mutter softly, most likely to Vaggie. The woman hums in agreement, and footsteps can be heard pulling doors open, rummaging through items and past furniture. ‘Yep. Exact same. Just with actual walls.’

Vaggie growls, stuffing a hand in her hair, brushing it back into a mess. ‘We’re getting nowhere. This is pointless. We should just start looking for him in basem*nts or something.’

‘Basem*nts?’ Angel teases, raising an eyebrow. ‘Kinky. Didn’t know you were into torture p*rn, vagin*.’

‘Shut up! Could you at least try to take this situation seriously?’ She snaps, turning her back to the cabin, stepping outside. There, she looks at Lucifer and Husk, who were both making polite conversation about what an asshole Alastor was before he got hurt. They both share a look of question, before focusing on Vaggie.

She points to the radio tower. The swaying, very much unstable radio tower. How did Alastor even get up there in the first place? Lucifer and Husk exchange a look once before, before Husk sighs, flapping his wings off of the floor, lifting himself into the air. Lucifer strings along soon after, hovering yards above the ground. Vaggie disappears back into the cabin. For what reason, Lucifer honestly doesn’t know.

From what Lucifer can see on the outside, the radio tower isn’t anything special. It’s like the one Alastor had back before the hotel’s rebuilding. Two panels, a trapdoor, and stuff at the back, old, collecting dust. The windows are miraculously intact as the two sinners fly around, trying to find an entry point that won’t topple the entire thing. Something tells Lucifer Alastor wouldn’t be the most ec–static to know his radio tower was torn down.

Husk lowers himself a little, at face value with the tower. He looks over to Lucifer, who is currently trying to determine which way the tower will fall. If it falls. Which it probably will. ‘Hey, you can repair stuff to how it was before a point, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Lucifer calls out. ‘Why?’

Husk slams his elbow into the window. It shatters on impact, crackling enough so Husk can toss himself inside, the impact of his body in the tower causing the tower to creak in protest, a loud complaint. Lucifer swoops over to the other side of the tower and pushes it slightly, his strength doing enough to help it stand upright. As he does this, he calls out to Husk for an update. Husk replies with a negative. Nothing’s been touched in there for years.

He flies out and shakes his hands off, a few puffs of dust falling to the swamp below. At this time, Vaggie walks back out of the cabin, looking up. ‘Did you two find anything?’

‘No,’ Husk grunts, sneezing as a bit of dust lands on his nose. ‘Empty.’

‘So, he’s actually gone?’ Charlie asks, stepping out of the cabin, her sleeves rolled up, hands slightly dusty. She laughs, clapping her hands together. ‘He’s actually missing this time!’

‘We’ll find him.’ Vaggie places a hand on her shoulder, smiling. Lucifer offers a small grin too, tilting his head. Charlie chuckles back, weaving her hands into her hair, tugging slightly. It makes the king cringe a little– Alastor often did that while the king was healing him, all that time spent alone in a room together. He knew it hurt, of course, but Alastor was too stubborn to take pain-killers. Lucifer reaches up and takes Charlie’s hands away from her head.

‘We don’t stop until we do. I promise.’

Chapter 10: You Spin Me All Around

Chapter Text

Huh.

It's the same dream again.

‘Fffuck .’

And he only has a second to look up.

Angelic steel rips through his chest, drawing a scream from his lungs, punched out, leaving him breathless. He flies back, eyes shut in some false hope to lower the pain, body afloat in the air. Strangely, he's tempted to believe he's died. His back cracks against a brick wall, sending him to his hands and knees with another grunt. Alastor's chest burns and screams in pain, knees wobbling against concrete, elbows straining to keep up with him.

In a blurry haze of delirium and shame, Alastor collects his staff, resting his back against the wall. He almost forgets Adam is there to begin with, groaning softly, head resting on the brick. ‘Have to disagree with you there…!’ His voice comes out blurry, yet somehow clear, and trembling, and weak, and pathetic. ‘Radio's not dead. But it is ending this broadcast…’

In one last attempt to save himself, shadows consuming in, Alastor lets out a pained laugh, the sound hurting his chest, sending him to a coughing fit, like knives stabbing into his body from all over, and when Alastor’s sure it's too much, when he’s sure he's about to die—

Something lands on the floor in front of him– No, someone. Their shoes are silky black, pants white and tacky. A laugh erupts out of this figure as they turn slightly, facing Alastor. Adam seems to freeze, his glare faltering, questioning. Alastor’s eyes trail up this saviour's body, slowly, ever so slowly.

‘Did you really think I was gonna let you leave like that?’ Lucifer smiles down at Alastor, his eyes determined, a fire within them needing to be stoked. ‘Cmon. That was just embarrassing.’ Alastor groans, tossing his head back, eyes shut tight. Movement surrounds him, hurried and hostile, Adam grunting out. Punches are thrown. Alastor manages to crack one of his eyes open.

Angel Dust smiles, toothy and wide as he aims his Tommy at Adam. When did Angel Dust get up here…? Has he learnt of Alastor’s failure? No matter, Alastor’s chest is screaming too much for him to care. He slips his eyes closed once again. The p*rnstar yells of violence turn from high-pitched, akin to him, towards something more gravelly, rough. Husk’s voice. How are they changing out so fast..? How did they get here so quickly? The deer grunts, clutching his stomach. It hurts like Hell. He can barely think straight.

He's such an embarrassment to the overlord title.

Alastor makes the mistake of opening his eyes. The swirls are back. Was Vox not satisfied with petting Alastor last night? Changing him for the second time? Even going as far as to paint his hooves? A tacky blue, no less, how utterly embarrassing. Panic begins to flood him, contradictory to how his brain forces him to feel, lax and calm.

He hisses, forcing his head to the side, to the other, anything to break eye contact, to find his own mind. Get out of this f*cking trance, feel his own will, his own choice.

But that fate never befalls the deer. He lays on the bed, splayed out like some common whor*, knees bent slightly, arms out by his sides, panting and pathetic. A horrible, horrible fall from what he was. What he will be soon, once again. When he murders that television for his behaviour, for his foolishness. Who the hell does he think he is, taking Alastor like that, like he owns him, got a step above, a foresight into the future. He’ll kill him. He’ll kill him.

He’s found, in recent days, one exposure to a screen is really all it takes, and Alastor’s found himself Vox’s new toy, his new pet. Unlike before, when he had to be forced to look at a screen, cheek bruising from a strong grip, and even then it took him ages to be pliant as Vox loves, adores.

Alastor’s weak. How he hates that thought.

Although, there is something else he despises with all his heart, something he detests. He doesn’t mind it. Being pampered, treated with such love and compassion, something Alastor hasn’t felt the touch of in years.

It’s Vox’s hypnosis that’s made Alastor like this. Vox’s hypnosis, and nothing else.

The feeling of self loathing eats the deer from the inside out, clawing at his being almost constantly . Alastor can feel himself slipping, his consciousness replaced with something artificial, something in Vox’s image. His soul, separated from his body, watching as, in his body’s place, a fake personality enters.

Fake, unlike Alastor, alike Vox. Alastor hates it. He hates it, he hates that he allowed these things to happen to him. He hates how he practically asked for this predicament. He hates that he let Vox get to him in the first place. He hates how he lets Vox touch and caress his body, touching the most inhuman parts of him. He hates how he lets Vox treat him like a carefully carved statue, Vox the onlooker.

He hates that Vox makes Alastor feel special, in ways he hasn’t felt for years.

Alastor’s panting begins to pick up, exhales moving from his nose to his mouth, almost as if he’s never gotten enough air to begin with, air he does not need, air that hurts his lungs as it does aid him. How could he be so weak ? So pliant in that TV’s arms, in his sharp grasp? Alastor wants out . He can’t do this anymore. Another touch of Vox’s and Alastor will simply burst, his bubble of indifference popped, his composure sunken to nothing but debris on an ocean floor.

He vaguely picks up on the door clicking open on his left. His breathing only intensifies. Claws clutch at bedsheets as a means of futile escape, head shaking back and forth, never faltering to memorise the swirl, its ever-changing stillness, how the background and the maroon lines compliment each other so nicely. Footsteps hurry into the room, soft and rushed, looping around the bed, to Alastor’s side. Alastor turns his head away from the intruder— He doesn’t deserve to see Alastor like that. Not with such a poorly planned capture that brought him here to begin.

‘Awh, it’s okay.’ Such a saccharine melody, Alastor hears when his attacker speaks. Like a siren leading him off deck, overboard, into plundering seas. His head comes to a gradual pace, ears flicking all around, mind racing. Listen to his voice, and feel good, or live in this treacherous state of self-loathe and paranoia. It seems a million-dollar question and a simple ask at the same time. ‘It’s okay. Sh, sh… It’s okay.’

Sparks of rage light within the deer, a surge of determination. His smile turns sharp as hands sneak under his night shirt’s back, lifting him up and off the bed. Vox’s eyes meet Alastor’s, yet they fail to hold the fondness that once held years ago. The picture box adjusts his hands on Alastor’s back, sending shivers up the deer underneath satin fabric, something the former chuckles at.

He holds him close, like they have some sort of bond that falls past hatred and heartbreak, like they mean something more to each other. Alastor hates him for it. He hates how eased his nerves are, when Vox begins rubbing his back.

With his head on Alastor’s shoulder, the man speaks. ‘You know, I’ve been planning this little escapade for you since you got hurt, baby.’ Alastor doesn’t respond, fallen lax and boneless in Vox’s hold, mind fighting to wade through the mud in his mind. ‘It’s one of my smarter ideas, right? Right. But I didn’t plan for you to stop sleeping when I came into your room, you know.’ Sitting back, Vox holds Alastor’s biceps firm, smiling. ‘I was just gonna take you then and there, maybe the next day. But you kinda vacuumed my entry ticket inside your room up, so I couldn't get in. But then you made my job easier for me. Practically welcomed me when I caught you in front of Rosie’s district. You were asking for it.’

Alastor narrows his eyes, not daring to break eye contact. But if he could, he would. No doubt. There’s something so wretched about analysing Vox’s face, knowing what type of person he was only a few decades back, how the light in his eyes came from deeper within, deeper than the brightness of his screen. Alastor hates looking at Vox. He’s disgusting to look at.

Vox’s smile falls dim, however, as he continues speaking on, ignoring Alastor’s internal rage. ‘But… Fact is, Alastor, I’m not as happy as I should be.’ Ever the glutton. Always asking for more, never satisfied with what they have. Had. ‘When you first woke up and hurt yourself, I was so happy. Then, you never tried it again, and that kinda bored me. I thought you’d put up more of a fight.’

Alastor lets out a faint snarl, rumbling from his throat, something Vox catches onto with a slight uplift of his face. He reaches up, smoothing the back of his hand down Alastor’s face. Wiping a bit of the black drool that had made its way there on Alastor’s chin. It's condescending and loving all the same. Alastor hates it.

‘But I like how you actively try to resist my hypnosis. No-one’s ever done that before. It’s such a you thing to do.’ Vox laughs, soft, his weird digital breath brushing against Alastor’s face, reminiscent of fish and rotting food. ‘Makes it all the more better when you eventually just.. Relax. Tell me the offer isn’t tempting, Bambi. Carefree days, no more hotel, no more extermination days, no more stress.’

Vox reaches up, past Alastor’s hairline, to his ears. Alastor lets out a growl at the advancement, managing to summon enough willpower within him to jerk his head back.

Vox seems about as surprised about the movement as Alastor is.

The TV smiles, wider, his other hand moving up up up Alastor’s shirt, rubbing along his protruding spine to his nape, claws pressing into the roots of shaved hair. It feels nice. But not from Vox. Touch from Vox never feels nice. The hand keeps Alastor’s head in place as the other hand snakes its way to the base of Alastor’s ears, ignoring the rapid flicking, trying to get the invasion away, sinking claws into the soft skin. Shallow, but enough to prompt a reaction. The reaction being that it feels so good.

‘Yeah, feels nice, doesn’t it?’ Vox asks as he notices Alastor’s head ever so slightly moving into the touch. ‘I don’t have to f*ck with your head to know you like having your ears scratched like that. Said it removed fleas or whatever. I remember from all that time ago.’ He co*cks an eyebrow, smile fading a little. His voice turns serious. ‘Do you remember the time you told me that? Or did you forget , toss all our times together aside, when we had broken apart? Did you shove me from your memory and move on with your life?’

Vox sighs, his hand moving away from Alastor’s ears. The loss leaves Alastor longing in a way it disgusts him, how he’s become, how he’s acting like some animal in need of help. Vox stares at the deer for the longest time. Alastor has no choice but to stare back, holding his glare. ‘I have a question. You have to answer it, truthfully.’

‘Hm?’ Oh, look at that, Alastor has free will of his voice, now. If he screams loud enough, he might be able to buffer all these blasted screens and murder the sentient one. Vox’s hand moves to Alastor’s nape, squeezing gently. A warning, of sorts.

Vox reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out a knife, holding it up in front of Alastor to look at. Old, broken and dull, rusty, it seems to be decades old, in its handle, a carved name. Smoothed over from use, but Alastor manages to read it well enough he can decipher what it says. Vox, in cursive carving.

Ah, it’s that knife. Alastor knows it’s exposition like his own. The night Vox had given him this aforementioned pocket knife in the ruddy small bar in what is now the V district, the deer had said something sappy in his drunken haze, along the lines of “you are the most vibrant thing in my life”, because Vox was.

Alastor is colour blind, being a deer, afterall, and running into a man whose entire preface is blue, the only colour that sticks out to Alastor, he was, truthfully, the most vibrant thing in Alastor’s eyes. Alastor meant it as a serious comment, a simple passing comment, nothing to be remembered. Vox took it as a love confession, a confession that had “confirmed” Alastor reciprocated his feelings.

The night went on, Alastor taking the pocket knife as a gift from his friend, the two getting more and more drunk and wasted. After a while, the bartender had cut them off, too rowdy to allow more alcohol in their systems. So they deemed it right to go to Alastor’s cabin in Rosie’s district, cook up a nice meal, and deal with their hangovers in the morning.

However, they had gotten into a little tussle with an overlord on the way to, both of them having gotten hurt and all. Alastor’s pocket knife had broken. Vox said as long as Alastor was safe, he didn’t care for it. They moved on, injured, drunken, and high on adrenaline, to the cabin. Alastor cooked up a meal and set it aside, the two hopping into the bath to wash the blood off.

While in the water, they spoke. About the overlord, how they had overpowered him, had a holistic amount of souls at their command due to his death. Vox said, with this power, the two could move on to become Hell’s strongest couple. Alastor’s eyes had narrowed. Suspicious, he said,

“Partnership. You mean partnership, yes?”

Vox frowns, tilting his head slightly. A bit of soapy water attaches to his screen. A smile had then graced his lips, arms holding his knees to his chest. “No, Bambi. Couple. That’s… What we are, no?”

Alastor continues staring at the box TV, into his vibrant eyes, his doubting smile, a smile that takes on the world as a joke. A joke. Right, oh, thank god, that would have gotten awkward, wouldn’t’ve it? So, the deer laughs. Tossing his head back, he chuckles a bit, splashing water onto the other’s chest.

“Ah, you’re a funny man, Vox. Scared me for a moment.”

“I’m… Are we not a couple?”

Alastor rights his head, an ear falling flat on his skull. Questioning. “No? We’re friends. I thought that was… obvious.” He laughs again, just to solidify his point. That they were partners, not a couple, that the line in that combination of sand is so thick and bright it’s impossible to miss.

Vox frowns, expression turning sour as he speaks. Alastor sighs, bracing himself for another lecture. It was occasionally so, Vox would lose his temper and rant on about something Alastor never listens to. “No, no it wasn’t obvious. I love you. You love me. You even confessed earlier tonight. How— How in the world are we not a couple?”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Alastor insists, the humour leaving his face, turning into something more uncomfortable. He rises out of the water, uncaring for the cold air hitting his nude skin. “Are you right in the head? What made you think we were a couple?”

“You’ve been giving me signs for ages!” Vox snaps, pulling his hand away from himself to grab onto Alastor’s wrist, dragging him down. The deer irks at the contact, but does not submit to sinking into the water again. What has gotten into this man today? “You’ve been touching me way more often, arm brushes, arm looping, hand holding, and you’ve been calling me dear, and darl, you practically confirmed we’re a thing!”

Alastor’s words come out terse, strained as he speaks next. Almost afraid. “We’re not. We are not any thing. We are not anything. At all.”

“Okay, sure, we’re not,” Vox says, his sarcasm evident in his tone, standing up and out of the water. His hand pulls Alastor closer to his, clutching both of his wrists, holding them close together. The scowl on his face turns to something more gentle, something more sincere, something that makes Alastor grimace. “But we can be. We can make this work. Me and you, Al, the strongest overlord couple in Hell.”

Alastor stared at Vox with wide eyes.

The slow shaking of his head was all it took for the celebrative night to end with an ugly rivalry.

Alastor turns his gaze from the knife to Vox, still holding the pocket knife up, awaiting an answer from the deer. He’s not sure how long he had zoned out for just then. ‘Yes, I know what it is.’

‘What is it, Alastor?’ The picture box tilts his head, eye pulsing softly, like the heartbeat of a dying animal. Alastor finds it as sickening to look at as it is addicting. But, he manages to get out his response. Sure to satisfy Vox’s masoch*stic desires.

‘It’s the mistake I made befriending you.’

Vox takes a moment, staring at Alastor blankly for a few moments, as if the deer would change his answer. When he doesn’t, the television snarls. The pocket knife is forgotten on the floor by the bed, dropped with a clatter, as his hands slide around Alastor’s body, from his nape, his back, to his neck. He squeezes tight and pushes Alastor down against the plush mattress, kneeling over the deer. Foolish man. He’s squeezing all the wrong spots on his neck. It’s barely doing anything to him.

Alastor’s tail struggles to flick upwards, pressed into the mattress. How peculiar. He chalks it up to prey-predator instinct, staring up into Vox’s eyes with nothing but hatred behind his glare.

‘Do you want to take that back, Alastor?’ The hands on his neck squeeze tighter. Confinement of his windpipes has Alastor taking in deeper breaths, something Vox smiles at, squinting slightly. A challenge.

‘I’d sooner be killed,’ Alastor chokes out, making sure to widen his smile just as the extra “f*ck you” on top. When he finds, strangely, Vox hasn’t clouded his mind enough to stop his train of thought, he continues speaking. ‘I hate you. Did you know that? How one rises to your level of perversion is beyond me.’

Alastor takes a deep inhale.

‘You have eyes, everywhere. All of them could discover deep secrets and plentiful advantages for you as an overlord. Yet you waste all of it, staring at me , watching me , memorising small details about me in some pathetic prayer to a God who won’t listen, that I’ll come running back to you.’

Vox snarls, lowering his head a fraction to perhaps scare Alastor into taking his words back. But Alastor doesn’t. The dam gates are open, and there is far too much water to push by. He continues speaking.

‘But I won’t. I will never. You were an outlet for entertainment that I made the mistake of thinking could be worth my while. There was nothing in our friendship that I savoured, nothing memorable . There was no instance, none whatsoever, where I would slip out of our shared bed in the middle of the night, all that time ago , to get off on the thought of the person sleeping next to me, to the thought of being that close in proximity for reasons other than lack of space. You were a fling, if sex is the only language you understand. Which, I see now, is true. You think more with your co*ck than you do your digital head.’

Alastor’s vision begins to darken around the edges. His words turn raspier. But still, he continues, not quite done.

‘You are a creep. You are a pervert. You are sick in the head. You are a freak. You find more and more ways to astound me with your desperation, I almost pity your attempts at riling me up, trying to receive a reaction from me. Capturing me and using your parlour tricks to coax me into loving you is futile, because, guess what, Vox?’

Alastor, despite the hands pushing him into the bed, lifts his head a little. Makes sure to get right up into Vox’s space. Stares deep into his eyes, taking the challenge on with a co*cky smile and widened eyes.

‘I don’t love you. I never did. I never will.’ Something in Vox’s expression falters. A raise of his eyebrows, the stuttering of his swirl, the downturn of his scowl, into something more hurt than angered.

‘And you’re just as pathetic as the day I met you.’

A blur of blue shoots at the deer. Something swipes across his cheek. It burns with electric static, slicing deep into his flesh. The attack draws a cry out from the deer, one of true pain , perhaps from the forced veracity, perhaps from the surprise of being hurt, not on his own volition, for the first time in weeks.

Hands release his neck, almost panicked in their haste, drawing long, aching breaths from the deer, eyes squeezing shut. His cheek burns in agony, sparking with electricity as Vox stares down at Alastor, expression surprised, surprised at his own doings, his acting out without thought. With Alastor’s groans, cries, and whimpers filling the air in front of him, Vox looks down at his claws, at the blood staining three of his fingers.

He then, silenced, drifts his gaze to his buck, to his twitching cheek. The muscles tense and soothe, eye twitching, smile baring up to reveal his blackened gums. Blood begins to leak from the three scratches Vox inflicted on Alastor, dripping down the side of his face, into his blood red curls. Vox… hurt his buck. Vox is causing Alastor pain. No. No, no.. Why did Vox do that? How is Alastor ever going to love him if all Vox is going to do is hurt him? His love? This won’t do. It won’t do at all.

Hands reach up and grab Alastor’s cheeks, cradling his head. Alastor winces, claws probing the internal flesh of his wounds, sending aftershocks of electricity through his being. He cracks one of his eyes open, wanting to see Vox’s face, to know how he feels, finally landing a mark on the Radio Demon. Must be stroking his own dick and smiling like a thug.

What a rash decision to make.

His mind fogs up almost instantaneously, forgetting the pain in his face, the way Vox holds Alastor’s head to his chest, the unwanted proximity. His mind zeroes in on Vox’s words, and Vox’s words only. Alastor remains silent through Vox’s soliloquy, head cloudy, thoughts jumbled and unfocussed. All he can get together is Vox’s presence, skin touching skin, the way his hands press onto his cheek, sending dull aches through Alastor’s face. And how sorry the overlord is.

‘I’m so sorry, I am so sorry.’ Vox pulls back Alastor’s head, staring into the deer’s eyes, the deer’s petrified, scared eyes. It hits him with a wave of guilt, forcing a strangled out noise, a mix of a gasp and a sob, clutching Alastor closer to his chest, forcing Alastor’s face away from his. ‘Don’t f*cking look at me like that, I’m so sorry.. You’re trying to make me feel bad, aren’t you? Asshole.’

There’s a muted noise from the deer. Akin to a whine, a soft sob. It makes Vox feel all the more worse, sighing breathily as he holds Alastor closer. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I didn’t scratch you on purpose, I would never do it on purpose. You know that. You know that, don’t you?’

Moving Alastor back once again, a loose ragdoll in his arms, Vox faces the challenge of staring into his crimson eyes, glossy and wide. He holds his face tighter, ignoring the blood soaking onto his hand, the way Alastor winces in pain. ‘Say you forgive me? Say you’ll always forgive me?’ Alastor doesn’t say anything.

‘God f*cking damnit, Al, I’m so sorry.. How did you ever deal with me, I’m such a manipulative asshole! I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.. f*ck, f*ck f*ck –’ Vox reaches up, smacking his own screen three times, enough so his screen starts to buffer. ‘I’m such an idiot, I’m so sorry.’

Alastor remains silent, eyes squinting, muscles twitching erratically, consequence of the electricity that had encompassed Vox’s attack. Perhaps he pushed a bit too many buttons. Alastor had let himself go, letting all the thoughts gathered in his head out, seeing as he had the opportunity too. He got himself carried away, and the last line was what the final line was. Vox had hurt him, swiping his claws across Alastor’s face.

He never expected Vox to hurt him. The choking he was doing was barely lethal, and the way he looked at Alastor as the latter spoke told him Vox was going to let go when it got somewhat hazardous. Alastor had gotten too comfortable. These are his consequences.

Vox cuddles and hugs his face, stuffing the injury into his chest, mumbling out apologies like a mourning street cat. Alastor feels, trepidatiously, Vox will not be letting him go anytime soon. He had reckoned annoying Vox would cause the television to perhaps insult him a bit, then leave.

Not… this.

‘Please say it’s okay,’ Vox begins, his tone wavering, bringing Alastor’s face away from his chest once again. While it is amusing to see Vox break down so much like this, he would like to have his alone time soon to heal himself. With what’s provided in the bathroom, of course. Magic won’t work without his staff.

‘Alastor, say something.’

Maybe it’s time to stop torturing the picture box. Get his grubby hands away from Alastor, so he can wash the feeling of scum off of his skin, for once, in such a long time, earn some time to listen to his own thoughts and sounds, nothing but.

‘It’s… Okay.’ The words come out strained, almost unwelcomed by their speaker, as Alastor squints a bit, mind uncertain, though his face would never show such a weakness as uncertainty. Never.

Vox’s swirling intensifies. Alastor feels serenity pass through his body like a spirit to the afterlife. ‘Tell me you forgive me. Say it.’

‘I forgive you.’ But he doesn’t. Not really. Not only for his cheek, but also not for kidnapping him, putting him in this state, hurting him like he did all those years ago. However, Alastor doesn’t say anything. He can’t, really.

The television nods. His eyes drift off to the side for a moment, to the pocket knife resting on the orange tilings. An idea spawns in his head, something far too complex for Alastor’s muddy mind to comprehend. They meet eyes, Vox leaning in close. Alastor hates the closeness, but he hates the next command even more.

‘Now f*cking kiss me.’

Teeth and lips clash together, drawing a startled suck of air from the deer. It’s more of a fight with mouths than a physical embrace, intimate and personal in all the ways Alastor despises. Vox’s hands move from his person to Alastor’s, at the back of his head, pulling the deer in closer than they already are. Each moment spent with his lips pressed to Vox feels like torture, disgusting in all senses of the word.

Vox’s slimy tongue prods at Alastor’s lips, running across the dry skin, awaiting entry into Alastor’s mouth. Like hell. Alastor, despite all the mess his mind is, keeps his lips sealed tight, teeth bared like a second defence, as Vox kisses him, saliva dripping from both of their chins, wet, slimy. It almost makes the deer gag. Claws gently rub at Alastor’s scalp, before pulling at the hair, sharp and tight at that too, catching the deer off guard by miles. This open-mouthed noise grants permission for that tongue to slip in, invasive, deplorable.

Alastor’s eyes remain open throughout the entire exchange, wide as saucers, watching Vox groan softly, leaning further into Alastor, chest to chest. The movement of his tongue within Alastor’s mouth practically maps out the orifice, resting, twisting, swapping spit with Alastor’s own tongue. It’s vile. So, so vile, and Alastor can do nothing of it. And when Vox finally, finally pulls away, he smiles, licking along Alastor’s bottom lip, like that would become a game changer, like it would change Alastor’s view on the situation like a switch. It does not.

Alastor throws up.

Vox cries out in surprise as the bile erupts out of Alastor's mouth, holding his hands above his lap as the fluid coughs its way from Alastor’s stomach, onto his night dress, onto Vox’s lap. It’s vomit from ages ago, all the same meals of far too much meat, too many sedatives, too much repetition. The latter reaches up and slaps a hand over the deer’s mouth, another hand on his back, moving him up and out of the bed, towards the bathroom, intertwining and stumbling, their legs mixing together in their haste.

Puke begins to leak past Vox’s hand, dripping down his arm as they stumble into the bathroom. Alastor feels a hand pushing his head down to the toilet, his mouth released. He coughs and heaves up more vomit, vomit gathered from years before, of too many inhumane meals, too many inedible things eaten anyway. Tears begin to spring in Alastor’s eyes, as his back heaves, and heaves, expelling the contents within him. It tastes rancid and smells even worse.

He’s never thrown up before. Never, not once in Hell. Wretched, yes. Throw up, no. Well, there’s a first time for everything. He would have liked it under less intense circ*mstances.

Vox is crouching beside the deer and patting his back gently as Alastor heaves the last few bits out of his mouth, spitting into the bowl, a long string of saliva leaving his mouth. He reaches up and flushes the contents away, patting Alastor’s back as the water recedes, calming. A vile look of sympathy covers his features, as he tilts his head to enter Alastor’s peripheral.

‘I know you hated that. I know.’ Alastor glares at him. The fog returns in his mind, trapping him in an endless abyss of wandering and calling out for help in silence. ‘But you’ll get used to it. And I promise you will love it like I love you. Love me like I love you.’

Alastor coughs out, shallow, completely unhelpfully. Vox just assaulted him. Slid his tongue where it never should have gone, where no-one’s tongue has ever gone. He wants to melt into the floor and never show his face again. He was frozen in the moment, forced to sit there and take it as Vox smashes his lips against Alastor’s. How pathetic . How pathetic of him to let that happen to himself. Alastor’s embarrassed.

But there's tears in his eyes, and he doesn’t think it’s from the puke.

A hand presses against Alastor’s chest, forcing him to get up to his hooves. The two walk to the sink, where Vox rinses Alastor’s face for him, helps him drink some water to spit out, attempting to remove the smell of bile and enzyme in his mouth. Then, they move together, outside of the bathroom, back onto the bed. There’re traces of vomit on the duvets, duvets that Vox rips off, promising to get new ones soon. He himself is covered in Alastor’s upchuck, but seems indifferent, shrugging his coat off, tossing it on top of the blanket, moving over to the drawer.

He pulls it open and gets out Alastor’s suit shirt and slacks, his night dress soiled. Alastor glares at him with nothing but hatred, hatred and disgust, as the man advances, placing Alastor’s clothes beside the deer, reaching for the wet buttons on Alastor’s shirt. He peels it off of Alastor’s skin, wiping any spare vomit off on his sleeve. Puts his shirt on for him.

‘I know, I know. You didn’t like it,’ Vox repeats softly, eyes downcast to his chest, running his fingers along the divots of Alastor’s scars. ‘You will. I promise. It’ll be worth it. One day you’ll kiss me without me needing to ask you to. You’ll love it.’

Alastor has lost the anger he had before— Perhaps only moments ago, he had lost count of time. He remains silent as Vox moves down to Alastor’s slacks, pulling off his satin pants. Alastor flinches when Vox reaches for his drawers, those, too, covered in wetness of vomit. The man only pauses for a second, guilt freezing his being, before dismissing them, helping Alastor get his slacks on. He’ll like it soon. He just needs to stop being so stubborn.

Vox lays Alastor down on the bed, turning on the screen mounted onto the roof. It’s okay. The tears in the deer’s eyes are because he threw up. Not because of Vox. He knows it. The glare he sends Vox’s way is because he threw up, in a sour mood. Not because of Vox. He knows it. It’s okay. Vox didn’t do anything, Alastor will like it soon. Because of Vox. He knows it.

He crawls onto the bed beside Alastor, without any blanket. Looping his arms around the other’s chest, Vox holds Alastor close, tangling the two together. Inseparable. The man places the side of his screen on Alastor’s chest, chin resting on Alastor’s shoulder, ignoring the way the man tenses up, breath freezing. His heart rate, Vox can hear, picks up tenfold, beating with shallow and fleeting motions.

Soon, as Vox keeps still, almost as if he isn’t there, Alastor’s heartbeat begins to slow. Relaxed, languid. And his soft snoring fills the air. Vox remains clutching Alastor to his chest, holding him tight, as if the deer plans to escape at any given moment. Which he won’t. The more Vox does this, the more Alastor grows accustomed, the more they can bond and catch up and Alastor can fall in love while Vox only falls deeper. All in due time.

All… In due time.

Chapter 11: Then You Ask Me Not To Spin?

Chapter Text

Alastor’s having a dream, once again.

‘Radio's not dead. But it is ending this broadcast…’

In one last attempt to save himself, shadows consuming him, Alastor lets out a pained laugh. The sound hurts his chest like a wildfire, sending him to a coughing fit, knives stabbing into his body from all over. He coughs and coughs, trying to accommodate this internal attack, but when Alastor’s sure it's too much, when he’s sure he's about to die—

Something lands on the floor in front of him– No, someone. Their shoes are silky black, pants white and tacky. A laugh erupts out of this figure as they hunch forth, hands clawed at their sides, ready to attack. Adam seems to freeze, his glare faltering, questioning. Alastor’s eyes trail up this saviour's body, slowly, ever so slowly.

Lucifer lunges at the angel without second thought, tongue lolling out of his mouth, scleras red. Almost as if he didn’t see Alastor, or, simply, didn’t care.The two impact each other with a flash of bright light, a flash so bright Alastor has to shut his eyes, lifting a hand to cover his face. But, when he does gradually lower his hand, falling to the floor beside him, he’s met with another scene.

Angel laughs, tossing his head back, eyes shut tight. He aims his Tommy at Adam, blowing off several bullets, Adam dodging and weaving like a rat in a maze it knows all too well. Smoke blows off the nozzle of the weapon, Angel tossing it behind him.

It nearly hits Alastor, forming a small crack in the brick right next to him. Alastor lets out a small whimper, the noise of the weak, resting the back of his head against the wall, eyes shut, praying to god the next piece of flying debris actually hits him.

‘Kiss my ass, motherf*cker!’

Ah. Husker’s here, now. Give it to the feline to tell the first man to kiss his ass. Though, Alastor supposes he did the same. Just.. With a tad bit too much confidence. How did they all get up here so quickly, anywho? The moment Alastor gets hurt, Lucifer pops up, then Angel, then Husk. Who’s next? He’s simply exhilarated to see how the news spreads.

Alastor lowers his head, wrenching his eyes open with far too much effort put into the action. The blinding angelic light is almost too much to bear, too much of a sight to see. He can feel his wound pulse in wanton, reaching out for its origin, the holy axe of Adam. It’s hell.

So much so, he wishes the attack would have just killed him, rather than leave him within an inch of his life. Anything would be better than the pain he feels wracking over his body at the moment.

And, above all, a dull fact Alastor had noticed at the very back of his crowded mind; None of the others even glanced his way, as they went for Adam. Not even a peek. Not even a brief flash of emotion behind eyes when they had set eyes on his state, had they the happening of flicking a look at him. As if Alastor was nothing but rubble, piled along with the collection growing around him.

Ha! What did he expect?

Shutting his eyes, Alastor lets the shadows devour him.

He wakes up.

It’s a strange feeling. Waking up in what is supposed to be your day clothes. He feels sweaty and weak all over, his mouth tastes foul, his joints aching from being in this position, laying down for… how long? Alastor doesn’t even know. The arms wrapped around from last night his torso are gone, the puke-covered duvet and coat disappeared from the floor, too.

He must have fallen asleep, Alastor concludes duly. Fell asleep, adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart beating so fast he was sure he would’ve been sick again. But, he still fell asleep.

Lifting himself off his side, his right arm aching in complaint, Alastor groans, blinking himself to acceptable levels of awareness. He rises up enough to sit up properly, looking around the room, searching for Vox. Where is that man..?

He swings his hooves over the bed and gets to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly, and squints around the room. The screen bayou is back, thrumming with life and noise, but none of the other screens are on. They’re all wiped out black, leaving Alastor to stare at a shoddy reflection of himself, standing by his bed, alone, hair messed up, sweaty. What a sight he must be, to see.

‘Vox…?’ Alastor calls out. He needs a bath and needs to get this taste out of his mouth, now, or he isn’t sure what he’ll do. But, he supposes he could call out for the man.. Just one more time. To make sure he’s safe. Alastor’s safe. ‘Vox?’

No response. The deer sighs, lowering his gaze to the floor. He concludes, with mixed emotions, that the other is gone. He’ll have to take his bath alone.

Grimacing at the taste of his own saliva, putrid and sick, Alastor moves over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The bath is already filled up and with essential oils, as Alastor begins undressing himself, getting those sweaty clothes off of himself. He drops them to the tiles and moves over to the bath, leaning over to test the temperature.

The deer remains like that for a while, rocking his hand back and forth in the clear water. It must be ages before Alastor stands, stepping inside, lowering himself with care, not wanting to spill a single drop of the water. Being encompassed in the heat sends a relaxed sigh through him, as he tips his head back, occipital muscle rubbing against the smooth bath tub nicely.

Alastor cracks his eyes open, his world upside down, muscles soothing. Ah. He forgot to cover those screens. His clothes are on the floor. All the things he wouldn’t normally do, he did. Ugh. Must’ve been that encounter with Vox last night. It had left an ugly stain on him.

The deer hums, raising his head once more. His mind draws himself back to yesterday with a flash of remembrance, a grimace rising on his face as he curls in up on himself, knees raised out of the water as he clutches his calves. Last night.

Vox had hurt him. Right. Alastor raises his hand to his cheek, where he feels singed flesh, three faint scars running across his skin, where Vox had… Where Vox had hurt him.

In more ways than one. Vox hadn’t just hurt him. He assaulted him. Sexually assaulted Alastor, kissed him when Alastor was in no state, physical or mental, to refuse, forced to sit there and taste that vile tongue against his, their drool collectively flowing down his chin, the hands all over his head, pulling him in close.

Eugh, simply remembering the incident is enough to disturb him. Alastor knew the man was a good-for-nothing pervert, but this simply takes the cake. This simply tops all he’s done.

But…

There he was, just moments ago, waiting for his attacker to arrive so the two could bathe together. Vox is changing Alastor in ways the deer isn’t even realising, in ways Alastor can’t even protect himself from. Subtly nudging and prodding his brain chemistry to fit him, how horribly disgusting. Alastor simply cannot believe what he’s coming to realise. Vox is… smarter than he looks. And Alastor needs to start being more careful.

Grumbling, barely throaty, Alastor raises himself out of the tub, a scowl in his eyes, snatching the towel off the stand. He ignores the clothes on the floor, tying the towel around his waist, and steps outside, into the main room.

Just as the exit door clicks shut.

His ears swivel towards the sound, followed close by his eyes. Alastor’s feet move on their own volition, sending him sprinting, wrapped in nothing but a towel, towards the door. He hits it with a thud, his forearm taking the brunt of it, a growl leaving his bared teeth, balling a fist, slamming it onto the door.

‘Open the door, coward,’ Alastor snarls, feeling his antlers spread atop his head, adding weight. ‘Open the door, come in here, and face the consequences of your actions!’ The door rattles under the force of which Alastor slams the door. No reply comes, however, Vox hiding behind his several defences.

Backing off, Alastor lets out a sigh, exasperated, ears falling flat onto his head. He tightens his towel for that little bit of security, wheeling around to see what Vox had done. Try to spy on him? Find used undergarments?

Lord knows he tried to, if the fool could get his screwed tightened right and remember good enough. Ironic, that a “supercomputer” (Whatever that means) has the memory of a goldfish. Now, isn’t it funny that Alastor remembers that? What a confusing paradox, though he lacks the energy to solve it.

Instead of seeing signs that the man had rummaged around his room, Alastor spots the obvious changing of his bed. There’s a new, ironed out duvet laid out neatly on the bed, not a single crinkle, and a new set of clothes. A tray of food is next to it, still steaming hot.

Alastor scoffs, lip curling in distaste, walking up to the tray, staring down at it with a raised eyebrow. It’s… Not seemingly what he’s always fed, too much meat, not enough of other textures. It’s simply a plate of rice with some beef stew on the side. Gumbo and rice. And with it, a glass of seemingly lemonade, as well as a note. He picks the paper up.

Hey Al! It was written in a seemingly typed out font (Though Alastor can see the smudges in the writing), Please don’t leave your bed. I know you got sick last night and all, so good on you for having a bath. Eugh. Praise from this man is about as sentimental as a canary with its cage. Here’s a fresh pair of clothes, and I put some painkillers and vomit meds with the food if you feel sick. With an excessive amount of hearts and smiley faces to follow it.

Alastor tosses the note down onto the cleaned duvet with close to no regard, and turns back to the clothes, becoming acutely aware that he’s been this long in the open without much coverage. But… the clothes are so gross. They have accents of blue in them, and they look much too… icky for Alastor’s preference.

He supposes he doesn’t have a choice. It’s either distasteful clothing or sweaty clothing that Vox had changed him into. Picking between shame and shame, that’s what this is. Sighing, Alastor grabs the clothes, holding them up, his eyes flicking around the room, looking at every single screen Vox simply had to offer up. On every. Single. Surface.

Vox couldn’t manage to lay a finger on Alastor if he could help it. Oh well, there’s not much he can do. If this person decides to leak his bare skin to Hell, at least they’ll find him shameless about it.

Oh, irony is such a fickle mistress.

Alastor ties a knot, doubling down on his pelvis with the towel, and digs past the coat to his shirt. He picks it up, holding it with a look of disgust, before grudgingly slipping it on, the fabric soaking parts of his red hair, turning a darker red. The deer makes quick work of the socks, their garters, and slides the drawers on underneath the towel, finally allowing himself to drop the towel onto the bed. Soon, his pants are on, suspenders latched, and bowtie wrapped around his neck.

Here he is. Vox’s latest sponsor.

He laughs to himself, humourless, turning his attention to other matters. Now that he knows Vox’s been drugging his food, the last thing Alastor wants to do is eat it, no matter how hungry he gets. The lemonade more likely than not also has sedatives in it. Who knows?

Now that Alastor’s aware Vox is his captor, and that Vox has already kissed him, he might even lose himself to desperation, whatever it takes to get Alastor to love him. He’ll push the boundaries of what is sane and go further. And further. And further, and further, until Alastor is Hell’s biggest whor*, rivalling Angel Dust, or, in a beautiful twist of fate, partnered with him. Eugh.

He knows he shouldn’t be thinking of the worst happening right now. How he’s being treated is practically a blessing, he’ll admit. But with how he’s feeling, how close he is to snapping and losing his temper…

Alastor shivers. He needs to take his mind off of this rubbish.

He, instead, turns his attention to the desk, strolling over with muted noise now that he has socks on. The chair creaks slightly as he has a seat, drink rings embedded into the table from previous beverages Alastor had taken up on, so foolishly, so blindly. Not anymore.

It’s honestly some sort of warped miracle, that Vox hasn’t taken Alastor’s notebook away. With the length of his soliloquy where he was going on and on about how much Alastor would love it with him, and how he’ll learn to love it, he would have thought the picture box oughta take his notebook away. Either it’s some show of power, a way of saying Vox has the ability to take and give, or he’s stupid, stupid so he doesn’t even check the things Alastor logs.

Grabbing his pen, Alastor opens up to a brand new page, running his hand down the spine to flatten the book, over the screen embedded into it. He likes the way it sounds. Then, he puts his pen to paper, and begins his log, as he always has for the past few weeks or so.

My name is Alastor. I am The Radio Demon. I endorse Hazbin Hotel, run by Charlie Morningstar and Vaggie Morningstar. Today is

Alastor pauses, tapping his pen on the paper, scattering little dots of black ink along the white. Hm.. Today is… Huh. What was the day, again? It’s easy to lose track of time when you’ve been assaulted… No matter. Alastor will just figure out how many days he’s been at this, and figure the day out from there.

My name is Alastor. I am The Radio Demon. I endorse Hazbin Hotel, run by Charlie Morningstar and Vaggie Morningstar. Today is . It has been

Alastor pauses. Lifting his pen from paper, staring down at the book. Like it had just insulted him. It has been how many days? How many days has he been here? He knows… It’s been, at least, three weeks or so.. Three weeks?

Alastor’s been stranded in this room for three weeks, and no-one, not a single person, has come to help him? No-one? Hell, it might’ve been more than three weeks, who knows how long Vox made him pass out, after touching Alastor like that? Wanting him to sleep off the issue long enough Alastor begins to think it’s some twisted wet dream?

He’s not letting Vox have that advantage. Not now. He’s never going to let him have that…. That control over him, to make Alastor think his love is valid, that this is some sort of rom-com he found himself in. No. Alastor would… Alastor would never.

‘And I promise you will love it like I love you. Love me like I love you.’

He had called out for the man. In some mindset that the two could bathe together. He’s already said it, he knows, but— No… No, Alastor is getting attached, he finds, he’s falling in love without his consent, this— No, no no, this can’t be. This can’t be at all. Alastor, the Infamous Radio Demon, falling in love? Willing to sign himself off to be some sort of lovesick fool to the entirety of Pride? All without his wanton, without his desire? Just… a puppet, Vox sees him as, a puppet to f*ck, kiss, and throw aside when it gets too old?

‘You will. I promise. It’ll be worth it. One day you’ll kiss me without me needing to ask you to. You’ll love it.’

The pen’s nib breaks through the paper. Ink splatters across the white surface like a bloodstain on cement, like puke on tiling. Alastor stares down at the mess covering his hands, his shaking hands, clenching them into fists, claws digging into palm, indenting the skin.

Vox did this to him. Vox did this, and he won’t even come back to face the price like he should be. Using Alastor, and putting him aside when his boner pops and he gets too tired to continue on. But Alastor isn’t some hooker. Some downgraded whor*, who will stand for this disrespect, the degradation he currently faces.

His clenched fists split open, clutching the notebook. A growl escapes his bared teeth, as he picks it up by the open pages, tossing it aside. It hits the floor with a dull thud, sliding around, before coming to a final stop. Alastor glares at it, as if the soiled page had insulted him, glaring back down at the desk. Trying to calm himself. It’s not enough.

The screen that stares back at him helps no further bit. Alastor feels a bubble within his chest pop. Anger rises within him like molten lava, his eyes blurring with rage as he stands, the chair rolling backwards, hitting the end of its path, clacking soft.

His claws dig deep grooves into the wood, his thumbs wedging themselves into the crevice, separating technology from timber. They dig further and further within, his fingers protesting in pain as his claws are sunken back within his skin.

Alastor tears the screen out with a loud crackle of electricity, sending its screen fail safing to a rainbow-themed timeout screen. It buffers aloud, screeching in pain, before sizzling to a stop on the floor. Wheezing one last bolt of energy, the screen goes dark. Inactive. But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been in this f*cking place and yet no-one has come to save him. Was he that disposable? That forgettable, that he was disregarded by not just the hotel, but Rosie, the other overlords? No.. This.. Alastor is an important member of Pride– He broadcasts the carnage of extermination days, for heaven’s sake! He— He’s not replaceable, no one could do the things he could.

Alastor finds himself backing away from the desk, the blackening of his scleras undeniable, the growling and drool pouring from his mouth, animalistic in its visual. The backs of his knees hit the chair, something his breath hitches at. Damn chair. Vox had given it an engraved path in the floor, Alastor unable to pick it up, not with his strength, not with the sedatives laced in his food.

That thought only makes Alastor more upset. He’s known it for practically as long as he’s been here, yet, coming to acknowledge it is an entirely different step than just… knowing.

His hands latch onto the chair and he pulls with all his strength. The chair creaks and cries in his wake, until the fluff tears, oozing out in slits, like oozing wounds. Alastor growls. It’s not enough.

Growls turn to snarls and snarls turn into screams of anger as he marches around the room, tearing sheets from blanket, mattress from frame. They all hit the floor, torn and useless, but it’s not enough. How come Alastor hasn’t been saved yet?

He screams and screams because he can’t get out, he can’t ask for help, it has been weeks in this f*cking room, the same four walls, the same routine, the same assaults and the same nightmares, but he still hasn’t gotten the hell out of here.

Is it his own incompetence, his own ire and stubborn that lead him to fall into some delusion that he could get out on his own? Did everyone hate him so much they simply did not care for Alastor’s paranoia, for his fear and tire and panic?

The room comes to pieces around him. Alastor doesn’t even realise it until it’s done.

He rips the mattress apart, the item laying flat on the tile from his earlier assault. Screams rip his throat dry and at times, he’s convinced, for a few moments, his screams are all in his head, his voice given out on him ages ago. Not a single reaction returns from the room, from Vox.

Not when he mauls the screen from the roof, watching the item crash into bare bed frame, breaking the wood. Not when Alastor finally, finally manages to rip the chair from it’s inevitable path, not when Alastor screeched at the very top of his lungs, a noise so loud it had sent flashes of pain to his own head, the noise never ceasing as he jammed the heels of his hands into his ears, his sensitive ears.

Blood leaks onto his hands and his hearing turns muddled, the world around him blurry and undecipherable. Alastor’s eyes sweep around the room, searching for the next thing to bring to waste, the next thing to harm and destroy. It’s the only thing he can do, destroy, in order to grip onto some sort of control, some sort of originality, proof he hasn’t lost his entire being, to some delusions fed by a pervert.

Screens are punched in. Alastor throws his fists at the offenders until he can no longer, until his knuckles bleed and sting, shards of glass within them. He spares no mercy. Every screen is broken. All of his knuckles bleed and bruise and ache, to such a point he keeps them clenched, just to make the pain a little more bearable. It helps scarcely, but Alastor keeps them shut.

Everything is all in shambles when Alastor loses his voice. He coughs and his throat feels eternally itchy as he finally comes to a slow, releasing the pillow from his clutches, fluff falling from his claws. It’s as he pants, wiping an arm across his nose, does he notice that amidst the carnage, he had broken his claw.

Alastor takes a moment to stare at it, in wonder. His claw is broken. From how hard he had torn the room apart. His finger, he finds, aches and pulses with flashes of pain, over and over again, pulse, pulse, pulse. It hurts in a way Alastor cannot distract himself with a larger pain, the action causing his fingers to twitch, his hands to shake and arm to ache. He hurt himself. Alastor had hurt himself.

Paying attention to the anomaly now brings his mind into clarity, of just… how grounding it felt. To hurt, under his own will, his own power, allowed to scratch and bite himself under his control, stopping when he wants to stop. Alastor squeezes his palm shut, panting coming to a slow breathing. It feels nice, to be able to stop when he wants to stop, to display some semblance of the temperament he had before all this.

The tips of his claws dig into his skin, stinging in a way that sends sparks of pain through all his veins and muscles. His finger, which he had hurt, screams in protest of the assault, flinching away from the press, only to be put into place once again. It feels.. Indescribable. Grounding. As if a hand had been placed on his back, a reassuring voice to follow. Yes, Alastor is standing where he is, on his two feet, and this pain is only confirming it.

There’s simply no way to explain why it feels so good. It’s almost an addiction, spreading across his skin the more Alastor itches. There isn’t any sort of sexual undertone to it, the sensation is akin to cracking a knuckle that had tired itself out. Except Alastor can’t stop.

It’s a craving for more. He scratches at the backs of his hand until the skin is raw, until each touch burns with agony, and it still feels so good. His claws scratch and tear up his arms, to his biceps, and he just keeps going. Skin turns red from rash and agitation, something Alastor remains blind to as he collapses onto the floor.

His knees give out underneath him, already set to kneeling on the floor, and Alastor topples onto his side, the impact shoving his claws into his skin, drawing blood. It stings. He finds himself more to-Earth than ever in his life, so much so, it draws a small laugh of incredulity from him. The untouchable, unscarred Radio Demon, falling apart at the seams at the hostilities of his own hands. Hah. Seams.

The green string wrapping his body pulls just that little bit tighter. Those clenched fists, laced with shards of glass and ire weave into his hair, pulling, tugging, small clumps, large clumps, it remains all the same to him. Tug. Tug. Tug.

Strings of hair pluck off his head with soft pops, something Alastor enjoys so, picking the pace up. Until his fingers are drenched in natural oils, all from a lack of washing his hair, grease making the pulling that much more easier.

Tears prick at his eyes, the cold of the tiles soothing him as his hands do so much more worse, injuring him so much more intensely. His mind races to decide whether he likes or dislikes the sensation of such a torture, blood dripping from his scalp, his arms, a bit of drops here and there on his legs.

Reduced to a pathetic mess. That’s what’s happened. Alastor’s been reduced to a mess of panic and pent anger. Sighing, Alastor rests his head on the floor, the coldness pressing into his skin nicely, and—

What’s that.

A tiny rectangle box, mounted into the wall, right underneath where the headboard would have been. Unpowered, silent, collecting dust along the top of its frame, idle in its nature. It takes Alastor a few moments to see through his blurry haze, to realise that the box is a screen.

The glory of self-infliction is gone.

Alastor growls. His body moves before his head can think cognitively, and he’s flipped himself onto his stomach. Aches within him scream in complaint as he sinks his claws into the grout lines, cracking reflective tiles as he leverages himself forward, towards the screen. Underneath the bed.

Who does Vox think Alastor is? Some defenceless fawn? Did he seriously reckon that Alastor was such a coward, such a… a recreant, that he would hide under the bed? Crawl into a pathetic little ball of misery and shiver on the tiles, underneath the bed, tiling freezing his skin, dust forming rashes on his arms and legs?

No. No, no, Alastor is no longer afraid of his final exit, no longer afraid of tossing his soul, no longer the weakling Vox saw him to be all those years ago. Alastor’s grown. Vox has not.

His hands make it just from reach of the screen. Swiping and clawing at dusty air, blood-tipped claws just so barely stretching towards the darkened surface, matte yet reflective all the same. Alastor’s antlers press against the bottom of the frame, this frame, as he strains further and further, dragging himself as farther as he is growing closer.

He can’t reach this f*cking screen. His hand swipes and grabs at nothing but rejecting air, his antler pulling at the conjunction of his head, and it hurts, but the screen cracking and breaking to pieces will all be worth it.

Alastor just has to…

Push his head through…

Harder.

Something cracks. His head feels grand relief as it sinks underneath the bed frame, his claw managing to etch a line into the screen. A solid, sharp item hits the small of his back as he scrambles forth, mind muddled, closer to an animal than ever before. The screen is right there. He just needs to get closer.

Dust scratches his skin wonderfully as Alastor scratches his hooves on the floor, searching for purchase against the smoothness, slipping and landing on his thighs, unable to progress closer by significant amounts. No matter. Alastor’s only moments from the screen. One small push is all he needs. He reaches forward. Just there.

It sparks to life. Alastor only has a moment to panic before his mind floods with fog. His movements startle as he lets out a small noise of panic, hands shrinking back to cover his sight, to much futility. Thoughts trace to the wrong goals, all a jumble in his head as Alastor twitches, hands fighting warring sides, destroying the screen, or covering his eyes.

His dilemma is short-lived, attention swivelling to the pain on his head. The sensation lays akin to when Alastor sheds his antler, the pain an ache more than a sting. It pounds like drums ramming against his skull, warm liquid drizzling down, through the threads of his hair, leaking onto his skin, at such a temperature, he’s not sure if the blood is truly there, or if it lays a figment of his own imagination.

Trepidation fills his stomach, causing panic to see into bone marrow as more sounds echo from around the room, beyond the underside of the bed. Footsteps click into the room, hesitating in their entrance, before hurrying over. There’s a small grunt of exertion, voice drawing closer. It sends waves of panic through the deer, pure prey instinct causing him to claw forwards, attempting to hide underneath the bed.

Ha. Maybe Alastor should stop jinxing himself, hm? The weight off of the small of his back— He had forgotten there was something on there— Is hastily removed, before claws slip underneath his torso, pressing into his stomach slightly. Alastor honest-to-god yelps, kicking his legs out as the hands drag him out from underneath the bed. All he can do is growl, throwing his hands around wildly as the offender holds him, moving Alastor’s head into the crook of their neck.

Strangely, he doesn’t bite.

All he does is dig his claws into Vox’s back, holding him tight as Vox shushes him, a hand reaching up to press against where Alastor’s antler had broken. It hurts, and the feeling makes Alastor’s claws sink in a little deeper, that one, singular, broken claw pulsing with pain, with the inattention and dismissal of injury.

Vox gets to his feet with a bit of struggle, handling Alastor in such a way the latter feels pathetic, a hand hooked under his knees, the other holding his head up. Alastor finds himself sinking, spine arched uncomfortably as he’s whisked away, eyes locked on Vox. That addictive swirl, the way he mutters soft nothings into the deer’s ear, his concerned expression. Almost makes one sentimental, how much Vox cares for him, despite all he’s done, how defiant he’s behaved.

‘I know, I know,’ The TV whispers, sliding the closet door shut behind him. ‘You want out, I know you want to leave, Alastor.’

He grumbles, soft, half-hearted if anything, as he’s brought into a new room— Rejoice!--, the lights down low, blue in hue. Vox brings Alastor into another room, turning his attention to someone else, someone invisible to Alastor as he lets his head flop into the crook of Vox’s arm.

His head hurts. His body aches. His finger screams in agony. Alastor feels as though he may faint at any given moment. That’s far too much of a risk considering who exactly he is with.

‘Make sure his room is pristine when I get back,’ Vox snaps at this unseen figure– Probably some nobody–, before looking down at Alastor, eyebrows furrows, eyes full of that transfixing swirl, full of care and adoration. Something so strong, Alastor is tempted to reciprocate.

‘Alastor, you have to understand, baby..’ Vox grunts softly once again, and Alastor’s lowered onto another surface within this blue, tech-y room, his back against soft and plush material. He sinks into it with little to not resistance.

Just so tired. Wants to sleep. Alastor hadn’t realised it at the time, just how exhausted he had been from activities concerning mostly panic and paranoia. Now, he feels his body relaxing, as Vox stands over him.

‘The hotel…,’ Vox continues with a hesitant look, ‘They’ve been spreading festivities amongst themselves, Al.’ Festivities? Funny, Alastor was never invited. ‘I was invited, myself, baby.’ The TV places a hand on Alastor’s scarred cheek, thumb running across the three scratch marks. He, with a look of longing in his eyes, quotes, ‘Radio Demon stayed gone this time. On the invitation, it said they didn’t need you anymore. All of them… They’ve forgotten you.’

Alastor feels his eyebrow twitch. They… forgot him? Tossed him aside like nothing? He did all of this for Her, protected and risked his life for Her, but the moment he falls too weak, disappears for a bit too long, he’s forgotten? Like a nostalgic memory, dare he say he be one at all, only unlocked with the most obscure of references?

A bit of blood trickles down his forehead. Alastor can get himself cognitive enough to lap it up with his tongue, lazily, drooling slightly, bringing a small flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. Humiliation. Vox tuts, wiping the saliva from his skin away, eyes travelling to Alastor’s head.

The deer can feel that gaze on his antler, or more accurately, lack thereof, as Vox reaches up, a thumb pressing against the marred connection between flesh and bone marrow. Alastor winces, shutting one of his eyes to try and ease the pain, express his discomfort in some other way other than violence.

‘I’ll get you bandaged up, my deer,’ Vox soothes softly, his hand smoothing down Alastor’s face to his cheek once again, ‘And when you wake up, you’ll be in a nice bath, with nice smells, and a lovely partner to do so with. Just like old times.’

Alastor hates that idea. He destests it, and expresses as much through a soft grumble, a movement of his head, cheek hitting a blanket, —that smells like fish and burning rubber— atop what he now recognises to be Vox’s bed. Vox chuckles, ruffling his hair, something Alastor feels too fatigued to protest against, and walks off. Leaving Alastor his thoughts.

The hotel is celebrating without him. Were they waiting for him to finally kick the bucket? To perish, never show his face again? He can surely see why— Lucifer can protect them, Husk and Niffty both seem happier when he isn’t around… in fact…

Everyone seems happier when he’s not around. Rosie enjoys herself so much with her customers, Charlie’s with her love, the hotel gets along swell. And… Her…. Well. She’s already living in luxury, what is one missing plaything? She has hundreds, possibly thousands, more, Alastor is no special case.

But the Vees. They’re the only ones, Alastor reckons, That do enjoy or at the very least tolerate his presence. Vox is no secret at all —he revels in Alastor’s attention like he needs it to breathe—,Valentino has occasionally made passing comments that Alastor’s heard, appealing to his body or nature. Velvette seems to care less for him, but indifference is far better than hatred. Alastor will take anything he can get. As long as the Vees want to keep him here.

They do, he knows that.. The entertainment industry is not complete without radio, it never is, as frivolous as Vox protests it to be. Vox…Alastor sighs, to himself, blinking. Another droplet of.. Something drips from his eye, travelling across the bridge of his nose.

He, just for a fleeting moment, is convinced he has no better place to be, than on Vox’s bed, waiting for the man to return.

Chapter 12: You Say You Wanna Be Alone

Chapter Text

‘Okay.. Let’s just…’ Charlie claps her hands together, chuckling lightly as she paces. An audience of everyone at the hotel (Minus Alastor, of course, but it’s okay! They’ll find him eventually… Which is soon!) watches her with looks of concern spreading over them like a wave. As if worried for her mental health which is perfectly stable and not collapsing! ‘Narrow this down, okay? Okay!’

Charlie spins around, turning her back to the group, instead focussing on the large cork board she had summoned moments ago, before their group meeting, strung with red and photos of Alastor. Well, photos are a bit of a stretch… it’s more… Whatever small amounts of paper they could find that bore his resemblance; Most photos he takes are glitched, but that’s okay. It is a-okay.

‘It has been approximately four weeks since Alastor disappeared from Cannibal Town.’ She wacks a pointer stick onto the board, creating a small dent in the timeline she had printed out, detailing a chronological list of what had happened in recent weeks. It has a bunch of Alastor doodles on it, and nonsensical numbers that Charlie is sure will make sense once she finds out why her sleep-deprived mind had written them down last night. ‘And we couldn’t find him anywhere. Right?’

The crowd remains silent. They all glance amongst each other, as if expecting someone else to be the first to speak this morning. And, after a few moments of silence, Vaggie speaks up. What a great partner! ‘Right.’

‘Great, nice we agree on that, great, lovely, adorable,’ Charlie trails off, turning back to the board. She reaches up, string in hand, ready to pin more to the board, with what little space is left. ‘We’ve checked… Carmilla District, Doomsday District, Cannibal… He was in none of them…’

‘Don’t forget,’ Angel calls out, raising his hand lazily, waving it back and forth as he slouches into the couch, next to Husk, ‘I checked wit’ the Vees and we went to Smiles’s tower!’

Husk sends him a deadpan look, one that tells Angel to shut up, which the spider does. Charlie nods, grinning toothily, perhaps a bit too wide to be truly appreciative, spinning around to her board. She summons a few more photos and hangs them up, connecting more string to string, pin to cork. The board holds a faint semblance to a spider’s intricate webbing, doused in blood, blood too light to break the silk.

‘And he’s not dead,’ Charlie continues, turning around, gesturing loosely to Husk. The man nods solemnly, almost disappointed at the reminder that the prick of a boss hasn’t kicked the bucket yet. As Charlie continues going about… Whatever is going on, Husk decides to stare off into the nothing, away from anyone else, checked out of the conversation.

He doesn’t really care for the question if Alastor is alive or not. Hopefully he dies for the second time soon, because Husk could go for not having an asshole holding his soul.

Husk has known Alastor for a long time. The former was in his prime time, amidst the glory of his overlord reign, when the two had met. He was bored, seeking a new thrill aside from pretty little souls and gambling with their holistic beings, resorting to something a bit more… staking. At the time, news had been spreading across Pride, of some obnoxiously powerful overlord, one merciless yet respectable at the same time, with a code of honour, all that sh*t.

The cat himself was no sort of gentleman; He was greedy and took what he wanted without much regard for any other party, gambling and drinking like no tomorrow. It was safe to say he found leisure in other’s pain, other’s losses. He was almost as bad as Alastor is now which is ironic. But one thing Husk had always loved more than regular gambling, in his overlord days, was playing with the stronger souls, ones under his command, his leash and chain. There was a sort of sad*stic satisfaction, breaking those stubborn souls, their resolve and defiance crumbling to nothing but ash. Toying with them, until they become nothing more than little puppets, obeying Husk’s every word like little myrmidons.

Husk wanted to see the Radio Demon break that night.

He had arrived at the little old-fashioned speakeasy Alastor was fabled to frequent. Spotted the man in question chatting up a few ladies, leaning against the counter. He looked like he was preparing for a rowdy night. Nowhere near the gentlemanly, respective man Husk was under the impression he was.

The moment he approached, their eyes met, and Husk could see the guard rise within them. He thought Alastor was a coward for it. A little bitch, afraid of competition. Women flocking the deer had dispersed with upset looks, leaving the two to chat in solemn. Husk introduced himself. Alastor said he already knew who Husk was, and the two shook hands. Alastor’s fingers lingered a bit longer than necessary, before he had asked what Husk wanted from him.

Husk said he wanted to bet. A small little competition between the two, a simple transaction with the win and loss of a game, no strings attached. Alastor had abruptly stood properly, off the counter, and told Husk to lead the way.

No questions, Husk remembers he thought, this guy must be a huge f*cking idiot.

They walked together in the darkness of Pride alleyways, where Husk had discussed the conditions of his offer. A round of poker, using souls and power as chips. If Alastor won, he could have Husk’s souls. If Husk won, he would have a pretty little doe to command. And, better yet for the cat, there wasn't even any debate about the offerings; Such an unfair trade, but all Alastor did was smile and nod. Like he was the one walking out with an advantage.

Husk was so confident he would win. It was his casino the two were to play in, and everyone knows; When you gamble souls, the house will always win. Of course Husk was going to cheat. It was going to be child’s play, using his staff to learn what Alastor’s cards were. It’s how Husk had always won, clawed up to the overlord ranking.

They sat down at the poker table, the staff’s eyes on them, and began the round. Sure, Husk took a few losses in the buildup, so did Alastor, but the cat’s anticipation in owning Alastor himself was too grand, too grand for him to realise how aggressively he was losing souls. He lost track of time, of souls, of what he could offer. Until he had nothing but himself left to give.

They both cheated, that round; Alastor was just better at it.

‘Husk!’

The cat startles slightly, ears perking as he looks away from the side of the parlour, to the group. Vaggie narrows her eyes at him, crossing her arms with a scowl. ‘You done? Wanna start listening now?’

‘What?’ Husk grunts softly, lifting his head off of his hand. Vaggie sighs, rolling her eyes, ready to begin berating him for his mental absence, as Charlie steps forward.

‘That’s okay,’ She smiles. As if understanding Husk was going through something, now that the asshole who held his soul was gone. ‘We were asking if Alastor’s whole… radio gimmick thing… Does it affect phone signals? Or something? Like… radio… waves?’ The princess waves her hands around a bit, wiggling her fingers. Dunno what that's supposed to mean.

Husk co*cks an eyebrow. How is he gonna to know that? Alastor barely allowed him to have a phone past Husk’s time, and that’s after much protest, complaints, and nearly being eaten— He would have been, if Husk wasn’t such a grand trophy. He doesn’t know if Alastor affects phone signals or some sh*t. He’s not some Radio Demon expert, a radio connoisseur, barely cared to learn about Al as a person before he went ahead and gambled his soul away.

‘I dunno,’ Husk shrugs. Charlie sighs, dejectedly. It awakens some rare sense of empathy within the cat, and he quickly continues speaking again. ‘But, uh. If all screens buzz out when he’s nearby, it would make sense he can manipulate frequencies or some sh*t. Maybe.’

‘It’s definitely something,’ Lucifer perks up, the first he’s spoken in a hot minute, eyebrows raising as he leans forward in his chair, once Alastor’s unofficial official spot. ‘I can go flying around the ring to see if I can find him. I’d just need to make some kind of… Weird.. Frequency picker-upper-thing.’ He chuckles, cheeks flushing a bit gold

‘An absorption wavemeter… I can make that.’ Vaggie waves her hand about, a bit more timid than Angel had. Her expression twists from compliance to perplexion, as a new concern arouses. ‘But… Wouldn’t it be weird if the King of Hell flew around the ring during the time Alastor happens to go missing? Wouldn’t people think something’s up?’

Lucifer scoffs, throwing his hands out in front of him. ‘Pfft. What’s the worst that could happen?’

‘A lot,’ Angel chimes helpfully, a cheeky smile on his face, toothy and wide.

‘He’s right,’ Husk adds, despite himself. He leans forward in his seat, clutching the arm lightly, claws digging into plush. ‘Y’Majesty, you’re a hotshot in Pride. People would fight tooth n’ nail to know what yer up to after being gone so long.’ With that, Husk moves back into his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink. ‘Better off getting someone else to do it.’

‘But who?’ Charlie sighs, hands falling against her thighs, exasperated. She glances back to her cork board, pointing to different photos pinned to it. ‘We haven’t seen Niffty in days…’ Vaggie has the shame to look away at that. ‘No-one… I mean, we’re all busy, or we can’t do it! Not that we’re useless, but…’ Her face contorts into a frown, going on tearful.

‘I can go,’ Vaggie says, hurried, ‘It’s my device, I’ll be able to navigate it the best.’

Angel raises his hand once again, co*cking an eyebrow as he summons attention. ‘Uh, vagin*. I don’t think you know this, toots, but you’re abouttas popular as Princess Rainbows over there.’ He points to Charlie, who looks as if the news had just been revealed to her, that she was Hell’s Princess.

‘So you’re a no go,’ Charlie mumbles, raising a nail to her teeth as she begins pacing once again. Worry begins to creep into her features, something that Vaggie catches with a frown.

‘I can still go,’ She insists, ‘If someone else comes with me, I can… I dunno, it’ll look less suspicious.’

Lucifer’s brows furrow. He winces slightly as he uncrosses his legs, clasping his hands together. ‘And.. uh. How does that one work?’

Husk sighs, shaking his head. He places his bottle squeezed beside him and the arm of the chair, sitting up properly. Too sober for this sh*t.. ‘I’ll take her with me.’ Eyes turn to the cat. ‘We can probably dress y’up in something else. Make me and you look like someone else’s property, not Al’s.’

Charlie claps her hands together, satisfied. ‘That’s so great, Husk! Thank you!’

‘Yeah yeah,’ Husk mumbles, slouching once again, ‘How long will it take to make your Deer-Prick-Finding trinket?’

‘Not long.’ Vaggie gestures with her hand a bit. ‘Just need an antenna, radar, and a couple of other stuff. Then we should be good to go. Maybe even today.’ Husk hopes the f*ck not. He hasn’t drunk enough to be shot down by some comedian with a gun while he’s searching for that prick. Husk grunts acknowledgement, getting up from his seat.

He has someone he needs to talk to right now.

**

The hallway is dark and eerily silent when Husk makes it to level 6. Strangely, he finds himself waiting for the jazz to sound as he approaches his destination. Room doors are all shut, lights turned off– It’s been that way for a while now. Level 6 is off-limits for the time being. But here the cat is, wandering down the maroon hallways, staring at the patterns woven upon them, the colours complimenting each other well. Almost hypnotic in a way.

Husk stops at one of the small tables housing a mirror, staring at it. Jesus Christ. He moves on. If you asked Husk if he’d ever wanna go ahead and save Alastor about a year ago, Husk would have laughed in your face and told you to f*ck off. Look at him now. Walking to Alastor’s room, when the man is gone, missing, just to get some lasting memory with the area. That, and also there’s someone here he needs to talk to.

Tapping his knuckle on room 666, Husk presses his ear to the wood. There’s a faint gasp, then the light patter of footsteps, giggling stabbing its way through the wooden material, clear in voice despite the thickness of its barrier. He can hear a faint few jumps, exerted grunts, before the door clicks, swinging open.

‘The bad boy is back!’ Husk gazes down at the cyclops standing at the door. Their eyes meet, and the excitement in hers dies down as soon as her brain processes the situation. ‘Oh. It’s the furry bad boy.’

‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Husk pushes his way into the darkened room, eyes sweeping over the area, absorbing what little light there is. Niffty shuts the door behind him, scrambling to his side. ‘Why’s it so dark in here?’

‘King Roach likes it when it’s dark,’ She explains. Husk isn’t going to question when or why Alastor’s been dubbed King Roach. Guess his smell is enough to summon them? ‘When the shadows consume you, when you feel the fear of being stuck with what you cannot control, in a place where you cannot see.’

Husk turns and stares down at the cyclops. Freaky f*ck. She giggles lightly, pupil shrinking to a small dot in her eye. The cat sighs, getting down to his knees, groaning at the cracks and pops that sound from his bones.

‘Niff.. Let me explain what’s going on.’

She deserves some sort of clarity into the situation. All Vaggie had told her was that Alastor was dead. And lord knows how attached Niffty is to the man, hearing that probably brought her to a secret second stage of insanity. Even if it hadn’t, it had hit her hard enough so as not to show her face in the hotel lobby.

‘You don’t need to!’ The bug insists. ‘King Roach is taking a break. He’ll be back, like before!’

‘No..’ Husk pulls his hand up to his nape, rubbing lightly. ‘Listen. Al— King Roach has been… borrowed. And the person who took him doesn’t wanna give him back.’ Niffty nods, confused. ‘But we don’t know who took him. That’s what me and Vaggie are going to do now. Gonna go find out who has him.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Niffty replies, though her tone indicates she had checked out of the conversation minutes ago. Probably when Husk started using sentences longer than seven words. He sighs to himself, exhaling

‘And what you need to do—’ Husk jabs a claw to her chest. ‘Is you need to get his room and the hotel tidy for when he comes back. And not… strand the entire place in darkness.’

‘But… He likes it when it’s dark?’

‘Not this time, Niffty.’ Husk pats her on the head, getting up to his feet with another groan. ‘You think you can do that? Make sure the hotel is tidy and all the bugs gone?’

Niffty smiles, nodding her head with such speed Husk worries her head will pop off like a cheap toy. ‘Uh-huh! Uh-huh! I can do that! The bad boy will love what I have in store for him! Yes!’

‘Good.’ Husk reaches down, ruffling her head once more, before opening the door. Niffty waves him off, swinging her hand around. Husk hates being so emotional, but…

With a final glance back to the bug, Husk bites down a smile, and heads out of the room.

**

Crisp high heels brace the tiling with sharp clicks of importance. She keeps her hands in front of her, clasped politely, making sure to send the little imps she passes by a sharp grin. Normally, she would never step into a wretched place like this, not when the guy who runs it had hurt her best friend like he had, not when he left her without an explanation.

Rosie moves down what is most likely the entry hall of the V Tower, stopping at the reception counter. An imp with vibrant purple hair glances up from her phone, indifferent expression shifting to startlement. She jumps in her seat, dropping her phone to her lap, which then slides to the floor with a soft series of cracks.

The cannibal overlord smiles. ‘Hello, dear. I needa talk wit’ Vox and them.’

‘Uhm…’ The imp trails off. She looks to the side, sitting up properly in her seat. ‘Do you have an.. Appointment?’ Her voice shrinks the more words she forces out. Goodness! She might reach a pitch high enough for dogs if she keeps going on like this.

‘No, but it’s an emergency.’ Rosie narrows her eyes, smiling wider. ‘A mutual friend of Vox and I is gone, and I need help finding him, so get me through to him.’

‘Uhm.’ The imp types a few things into her computer, clicking obnoxiously with her sharp, press-on nails. ‘Vox said he was busy. His schedule’s been empty since 10am today. It was an… emergency.’ She peers at her screen to read the information a bit better, before looking up at Rosie. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Sure he’s busy, Rosie thinks to herself, though she says not a word.

‘Nonsense! You can still accommodate me, toots.’ Rosie slams her hand down, flat on the counter. She shows off how loud her own nails can click, leaning forward. ‘Take me to the other ones.’

The overlord can hear the imp gulp aloud before nodding frantically, looking down at her computer. She types a couple more things, clicks her mouse a few, and rolls her chair back. Then, she withdraws the desk drawer and passes Rosie a card. Level red entry. When Rosie looks at the imp in questioning, the secretary swallows a bit.

‘That… That should get you to Level Seven, Miss… Rosie. Ma’am. That’s the common room, I– Uh.. sh*t, I told Miss Velvette and Mister Valentino you’d be coming up.’ She averts her gaze to the table, scratching it lightly with her nails. ‘Apologies for the wait.’

‘I should expect no harm when I rise, hm?’

‘No, ma’am. Absolutely not.’ Rosie hums, satisfied. She holds her hand over the counter. The imp looks at the hand, then Rosie. ‘Uhm…?’

‘Let me thank you, love.’ The secretary nods, raising her hand, placing it to Rosie’s. Rosie kneels down, bracing her lips against the other’s pale, soft skin.

She screams as Rosie sinks her teeth into flesh. With a sad attempt to draw her bitten teeth away, Rosie grants her this small mercy, spitting her blood back onto the imp’s injured hand. Imps never taste good. ‘You taste foul.’

With that, she steps into the elevator, ignoring the screams and cries of the imp. The scanner buzzes at her card, allowing her to press the button labelled seven, doors sliding shut. She rises with haste and streamline, numbers rising atop the elevator door, almost rushed in its nature.

Soon, a ding echoes from the speakers around her, and the doors slide open.

‘There she is,’ Comes a voice from further within the “common room”, loud, British. Rosie steps forth, keeping her calm facade as always, moving into the level. The first thing she sees is a large room, attached to a kitchen, in the centre a collection of couches, a table, and a TV. But not the TV Rosie is looking for.

The overlord turns her gaze to the people sat atop the couches, offering a small curtsy, despite her inner feeling of disgust. ‘Lovely ta’ be seeing you, Velvette. Valentino.’

‘What do you want?’ Comes Velvette’s response, followed by a scowl and narrowing of her eyes. ‘Other than eating my employees?’

‘My sincerest apologies for the little…’ Rosie glances to the side for a moment. ‘Mishap, in the lobby. But does news spread here, hm?’ She had barely bitten that secretary a minute ago. That too, lightly; Her hand tasted of chemicals. It makes Rosie wonder how quickly the Vees receive news. And how quickly they can satisfy her offer.

‘Have a seat,’ Valentino offers, leaning against the arm of the couch. Rosie sits at the one farthest from the man, placing her hands on her lap. He notes this at the back of his mind, smirking as he continues on. ‘Now, as my babydoll was saying, what brings you here? Are you finally interested in some of our… accommodations?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Rosie grits, shameless as she lies through her teeth. Valentino begins gazing at his nails, disinterested, his services falling upon Rosie’s deaf ears. ‘I come here on more… professional terms. I sit before you, to make a deal, you see.’

‘Go on,’ Velvette drawls, looking down at her phone with indifference. She types a few things before glancing up, meeting Rosie's eyes with scorn. ‘You wanna give us money in exchange for people to eat? That bank’s closed, darl, go find some sh*t with Carmilla or something.’

Rosie decides not to acknowledge the insult. It is simply how the youth behaves. Nothing truly hurtful. Instead, she clears her throat, shuffling forward in her seat. Her voice falls slightly hushed. ‘It’s about Alastor.’

That opens Pandora’s Box.

Both sets of eyes travel straight to Rosie, expressing a wild mix of apprehension and curiosity on respective faces. Rosie decides not to dig too far into it, instead focussing on continuing on.

‘We all know he’s gone missing. It’s not unlike him to do that, but this time… It’s not the same. I know Alastor, and I know you—’ She gestures to Valentino, him having been around as well, the time Alastor and Vox broke up all those years ago. ‘Do too. This isn’t like his normal disappearances.

‘The hotel’s been bending over backwards tryna find him, and so have I. We’ve checked all the sections a’ Pride, the forest, anywhere and everywhere he could be. But we’ve found nothing. By now he woulda caught wind that we've been looking, and he'd come back. But he hasn't. That brings me to your abode today.’

Deep breaths, Rosie. Maintain the same confidence Alastor does when he makes his own offers with woeful souls. It’s always been something she’s admired about the man. His silver tongue.

‘If you can find Alastor, I will give you my soul.’

Her eyes flick between the two other overlords. When Rosie is met with no comment, she keeps going, digging into the nitty gritty of her offer, forcing herself to release her dress from her clenched fists. ‘You can call me when you’d like. Own the souls I do. Treat me however. Only if you can find Alastor and give him to me.’

‘You—’ Velvette laughs, incredulous as she puts her phone beside her. It hits the couch with a dull thud. \ ‘You can’t be f*cking serious. What’s the catch?’

Rosie leans forward, reinforcing her stare. ‘Perhaps I need to put into context for you the significance of Alastor’s return. Think of it, as if, your dear Vox had gone missing. You need him. He is a vital pillar, holding your circus tent up. If Vox is gone forever, you two will not be able to run properly. You three are co-dependant on each other. It is the same for me and Alastor. I am no rebel to admit this, as it is a fact. Undeniable in nature.

‘He is the closest thing to a true friend I’ve ever had. He is the only man I’ve ever known to not care for me romantically. If I lose him, I don’t know what I will do.’ She sits up. ‘So there is no catch. Simply, bring Alastor to me, and I will give you my soul and everything I have to offer.’

‘Do we sign on it now?’ Valentino smiles, holding his hand out, smoke pouring from his pink teeth. His eyes shine that little bit brighter, magic welling at his fingertips with every breath of additives. Rosie shakes her head, holding her composure together, willing herself not to grimace.

‘No. It is an immediate transaction. You find him first, and I will give you my soul.’ Taking a deep breath, she clarifies, a calmer tone levelling in her voice. You find Alastor the Radio Demon, bring him back to me, and I, Rosie, will give you my soul. No strings. No catches. Nothing more.’

Silence over compasses the room for a few prolonged moments. Velvette is the first to clear her throat, eyes uneasy.

‘Uh. Yeah, we’ll think about it.’

‘Dandy!’ Rosie gets up from her seat, brushing her dress down. ‘Much, much obliged, dearies. But I have to get going.’ She smiles, toothy. ‘Lovely doing business with you two. I hope, next time, Vox isn’t too… busy.’

‘Mhm,’ Valentino smiles, waving as Rosie walks off.

The doll and moth are left in the common room as they listen to the elevator singing softly, the sound of high heels fading below. Then, Velvette turns to Valentino. ‘Her soul. For that deer prick?’

‘I think so,’ Valentino sighs, woefully placing his head on his hand. ‘What a terrible state we find ourselves in.’

‘Yeah,’ Velvette mutters, scornful as she leans back. ‘Like.. That’s a good f*cking offer. An entire section of the pentagram for Vox’s boytoy. He’s easy to grab and give, so when we have Rosie, we’ll just take him back.’

‘Mhm.’ Valentino takes a small drag of his cigarette. ‘Such a pathetic little display of sentimentality, hm?’

‘Right.’ Velvette glances over to Vox’s room on the level, to the noises of quiet conversation and water slowly arising, now that Rosie has left. ‘But I think Vox’ll lose his f*cking sh*t if he isn’t within that guy’s breathing air for even a second… Makes it really hard to work with, actually.’

‘You speak such truth, babydoll,’ Valentino smiles, rolling onto his back as he pulls out his phone. Velvette stares at him, irritated, before placing her head on her hand, staring at the aforementioned room with a bit of agitation.

Alastor had a tantrum earlier today, or some sh*t. Totally lost it. She was watching him tear the room to shreds in Vox’s office, yelling at him to do something as Vox popped a boner listening to Alastor scream and kick and rip. The deer ended up hurting himself, then had some freak episode where he liked it, so Vox finally went to go take care of him. That was an hour or so before Rosie had arrived, unannounced.

He’s been in Vox’s room ever since. Whether they’re f*cking or not, Velvette doesn’t know. She only knows that Alastor’s thrown up once already, having seen Vox makeout with Alastor on the guy’s bed. It’s weird, to be honest; Vox’s obsession with Alastor is definitely no secret, but seeing what Vox does to Alastor now that he actually has him… Sends shivers up her spine.

Yeah it’s— It’s good that the entertainer industry is finally a whole. Social media, electricity and TV, p*rn, radio, they’re all made to be a singular team, so there’s no competition amongst who’s the better source of entertainment. Velvette’s not going to deny that a huge stress has been lifted off her shoulders, now that she knows Alastor’s not going to be bashing the Vees anytime soon.

Although, Vox… Is making it weird. Velvette hates looking inside that room. Vox had already had it built for months before Alastor’s taking, mind you. He’s a creep. Not to say she’s not, the people around her aren’t, but…

It’s so strange, seeing Vox’s obsession being fed into. He’s been so much more protective of his room, so much more antisocial, so much more rushed and eager to get into Alastor’s room. Velvette had never thought he could even lay a hand on the deer. Adam’s fight seemed to be one lucky sh*tshow.

Sometimes Velvette wishes she could go in the room herself and have a look at Alastor. Just stare at him, not when he’s asleep, or amidst a breakdown. When he’s sane and calm, she just wants to look at him. Remind herself that, he too, at one point, was a human, and that he too, has emotions, as stone faced as his smile shows him to be.

And sometimes, very rarely, she wants to let him go on the terms that he just gives up and joins them. Not because she feels bad that Alastor’s been locked in the room. It’s just f*cking weird having your rival locked away in some weird vacation home from the room next to you.

Velvette sighs. There’s nothing she can say to complain— Everything Vox has done so far, she’s probably done far worse online. She almost feels bad for Rosie, staring into her face, knowing exactly where her best friend is, barely a room away.

Whatever. Cannibal freak would have found a loophole in their deal anyway.

**

‘So. Uh.’

Vaggie glances at the cat from the corner of her eye, questioning. Husk grumbles softly, raising a hand to his nape. The two fly over the forests once more, doing a lap of Alastor’s territory in the case they missed him; You never know, the forests are big and the animals within are complete assholes. Alastor would blend in perfectly.

‘Why’d you volunteer?’ Husk continues on, flapping his wings a bit harsher to keep up with the exorcist, his back already cursing him for such rash movement. ‘I.. I get myself, guy owns my soul, ‘d probably kick my ass if I didn’t… But you?’

‘I thought I already mentioned it at the hotel,’ Vaggie mutters, looking down at her device to check the frequency in the area. Same as it was before… ‘It’s my device. Easier to navigate.’

Husk co*cks an unbelieving eyebrow. ‘Really? If that was the only reason, you might as well have slapped an instruction manual into my hand and told me to go f*ck off.’ He taps Vaggie’s shoulder, halting the two in the air, their wings flapping loud and relentless. They stare at each other for a few more moments, Husk steeling his gaze. ‘So why did you really volunteer?’

Vaggie sighs, rolling her eyes. She turns back around and continues flying, coming to a stop where they had started— Alastor’s first cabin. The exorcist groans aloud, clenching her fist, before looking out into the ring once again. Husk frowns, following her as she heads inland, towards the centre of the ring.

‘I’m gonna keep bringing it up until you listen,’ Husk says, keeping her pace despite his back screaming in old-man issues.

‘It’s really not that big of a deal,’ Vaggie finally snaps, shooting him another look. ‘Alastor’s… Charlie really cares about him… For whatever reason. And I don’t like seeing her upset.’ Husk hums, soft, slow. She’s right– Charlie’s grown to become attached to Alastor, as incredulous as that sounds. The man expresses his care and gratitude for her sentimentality in his own, f*cked up Alastor way. As little as that care is. But it’s there.

Eugh.. Talking about the Radio Demon being a good person makes him want to lurch.

‘And,’ Vaggie speaks up, voice timid, as if afraid to approach the subject, ‘He’s… Not really all he says he is. No-one who wants entertainment would risk his life fighting the first man…’

‘What’re you saying?’ Husk asks, tone accusatory. Then, he goes over himself, and speaks a bit more softly, as if afraid Alastor’s very ears would hear him, scout him out mid-air. ‘That he has some sorta…. Ulterior plan,or some sh*t?’

Vaggie twists around in the middle of the air, above Carmilla’s district. She locks Husk with a hard gaze, eyes widening slowly. ‘You noticed it too?’

‘That Alastor isn’t just some sad*stic f*ck, and he’s here for another reason?’ Husk replies, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, he’s not exactly trying to hide it.’

The moth groans aloud, head tossing back, shoulders easing slightly as she begins to speak once again. ‘Oh, f*ck yes. Thank god you noticed it too, I thought I was the only one with eyes in the hotel.’ Pausing, Vaggie lowers her head. She taps her crossed out eye, letting out a humorous scoff. ‘One one with an eye.’

‘Hilarious, have you ever considered stand-up comedy?’ But he lets a small chuckle slip. Vaggie can be funny when she isn’t yelling at everyone and everything.

The two continue moving towards the centre of the pentagram. As they do, Vaggie’s eyes locked onto her radar trinket, or whatever, she frowns, humming softly. Husk catches up behind her with a confused look, staring down at her radar.

It’s your typical radio-measuring-what-the-f*ck-ever device, a small screen displaying rapidly changing numbers, a line near the bottom going off the charts as the two slow their pace, not quite stopping in their movements.

‘That’s weird,’ Vaggie comments softly. ‘The frequency is picking up the closer we get to the middle..’

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Husk tilts his head. It’s not unlike Vaggie to overthink to double hell, so he keeps himself calm. If someone’s gotta have a level head, it’s gonna have to be him. Like always.

‘Yeah, but…’ Vaggie looks up, around the area they surround. She angles her device towards a particularly tall, flashy building, her frown intensifying, shoulders guarding, eyes widening. Husk follows her glare, staring at his own reflection in the widen windows, staring the buildings up and down. His mind connects the dots for him, and he feels his hair stick up.

And, finally, Husk speaks.

‘The hell’s Alastor doing in the V Tower?’