Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Where the fuck is that fucking raccoon slag?!”

The avian-like demon stomped backstage at his sleazy burlesque show, not caring if the roar of his voice was louder than the band playing down in the pit. Sinners under his employ dashed back and forth to keep busy and stay out of his way. The unlucky few who got caught in the Overlord’s crossfire of his rage were sent flying through the air with a flap of his wings, crashing painfully on props or other demons.

The demon yanked the cigar out of his mouth to wipe the drool of alcohol gathering in the corner of his mouth. “Bitch, you got to the count of four–”

That always did the trick. You scrambled out of your dressing room in a blur of purple and silver. You wore your signature outfit: a corset pushing up your best assets, with fringe and feathers everywhere hiding nothing from view. He'd have you for himself tonight if he weren't so irritated.

Your arms were crossed, face in a shitty frown, eyes trained on something behind him. “Yes, Roman?”

“Yes, Roman,” he mocked, taking pleasure when you cringed in on yourself. “You know you're on in five?”

“Of course I know,” you spat the words, testing out your defiance. “I-I was just–”

He yanked you by the arm, talons threatening to pierce your skin. You winced, shaking in his grasp, looking up at the demon who owned your soul with barefaced vitriol.

Roman cupped your cheek in a grotesque caricature of an affectionate gesture. His thumb caressed your cheek right under your eye, right where he knew a bruise was hiding under your shitty makeup job. It would be invisible on stage under the harsh lights, not that anyone would care if it wasn't. This was Hell after all.

He took a drag of his cigar. “You can give me all the lip you want after you do your fucking job. Capiche, honey?”

You grimaced, trying not to gag on the acrid smell of his cigar curdling in your lungs. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

You fumed in silence, wishing you could tell him to wrap his lips around a Smith and Wesson. But you swallowed the retort, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear. “...yes, daddy.”

He grinned. “There's my favorite girl.”

With a smack on your ass, he pushed you to take your mark. One of the stagehands reminded you of your cue to enter, but their voice mixed with the band and backstage chaos turning into pure white noise irritating your brain. This had been your routine since nearly your first days in Hell. You did not need a recap.

Squaring your shoulders, you plastered on a well practiced show-stopping smile. You strutted center stage with all the confidence in Hell, hands on exaggeratedly swiveling hips to greet your adoring audience of savage beast.

The music swelled as if the instruments themselves were applauding the sultry sway of your body.

You allowed yourself to get lost in the music, your body taking over the reigns as it did what it did best. It was the only way you could get through this with your sanity intact. In life, you’d made it your mission to dance to your own rhythm, but in Hell you found yourself once again forced to follow another's rhythm for survival, your well-being at the mercy of vile men.

You could strangle every single one of them.

Rip them apart with your bare hands.

Like most denizens in Hell, you loathed the owner of your soul. Once a fresh sinner, confused with your new surroundings, and terrified of heaven's wrath, you made your deal out of naivety and fear. Only later did you understand what you’d done when it was far too late to take it back.

So you danced every night for the pleasure of others, preferring to let your eyes burn staring at the spotlights rather than at the hungry faces of lustful demons, preferring to let the music deafen you so you couldn’t hear their wolf whistles and vulgar comments.

Your soul and body no longer moved in tandem, the pain of the unsynchronization intractable and ever-present.

You were so far away the flickering lights above didn't reach you until they all went out, bathing the club in darkness. All at once you returned to yourself, body stopping on its own accord. The patrons muttered, confused, concerned, and disgruntled. Somewhere not far away enough, Roman was shouting at some poor soul to fix the lights.

The temperature dropped in the blink of an eye. Pins and needles scratched at the underside of your skin, a sensation felt by all as silence swept throughout the establishment, louder than the band.

“R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻…”

The familiar voice distorted by static was enough to make everyone lose their collective shit. Screams pierced the air as patrons and employees alike rushed to the exit, trampling on each other and shattering windows, clawing for escape.

You froze as the chaos unfolded. A light fixture above you crashed and shattered on the floor, shards of glass flying, biting your skin.

The building shook. Tendrils of shadows snaked through the windows and doors like murderous tornadoes, tearing through concrete and sinners alike with no discretion, cutting them down like weeds. Like a house of cards the building crumbled on top of you, the darkness all-consuming.

The weight of a collapsed building in Hell was the equivalent of a stubbed toe. It won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a motherfucker.

You clawed your way out of the rubble, coughing up dust and debris that invaded your lungs. You breached the surface and gulped down fresh Hellish air. The sounds of a bloody brawl were mere background noise as you assessed your damage. Blood dripped and bruises ached but you were alright otherwise. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for the other residents of the club.

Hell made one accustomed to blood and gore, but it was still a shock to see it unprompted. Blood soaked into the remains of the ex-establishment, limbs strewn about with abandon. The air grew thick with copper. A leg free from its owner stood beside you, comically upright.

You regarded the leg with mild distaste, then to the rubble still covering your own legs.

You’d done grosser things…

With the leg, you shoved off the remainder of the rubble pinning you down, tossing it behind you with a sigh of relief. You stood, then immediately nearly collapsed like the building.

Your chest burned as if your heart combusted. Grabbing at the white-hot pain behind your ribs, you dropped to one knee, drawing in ragged breaths that couldn’t reach your lungs. Vision blurred as your body struggled to stay upright. A scream shredded itself across Hell like a bloodied siren was drowned out by the maddening ringing in your ears.

As suddenly as the sensation appeared, it stopped, replaced with an invisible weight lifting from your shoulders. You felt inexplicably lighter.

A crimson chain— your chain, bestowed on you by Roman— manifested around your neck, then shattered like glass on a hardwood floor, dissipating into the wind like smoke from his cigars. In that moment you knew he was deader than dead. His soul was no more.

And you were free.

You nearly sobbed at the realization, euphoria washing over you like a wave. Fingers instinctively stroked your throat in disbelief.

The celebration was cut short when the familiar chill of static crawled over your skin. Sensing the presence behind you, you turned, and there he was.

The Radio Demon.

He had quickly made a name for himself down in Hell as one of the realm's most powerful, dangerous, and evil beings. You’d been around for a year before he made his presence known, but even then you could tell how much he alone had changed the landscape of Hell.

His broadcast kept him a mystery for the most part, but there were a few artistic renditions of his likeness from sinners who crossed his path and lived to tell the tale. Some were more accurate than others, but they all got his sadistic smile down perfectly.

And now that smile was aimed your way.

You should be terrified, and maybe you supposed you were, but pure awe overshadowed the prudent fear that should be in its place.

Your eyes made contact with the dials in place of his irises. His grin skewed in thought as he approached her, theatrically spinning his cane around him.

You didn't shrink back. You couldn't if you wanted to. Curiosity took hold of your flight or fight instincts as you watched him draw near, stopping when he was less than a meter away.

He was a lot redder than you expected, with antlers like a deer perched on oddly fluffy hair and golden teeth like a shark. His pinstriped suit was pristine and exquisite despite the battle he'd been part of not too long ago. The dials of his eyes vanished, replaced with red.

It was like he bathed in blood.

And you supposed he did.

You stared up at the towering demon, feeling small but not intimidated. He inspected you, crimson stare taking you in, intrigued by your next move. You were all too aware of your heart in your chest.

“That was quick,” was all you thought to say.

His smile turned closed mouthed, head tilting in amusement more so than confusion. “Oh? And did you expect the buffoon to have me put up a bigger fight?”

You shrugged. “The buffoon was an Overlord for over five hundred years. You don't accomplish that without knowing how to hold your own in a fight. At least that's what he always told me.”

The Radio Demon laughed, a hearty, campy sound full of bravado. “Braggarts souls like him, I find, are always the fastest to fall. You can never trust a man who sings his own praises, my dear.

You snickered in agreement but held back a retort. Something about the demon before you rang familiar. His voice, the way he talked and held himself, it all nagged at you to place where you’d met him before. But you couldn't have, you’d definitely remember a man like this.

Unless… you didn't meet in Hell?

Before you could ask, he grabbed your face with a single hand and forced you to look at him. Thumb and forefinger dug into your cheeks bruisingly as he smiled down at you. His eyes glimmered with hunger, and not the lustful hunger of need you were familiar with. He looked ready to devour you.

“Subservience to utter filth is unbecoming of you. You'd do well to use that brain of yours to not find yourself in the gutter again.”

You didn't pull away, scowling up at him for having the nerve to condescend to you. You weren’t stupid. You were always determined that if you were ever freed of Roman, you'd never let another demon have your soul ever again. You finally, finally belonged to you again, you weren’t dumb enough to jeopardize it.

You'd rather die permanently than give up your freedom.

Somehow, the Radio Demon read your intent. His smile grew despite the daggers you shot at him. His hand fell from your face and gave a dramatic bow. “Well I must be off! Do have a Hellish evening, my dear.” He turned on his heel and retreated, shadows swallowing him before he was even out of view.

You scrambled off the ashen remains of her past afterlife. You needed to act, and fast.

You stepped out onto the porch of your mansion to greet another wonderfully Hellish day in paradise. The air was sweet with the scent of blood and brimstone. In the distance the usual turf battle soundtracked the morning. With a final goodbye to your house staff, you closed the door and skipped off to meet Rosie for mid-morning tea.

For decades, you two would meet biweekly at a cafe not too far from either of your territories to gossip and catch up. Rosie wasn’t like your normal company of rowdy barflies, shakers, and movers, but she was the kindest soul in the nine circles and never held a dull conversation. She was your oldest friend, not just in Hell but ever, having helped you land back on your feet after your soul contract came to a welcomed end.

You all but danced down the street, waving back to the friendly faces and familiar demons along your well-traveled path.

When Rosie spotted you, she beamed and waved you down to the table. You returned the warm smile as you sat and greeted your friend. An impish waiter sat a pot of piping tea on the table along with sugar, milk, and a basket of scones before scurrying off.

“Rosie, love!” You sang, pouring both of them a cup. “How’s tricks?”

“Oh you know, same old same old.” She pulled out a familiar tin and popped it open. Rows of dismembered fingers, some polished and some with the rings still on, lined the dainty box. She carded through them like an address book before landing on one she deemed tastiest to use like a stirrer to cool her drink. “Although I know a gal who may be looking for an acting gig.”

You chuckled and poured milk into your tea. “Send her my way. We’ll see what she's made of. But you know I don’t play favorites.”

They both laughed, and the two of them settled into the usual pleasantries: the state of Rosie’s colony and residents, her upcoming appointments; your beloved theater company, and even more beloved bar and club.

You were proud to run two successful businesses in Hell after decades of hard, dirty, violent work. You owned plenty of souls who were happy to do their jobs in return for protection and good pay. The assets left behind in the wake of Roman’s death were used to rebuild your life in Hell.

In life, you ran a little speakeasy and a small off, off Broadway theater and did quite well for yourself all things considered, but your success in Hell made your living accomplishments look like small potatoes.

Rosie laughed at the anecdote you told, shaking her head in amused disapproval. “Tem, dear, stop antagonizing poor Ramona. You already slept with her husband.”

“I’ll stop when she stops sending bombs to my club.” You reached for your third scone. “Poor Jet is getting tired of diffusing them, and half the time the damn things don’t even work! I thought she was some kind of weapons expert.”

“She sells knives door to door.”

“Good lord, that's even sadder.”

Your laughter died down as the air dipped in a staticky chill, making your damn raccoon tail involuntarily twitch, fur stand on end. From a cloud of shadows stepped a familiar grinning face that always had your stomach doing undesirable flips.

“Alastor!” Rosie cried in delight. “Where have you been hiding? Don’t be shy, pull up a chair!”

The Radio Demon did just that. With a snap of his fingers he manifested a chair beneath, sat his cane to the side, and sat with a flourish. He was never one to do something mundanely, even something as simple as sitting. “Rosie, Temerity! Always the pleasure to be in the company of two fine ladies.”

You returned the greeting casually, then turned your attention to your cup of tea, taking a long sip as Rosie chatted Alastor up. You were happy to let Rosie take the lead in the conversation, as your heart decided now was the perfect time to take up tap dancing. Dead at thirty-four, in Hell for nearly three times as long, but here you were, heart a-twitter like a virgin at a petting party.

You wanted to drown in the feeling everytime. It made you sick.

Your ears perked when Rosie mentioned your name, your cue to rejoin the conversation. “It is certainly a surprise to see you out this way this morning, Alastor.” Your smile was bright but guarded. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m actually in the business of business this morning.” The crackle of the white noise that accompanied him always made his voice so warm in a way you could never describe, but by Satan’s glorious wrath, you’d be willing to listen to him talk for hours to figure it out. Thankfully, upon his return from his seven year holiday, his radio broadcasts were once again a pleasant addition to your morning routine.

“Always with the work, this guy,” Rosie said, playfully tapping him on the shoulder. “What did you need this time, darling?”

“I’m in need of Tem’s services.”

It was a gift you didn’t spew tea all over them. “My services? You’ll have to be more specific.”

His perpetual smile was hard to read, his eyes conveyed nothing but mirth. “I’m sure you’re well aware of my dealings with the princess of Hell and her hotel for wayward sinners?”

You nodded. It was common knowledge Princess Charlotte was trying to redeem sinners and Alastor had taken up the duty of the hotel’s protector. It was the stuff of rumors. Why was the Radio Demon involved in such an endeavor? What sinister plot was he playing at? What diabolical plans was he brewing? Personally, you thought he was there for shits and giggles. You knew how he liked to watch people struggle and fail; the hotel was his own personal circus.

“The poor thing is anxious that check-ins are slow and is pulling hair for recruitment ideas,” Alastor continued. “So I told her I had a friend who may be able to help draw in potential souls.”

You frowned, ears shifting in confusion against your will. You tried so hard to keep careful control of how others perceived your emotions, but those damned ears and tail of yours were determined to always give you away. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“Why your performing arts company, my dear! I think your shows and entertainment expertise are precisely the thing Charlie is looking for to draw in more damned souls.”

“Oh!” You were at full attention, ears popping up in excitement. You had no higher power to be grateful to, but were nonetheless glad Alastor couldn’t see your excited tail swish behind the chair. “I see your vision now. You've come to the right gal.”

“Splendid!” His smile shifted in tone. Something at the crossroads of satisfied, cheerful, and a third something you couldn't quite place. It reached his eyes, lending them a mischievous twinkle.

The two of you finalized a plan to meet up with Princess Charlotte, and with that Alastor was gone as quickly as he came, melting into the shadows. Once gone, Rosie served you a devilishly knowing grin.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“What?” Rosie asked with faux innocence from behind her tea cup. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

She didn’t need to say anything, because you were near bursting at the seams.

You rested your forehead on a hand, flushed skin warm under your palm. “What is it about that man that’s got me so… what do the kids say these days? Down bad?”

“That’s the word for it.” She took a bite of her finger like a biscuit softened by milk. “I still say you should tell him. Get it over with, his reaction be damned.”

“Rosie. Sweetheart.” You looked at said friend, eyes dead serious as her tone. “What about me makes you think I’m suicidal?”

“I’m just saying. With your taste in men, you could do a lot worse, hun.”

“Oh, please. I have soliloquized about your taste in men.”

“Touche, dear. But you'll never see me this worked up over a fella like you get with Alastor.”

“I am not ‘worked up!’” You waggled her fingers, rolling your eyes at the phrase. “Rosie, you know me. I do not get worked up over any man.”

Rosie nodded, knowing look still on her face.

“I just happen to find Alastor… deeply and endlessly enthralling and morbidly attractive.”

“So you're down bad but not worked up?”

“Precisely!”

Rosie was right, and you hated it. You’ve been stupidly worked up for decades over the worst man to be worked up over.

In life and death, you’ve had more than your fair share of flings, swings, and misses. No harm, no foul. You were in the game for fun. And what fun would it be if there was never a chase or challenge?

But when it came to Alastor, there was no game to be played. Which wouldn’t be so bad if your feelings for Alastor were shallow and fleeting like they were with most men, and not the twisted web of complications and confusion you spent so much of her afterlife trying to understand so you could properly suppress it.

At first, they were trifling, easy to ignore as you made moves to turn your shitty afterlife around. The two of you rarely crossed paths in the beginning. Then, somehow, he managed to worm his way into your life in little ways. An appearance at your birthday parties here, joining in on picnics with Rosie there, an occasional run-in at the bar Mimzy performs at for free drinks. You became cordial acquaintances on the surface, but deep down each meeting only fanned the flames of longing you developed for him. After fifty years you couldn't write it off as simple infatuation.

You smacked your cheeks. Now was the time to get your shit together. You were an adult, not some love-struck teenager. You spent a lifetime and more practicing careful control of her emotions, your mother hammered in the importance of temperance until you bled; unrequited feelings shouldn't be a problem.

After leaving your theater in the capable hands of your co-managers, you waited outside for Alastor to pick you up. You’d changed outfits since this morning; something more akin to doing business, but still plenty cute and classy.

(And no, you didn’t change to impress Alastor. That would be stupid and fruitless.)

Your signature choker graced your lovely neck. A simple black lace choker held a large pendant. Within were two intertwined bloodshot eyes, wide and restless and unblinking. They swam and circled each other like rabid cyclones.

The shadows folded and solidified beside you and Alastor appeared in all his glory, startling a sinner passing by. The poor sap ran, not looking where he was going, and was pulverized by a speeding car, the man left in its wake now half a grease spot on the road.

Alastor tutted and shook his head, his ever-present smile curled in twisted amusement.

You’ve seen sinners do that before, preferring to be maimed over crossing paths with the Radio Demon. You always found it darkly hilarious. No doubt Alastor did as well, though he hid it better behind that dapper smile of his.

“Jaywalkers,” you said with a sigh, not noticing when Alastor’s grin grew a hair.

“Shall we, doll?” He held out his hand and you tried not to look too eager to take it. His shadows wrapped around you both as he whisked you and him away.

Chapter Text

Alastor’s shadows were like silken sheets of ice against your skin. You breathed a sigh of relief when they retreated from your body and dropped the two of you on the lawn of the hotel. Eyes blinking in rapid motion, you adjusted to the light reentering them, not helped by the lights of the hotel.

You’d never been to the hotel. It always glimmered just beyond the horizon like the mythical Tower of Babel, glowing gold against the red sky it scraped against. But up close the edifice was even more magnificent, bathed in elegant reds and blacks with gilded accents among other busy details. A golden dragon statue stood tall and proud out front.

You couldn’t help but admire its splendor. “The ‘Hazbin Hotel,’ huh? What’s with the name?”

“The name was actually my idea,” Alastor boasted. “I think it has a certain ring to it, don't you agree?”

You did, and he hummed in appreciation. Alastor opened the door and ushered you through with a showy wave of his hand. Inside was just as opulent as the outside, but you were surprised to be met with a ghost town.

A few sinners occupied the lobby, chatting with each other in hush tones or pouring coffee at a refreshment station. Soft jazz played on invisible speakers as if trying to fill in the silence.

Alastor led you through the ground floor, stopping at a pair of double doors. He pushed them open revealing a lavish lounge where a group of demons sat on chairs and couches, gazes turning on the two of you.

“Holy shit! Smiles wasn't lying,” called a familiar pink spider-like demon. “So you’re friend numbah three?”

Alastor referred to you as a friend? You tried not to squee like a giddy schoolgirl.

Instead, you placed a hand on your heart in an exaggerated gesture. “Is that what he’s calling me? Number three? I’m quite honored-- no! Blessed to be in such a coveted position.”

Your chest swelled with pride when you pulled a genuine laugh out of Alastor. He motioned for you to take center stage in front of everyone.

“It's my pleasure to introduce you all to Temerity! Hell’s most esteemed and enchanting theater manager.”

You waved him off playfully. “Such an introduction! Was I supposed to practice my curtsy?” You turned your attention back to your audience. “Just Tem is fine. It's a pleasure to meet you all.”

A pretty blonde girl in a smart red suit— Princess Charlotte Morningstar— jumped from the couch to shake your hand with zeal. “It's sooo nice to meet another one of Alastor's friends! I’m Charlie! Thank you so much for coming to the hotel today.”

Your smile widened. The princess was so bubbly you couldn't help but find it both endearing and infectious. “Think nothing of it, dear!”

Charlotte— or just Charlie as she insisted on being called— introduced you to the rest of the group: Vaggie, her girlfriend, and Angel Dust, their first resident. You were familiar with Husk and Niffty, having met them before although both under wildly different circumstances.

“Husker!” you cried. “Long time, no see. Is Alastor treating you well?”

Before he could answer, Alastor swooped in from the shadows, resting his arms on Husker's head. “Why, Tem, I’m offended you would even ask! I treat him like family, he’ll tell you himself. Right, Husker?”

Husk murmured something vaguely affirmative and full of curses into a bottle of alcohol.

“And Niffty!” You turned to the adorable one-eyed menace. “I hear you’re hunting bugs now?”

Niffty nodded with erratic enthusiasm; you were surprised she didn't snap her little neck. “I also do bug puppet shows.”

“How fun! Speaking of which, I hear that’s why I’m here today. You need help getting butts through that big fancy door?”

And so, you started your pitch. You could hype up your love of theater in your sleep, but you needed to convince them how it could actually help get more guests to check-in.

Theater was one of the oldest forms of storytelling, and stories didn't simply entertain. They inspired people to action, put the fire of motivation in their souls, and planted ideas that could grow into conviction.

Had your mother not made the grave mistake of taking you to the theater to see a play about taking one's life into their own hands, damn the consequences, you wouldn't be happily in Hell today.

Music, too, had the power to bend hearts and souls, and your theater company employed many talented sinners who composed songs for the musicals you produced.

Music and singing, apparently, was something that Charlie took immense joy in. You wondered if maybe you didn’t have to try too hard to persuade the princess, not that you didn’t enjoy the sound of your own voice.

“I suggest,” you said, drawing to the end of your monologue, “that the hotel does a variety show of sorts. Featuring music, acting, Hell, even dancing. You can make a real big todo of it. Recruit talents from all walks of life down here in Hell. I promise you this place will be busier than a confessional the day after Saint Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, I’m sold!” Charlie bounced with excitement. “Where do you suggest we start?”

“I’d say with your local talent right here.” You waved a hand to Angel Dust.

Said demon blinked in surprise, his expression of casual self-confidence slipping for a moment.

“Angel Dust?” Vaggie asked skeptically. “You're serious?”

Angel flipped her off. “I hate agreein’ with Vagina, but she's gotta point. I don’t think ya familiar with my line of work.”

“Oh no, dear. I’m quite familiar,” you said. “Personally, I always skip the canoodling, but I do admire your acting prowess. You’re a diamond in the rough. Get some tips from my gal back at my theater and I’m sure we’ll land you a role. That is if you’re interested in auditioning?”

You meant what you'd said. Angel Dust really did have some acting chops on him. Plus, having someone as notable as him be a guest and a participant in this event would pull in a larger audience. You’re pretty sure he had simps in the thousands.

Angel Dust pondered it over, rubbing his chin with one of his many hands. “Yeah, sure. What the Hell? Could be fun.”

“That's the spirit! I can create a docket of possible ideas for us to go over. How’s that sound?”

Charlie was ecstatic, already rambling off possible ideas. She had to be calmed with a soft hand from Vaggie, gently bringing her partner down.

“I’m impressed, Alastor,” Vaggie said. “I think this could actually work.”

“Why of course, dear.” Alastor stepped from behind the couch to stand by your side. “No one else in all of Hell has the business know-how and moxy to produce better stage plays and musicals.”

Your blush had to be obvious by now. Where's a fan when you need one? “Alastor, stop. You’re, uh, what do kids call it now? Glazing me?”

Angel gagged on his own laughter. Husk patted him on the back to stop him from choking.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you said before you could stop yourself, “I’d say it’s like you're flirting.”

Curse your bold spirit. The words spilled out like lava burning at your lip, threatening to destroy your sly smirk. You were so used to flirting with a man you fancied, you forgot exactly who you were talking to for a moment.

You squeezed your hand so your tail wouldn't swish around nervously. You didn't flinch when claws pierced the skin of your palm, biting into flesh but not drawing blood.

Alastor cocked his head slightly in innocence. “I can't sing the praises of an old friend?”

You almost sighed, grateful he responded in such a casual manner. It allowed you to slip back into your mask seamlessly. “Ha! Keep singing, dear. I never said I didn’t enjoy it.”

The meeting drew to a close, with Angel, Husk, and Niffty going their separate ways. Charlie shook your hand again gushing excitedly for the future project. Vaggie stood by her partner silently, but the look of warmth and fondness spoke volumes that even you could hear.

Alastor spoke up, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder to recapture her attention. “How about we give Temerity a tour of the hotel, dear?”

You shook your head politely, not noticing when you took a step back. “I don't want to take up more of your day than I already have. Perhaps another time—”

Alastor melted into shadows and manifested behind you. His hand at the small of your back pulled you along with him without missing a step. “Nonsense! It's no trouble at all. If you are to be working with us then it would be in your best interests to get to know about the hotel and its mission.”

You couldn’t argue with that logic, at least not without looking suspicious. Even if you wanted to, the feeling of Alastor’s touch had you temporarily stunned, like a deer in headlights. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

Alastor was not a man who invited— or encouraged— casual touch. You never did more than take his hand, and that was only when he initiated it. You weren’t as close to Alastor as Rosie or your mutual friend Mimzy, who could freely hug and touch him without protest. Needless to say, you always felt the flame of Leviathan burn in your chest whenever they got the pleasure of being so close to him.

“That’s a great idea, Alastor!” Charlie chirped excitedly, sealing the deal, and you all were off on the hotel tour.

Charlie and Vaggie gave quite the thorough guide of the hotel, showing off every grand and dazzling venue all while explaining their mission to save sinners. Alastor chimed in every now and then to supplement their explanations or cheekily cut them off to explain manners in his unique way.

Charlie lamented that her father Lucifer was away and couldn’t meet you today, which Alastor seemed oddly happy about, ears flattening in irritation at the mere mention of the king of Hell. You raised a curious brow at this development. Meeting Lucifer was definitely on your to-do list now. Not many truly got under the Radio Demon’s skin.

“I must say you got quite the swanky place here,” you said as the tour crawled to an end. “I don’t think I’ve been in a hotel this nice since Bethlehem.”

Charlotte frowned. “Bethlehem? Like… in the Bible?”

You howled in laughter. “Honey, please! I’m not that old. I meant the hotel in Pennsylvania. But I liked this one far better, it certainly has far fewer perverts. I love what you’re trying to do here.”

“Really?” Charlie asked hearts and sparkles virtually pouring from her eyes. “Would you be interested in checking in? We’d love to have you as a guest!”

“Oh! No, no, sweetheart. Don’t get me wrong, I admire what you’re trying to do here, truly. Blunt as butter, I love it down here, but I get it… Hell isn’t for everyone.”

You didn't notice that as you talked, Alastor's brow ticked up in interest at your words, taking particular notice that your carefree facade dropped, for a moment, to speak earnestly.

Interesting.

After goodbyes all around, Alastor insisted on escorting you to the door. “I’d say that went rather well. But I had no doubt you would charm the Princess.”

You thanked him, eyes fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Satan in Wrath, you needed some space from this man.

“Do you need an escort home, doll?”

“No need!” You cleared your throat, your smile stretched a little too thin. “I mean, my theater isn’t that far from here. The fresh air will help me brainstorm new ideas.”

He scrutinized you as if he was trying to pick apart your mind. Lord, that better not be an ability he had. Eventually, he nodded, giving you a sharp-toothed grin. “Well in that case enjoy your stroll, doll. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He’d said it so pleasantly, how did it still sound like a threat?

You bade him farewell, and once he slipped away into the shadows you let your smile drop. So you were going to be seeing a lot more of him for the foreseeable future? Should you laugh or scream?

As you put distance between yourself and the hotel, you reflected on the experience. Despite racked nerves, you held yourself together. If every day was like this then you could get through it. Not to mention that when— not if— you pulled this off, then the very sweet Princess of Hell would be in your debt.

A favor like that in your back pocket was worth putting up with Alastor and what his mere presence made you feel.

Yeah. You could do this. You did it for years, after all. What’s a few more months?

You poor little fool. You hadn’t the faintest idea what Alastor had in store for you.

He had meant every word of praise he gave you. You were an effervescent woman of business, class, and wit. He had no shame in admitting that he found you charming, convivial, interesting even.

Alastor had seen you start from bedrock, the lowest of the low a sinner could be. Watching you scratch and claw your way back into success was a fascinating experience. Not knowing how exactly you pulled it off only added to your intrigue. Despite not being the strongest or most powerful demon he’s come across, you were still highly capable.

But you had no idea how transparent your facade was.

It was almost laughable.

From the outside, you portrayed yourself to be a woman who was the epitome of confidence, someone who was always in control, and for the most part, you were. He’d happily grant you that much.

But as someone who was adept at hiding his true emotions and intent behind smiles, Alastor knew when someone else partook in the same practice. He knew when someone struggled to uphold a carefully crafted persona. He knew how to pick at the cracks in the mask.

Your hamartia was your attraction to him. You tried to hide behind your nonchalance and friendly banter, not realizing you were still embarrassing yourself all the same. Your desperation was a comedy meant for his eyes only. He hardly had to do anything and you were squirming in your own skin.

Admittedly, he did have a blind spot when it came to you. Alastor never quite understood why you never made a move, so to speak, in your shared decades of Hell. Not to be misunderstood, it was out of simple curiosity he wondered this. Anyone who knew you for even a quarter as long as he did would learn you enjoyed pursuing men for late-night liaisons. He's seen you get turned down plenty of times, easily brushing it off before moving on to your next target.

On top of that, you were one of the few sinners unafraid of him. You’d witnessed firsthand the horrors he could summon, how many he could massacre in an instant. And yet you’ve never shown a single sign that you feared him, at least not in the way most demons rightfully were.

All things considered, you showed considerable temperance in this scenario. And he didn't quite understand it.

Alastor supposed that would be half the fun. Poking and prodding and baiting you until he understood what exactly made you tick. He was interested in seeing how long you could keep your control and what exactly you’d do when he made you lose it. You always had a way of surprising him, even before your days in Hell began.

Oh, yes. He was going to have so much fun with you.

Chapter Text

Your backyard was the most peaceful place in all of Hell. You sat under the marble gazebo, the soft wind carrying the scent of flowers and tea. Gunfire was barely audible over your pool; it gurgled like a babbling brook in spring.

The grand pavilion was in the middle of your yard. Five paths stretched out from the center dividing the area into five equal parts. Along the paths were statues, fountains, and rose bushes, maintained by your gardening staff of imps and sinners.

Four of the plots of land were graced with bird’s-foot trefoil grass. You planned on making arrangements so the fifth and final plot would soon be dotted with the little yellow flowers.

But at the moment you stared at your journal, nails drumming along the blank pages as you wracked your brain for ideas to help the hotel. There were so many opportunities, so many possibilities to choose from, you didn’t know where to start.

Your taste in music was old-fashioned, you knew. Outsourcing it was your best option. You owned too many original musicals to name, and even more stage plays. What tone should you aim for, and what genre? The goal was to inspire, but art wasn’t always straightforward. One could be moved to tears by comedy, uplifted with tragedy.

Personally, you’d always been a fan of dark comedies, the darker the better. Your train of thought chugged along, crossing paths with thoughts of Alastor. Would he share your interest in black comedies? You wouldn't be surprised.

You bristled as he entered your mind with no resistance. How was he distracting you when he wasn’t even around? You sipped your tea and drew circles in your notebook in a futile attempt to refocus yourself, but thoughts of the Radio Demon persisted, creeping into your chest; a terrible, century-long infection.

In life and death, you had many lovers, and with the exception of a few repeat players, once you both had your fun, that was that. They didn’t think of you and you rarely thought of them. You liked it that way. It was simple. Easy. As long as everyone had a good time things were peaches and gravy. You never yearned for anything more.

But Alastor was a different beast.

Simple carnal pleasure would’ve been easy to ignore if that were all you wanted. You were never a slave to your base urges, and they were as fleeting as they were shallow. But you wanted something more from Alastor.

At first, you mistook it for a desire for friendship. He was fascinating as he was mysterious, who wouldn’t want to get closer to a demon like him?. After your stint under Roman, you were too busy to form new connections, your relationship with Rosie the main exception. As the years passed and your position in Hell stabilized, you realized friendship with Alastor wasn’t what that yearning in your chest was.

Rosie insisted you shouldn’t be afraid to get to know him. You wanted to, you did. Every time you ran into him at a meeting or a party, every time you heard his dulcet voice amidst the screams of his broadcast left you wanting more from him. More of his attention, more of his time. You wanted more of his company. To talk to him about more than weather, politics, and idle gossip.

You wanted him.

But prolonged exposure to Alastor would make you feel worse in the long run. You knew it would.

So you stayed away. Never pursuing anything deeper than casual acquaintanceship. Which was for the best. If you asked for more than what he was willing to give you… well, it was best to avoid the scenario altogether.

Of course, you didn’t begrudge Alastor for who he was or how he felt. You weren’t one to think people needed to change, especially things they couldn’t control, and were quick to accept people as they were. You'd be a hypocrite not to.

Didn’t make it hurt any less.

You snapped your journal shut and groaned, nearly pulling your hair out as you raked your fingers through it. When you got like this over Alastor, you chose one of two paths:

You could indulge in these feelings. Allow yourself to fantasize about soft loving moments you’ve only ever experienced in books and on stage.

But the second option, the well-worn path, was to remind yourself this was Alastor. And if Alastor knew you harbored a silly little crush…

Ice-cold dread gripped your chest. You couldn't take the look on his face if he found out, the nauseating mix of disgust and amusement, his harsh laughter at your expense, his ruthless and punishing words of rejection. You’d seen Alastor be truly cruel, and you had no intention of being on the receiving end of his severity.

You'd sooner gouge out your beating heart.

You needed gin. Lots of it. You needed to dance til your feet were sore and a warm body to help ease these pent-up feelings.

Luckily today was your day off. You hit up Mimzy who was always down for a good time, even in the middle of the goddamn day.

The two of you met when you were alive, although Mimzy didn’t recall. You’d gotten closer after death and were regular barflies together. You loved Mimzy. She was a greedy, selfish, narcissist who’d sell a friend down the river to make a quick buck and act like it wasn’t a big deal. But you were still her friend and you loved her. The gal was fun and good company, and that’s all you ever asked of her.

(Admittedly you sometimes used her in hopes of even catching a glimpse of Alastor but considering your friend’s worst traits, you didn’t feel guilty.)

You and Mimzy sat at a bar on the seedier side of town pounding shots like it was nineteen twenty-nine. The harsh flashing lights from above did little to obscure the men openly undressing you both with their eyes. Not that you minded, a little eye-wandering was all in good fun.

Mimzy took another shot and sighed in bliss, refreshed. Elbow on the bar, she rested her cheek in a gloved palm, cheeks flushed under the harsh lights. “So missy!” She shouted over the big band playing off somewhere you couldn’t see. “What made you decide to call me up? Not that I’m complaining about free drinks.”

“You got the hook-up for free drinks?” you asked. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, you already know the babe. They're an adorable purple trash panda who puts down hooch like she's going to war.”

“Yeah, and why's she spending all his dough on you? Is she a schmuck or something?”

Mimzy laughed. She inhaled another shot and grabbed you by the hands, dragging you to the dance floor. “C’mon, I love this song! Let’s cut a rug til we flop!”

Mimzy was a great dance partner. You could do the Charleston with her for hours and never tire or get bored. Often she’d let you take the lead when you were hand in hand, which you were more than happy to do.

You two spun until you were dizzy and giggling like mad. At some point during the night between drinking and dancing, Mimzy mumbled something about a fancy man with a fancy ride and ditched you. As expected. Mimzy always got sidetracked, you just hoped she didn’t get into too much trouble.

As soon as you sat back at the bar, the bartender slid a cocktail to you. He jabbed a thumb behind him when you raised a brow in silent interest. “From the guy over there.”

You caught the gaze of a handsome doglike demon at the other end of the bar. He winked and shot you a confident smirk which you returned with a wave and a smile of your own.

As always when someone bought you a drink, you were careful to nonchalantly inspect it, looking for the familiar pink tint of The Vees’ “Love Potion.” Many had the gall to try and slip the repugnant liquid into your drink.

They kept Rosie and her people very well-fed.

Thankfully, this guy only had the purest intentions to try and screw you. Taking a long sip of your drink, you kept eye contact with him, taking your sweet time enjoying your drink before licking your lips and strolling over to him.

He reminded you of the hellborn hellhounds of the Gluttony ring. Lord, you wished sinners could travel to the other rings. You’d heard they made Pride ring parties look like a grade school sock hop.

Your fingers glided along the bar top as you reached your suitor, playful fingers walking up a buff arm “So… who do I have to thank for the free drink?”

“The name’s Alaric.” He placed a big hand on the back of your waist and fixed you with a sweet but suggestive grin.

Your pleasant conversation led you to invite him back to your place in the dead of night. Now you were no dummy. You choose your partners with care, and with a century’s worth of experience, you could read a man like a book. Luckily for you most of the men you encountered wanted one thing.

And the men who tried to overstep? They, too, ended up on Rosie’s chopping block.

The moment you brought him home, the both of you wasted no time in tearing off each other's clothes between sloppy kisses and hickeys on your necks.

He hovered over you, those canine teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. He took experimental nibbles and when you didn’t object, he bit the space where your neck and shoulder met.

You squealed in pleasure. Oh, he was perfect.

You always had a preference for rougher partners. Some, more gentlemanly than you'd expect from a hellion, were annoyingly gentle with you as if they were afraid to break you. You had no problem assuring them you couldn't be broken, and after that, well… you’re surprised you can manage to get to work the next day.

Sometime after your third or fourth roll around, you passed out beside your sleeping lover and were met with dreamless sleep.

At first they were dreamless, anyway.

Fire. Blazing, burning fire.

Barely a woman, you watched your family’s manor go up in flames. Orange angry tendrils licked the walls. Windows exploded. Your parents' screams of terror turn into shrieks of pain. Then they stopped, their cries enveloped by the crackling fire.

The roar of the inferno was heard in heaven, and your laughter from Hell.

Your dream shifted to later in your life. When you were free. The images morphed and the faces blurred together in messy images, half-formed.

Except for the gorgeous smiling face of the man who accepted your offer— demand, rather— to dance. Him you could see clear as day.

Even now with the distance of time and through the haze of your dream, you felt his hand in yours, hot like fresh blood. His devilish smile stole your breath away more than the hours you spent dancing.

But you weren’t fooled. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you knew it from the moment you laid eyes on him. His smile was sweet, but he had the aura of a predator hunting down his next meal.

It made his attention on you all the more exhilarating.

You were pulled from the memory by light filtering into your room and kisses over your shoulder blades. You yawned and sat, tired eyes landing on the man still in your bed.

“Morning, spitfire.” He twirled a pair of fuzzy handcuffs around his finger.

You frog-blinked sleep from your eyes. “Oh, hey, you're still here?”

He pouted. “Don’t sound disappointed.”

You turned his face to plant a smooch on his cheek. “‘m surprised, is all.” Rolling out of bed, you grabbed a silk robe and pulled it on with a loose knot. “You want breakfast or somethin’?”

Your gentleman friend (whose name was escaping you at the moment) got redressed and followed you downstairs. You rubbed at your waking eyes, not noticing the figure sitting at your table. “So whatcha want?” You asked the man behind you. “I got coffee and cereal and— fuck!”

“We had that last night.”

You couldn't even roll your eyes at his attempt at a joke. They were fixed on Alastor at your table drinking a mug of coffee. Your mug and your coffee. He sat prim and proper, legs crossed, his cane between his arms.

What in the fresh Hell—

“Morning, Tem dear!” Alastor’s grin was jubilant and self-satisfied. “Am I interrupting?”

Your ears twitched in irritation, tail flicking in the same manner. Your face heated, was it from anger or embarrassment? The twinkle in Alastor’s eye told you he was enjoying your discomfort all too much. Yup, it was definitely anger.

This was obviously some ploy to get a rise out of you. This should’ve been expected. Alastor often ruffled feathers for his own entertainment. You two were never in a situation where he could do so before.

Fine. If that’s the game he wanted to play, you’d gladly play along.

You regained your posture, rolling your shoulders back, robe falling to reveal more of your bare skin. “No, not at all, Alastor.” Sarcasm crept into your words. “In fact, let’s go back upstairs and you can watch.”

His expression hardly dipped, his creeping shadow along your wall harboring a vexed expression the sole indicator your comment got under his skin.

You smirked. ”Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The guy, Alaric you recalled, placed a hand on your naked shoulder, reminding you he was still there. “Hey, I’m not really into that.”

Alastor looked past you to glare the demon down, ominous glow radiating from him. “I think it's time you go.”

The air grew thick with palpable static and the poor guy never stood a chance. Overtaken with fear, he hightailed it out of your mansion, never looking back.

You grimaced at his retreating form. He was one of the few men you’d consider going back to for seconds, and Alastor chucked that possibility out the window.

Because of course he did.

You rubbed your temples and tried not to scream. “Why are you in my house, Alastor? You couldn’t have called? Or knocked?”

“My dear, I simply wanted to check on your progress,” he said with an innocent affect in his voice, “maybe throw in a couple of my suggestions.”

“And popping into my house unannounced to give me a heart attack was the best way to do so in your mind?”

“Yes! However, I wasn't expecting to catch you and that fellow in such a… compromising position.”

You laughed. He said it as though he caught you two in the act. “Well, I hope this taught you a lesson about boundaries. They’re there to prevent... this.”

You strode to the kitchen, not noticing when Alastor's ears flattened against his head in agitation, narrowed eyes fixed on you. He placed the mug on the table, thud louder than he’d have liked. His voice was thick with static. “Noted.”

“Well since you’re already here, would you like more coffee? I’d offer you something to eat, but something tells me you wouldn't like Vox brand microwave meals or Vox brand marshmallow cereal.”

He made a noise of disgust, radio waves flaring jointly. “Dear, don't tell me you're living, so to speak, off Vox’s low-grade reheated sludge?”

“‘fraid so.” You pulled out frozen microwavable something from the freezer. Vox’s image greeted you, charismatic grin on his flat face. You could see why he insisted on putting it on so many of his products.

You weren’t taught to cook when you were alive. Your mother insisted you’d marry someone of your class and would never need to. By the time your parents were dead and you’d moved to America, you had chefs prepare most of your meals. You didn’t see a reason to learn to cook now. These easy meals weren’t ideal but they were efficient enough.

Alastor— when had he stood?— snatched your breakfast from your hands and set it ablaze with his green flames. He tutted and shook his head, not noticing— or caring— when you glared at him. “This simply won’t do. Allow me.”

He snapped his fingers and fresh produce straight from Wrath appeared on your counter.

Your face scrunched, confused. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t allow the hotel’s new benefactor to eat such garbage. Even if she’s an adorable little trash panda.”

He ruffled the top of your bedhead, right between your ears. You shuddered, electricity running down your spine. You pulled back with an audible scoff and turned away from him, face flushed.

Alastor managed to excite you with his simple touch and insult you with his taunting words. You hated your raccoon traits. You spent years digging yourself out of the trash, only for fate to determine you should take the form of a filthy scavenger anyway.

You weren’t about to waver under that shit-eating grin and let him know how affected you were by his teasing or his touch.

“Whatever.” You faced him again, expression neutral. “You’re not gonna sneak human flesh in there, are you?”

“Haha! Of course not, dear.”

Yeah, you didn't believe him. “Yuh huh. I didn’t even know you could cook.”

“There’s quite a lot you don’t know.” You suppose that was meant to sound condescending, but if anything he sounded menacing. Before you had time to ruminate, he shooed you out of the kitchen. “Run along and get decent while I make you a proper meal.”

“Alastor, I am never decent.” But you listened, bounding up the stairs to your boudoir.

You saw yourself in the mirror and cringed. Love bites and bruises littered your chest, neck, and shoulders. It was embarrassing enough to have Alastor catch you in the aftermath, but you forgot the evidence of last night's horizontal refreshment was clear as day on your body.

Grabbing your concealer, you went to town covering every little blemish and bruise, a practice your mother was all too eager to teach you as a girl.

Jazz drifted from downstairs, reminding you of the demon who infiltrated your home and your thoughts. Right when you’d done everything you could to forget him, he found a way to take center stage notjust in your mind but in your morning.

And the worst part was you were glad he did.

This game Alastor was playing with it was off to an interesting start.

The demon hummed to himself as he prepared your breakfast. With a snap of his fingers, the little radio you had tucked away in the corner flared to life as he toned it to his frequency. Jazz filled the kitchen while Alastor busied himself with chopping fresh fruit and shadowed hands prepped grits, scrambled eggs, and grilled venison. Soon, delicious smells danced in the air, mixing with the music to create a lovely ambience.

While you would no doubt be appreciative of this fabulous meal, this was a chess move to break you down. Endearing himself to you would make playing with you a lot easier down the road.

Your reaction when you spotted him at your table was quite hilarious, it took quite a bit to not laugh in your face. Your confusion, frustration, and discomfort all displayed to him unfiltered was an amusing prelude to what was to come. He couldn't wait to pull more raw emotions out of you.

Once finished with the fruit, he popped two slices of bread into your annoyingly modern toaster and moved on to making your tea. He admired the beautiful tea caddy of porcelain and gold and tastefully matching tea set. You always had exquisite taste.

Unfortunately, that didn’t extend to your taste in partners.

A noise of disgust escaped his throat as he made the water boil preternaturally fast. He didn't see you two lay together (which he was greatly thankful for) but it was clear what you two had gotten up to, even before Alastor saw the aftermath of your little bedroom activities across your body.

Now that intrigued him, he had to admit. He had no idea you had a penchant for masochism. The sadist in him was eager to exploit later on.

Not that you were making this easy for him. Your sarcastic offer to watch you and that sorry excuse of a demon fornicate would’ve made him vanish right then and there if that wouldn’t be an admission of defeat. And while you were clearly embarrassed, you still made little quips, smirking at him as if you had any leverage with him. It made him want to torment you more, to make you truly speechless.

Alastor set the table as your footsteps padded down the stairs and you reentered the kitchen. Eyebrow shooting up for a brief moment when he saw you, Alastor was stunned to see you dressed so… out of character.

When not dressed to the nines for a party or dolled up in the Progressive Era fashion of Cannibal Town, you tended to wear garments more reminiscent of the era you shared with him: simple mid-length dresses and shawls of bright but muted colors. It’s not as though he kept track of how you dressed, it was quite easy to note when you knew someone as long as he knew you.

But today you were wearing a waistcoat over a stark white shirt with pants tucked into blood-red boots. The look was still plenty “vintage”, but also decidedly modern.

“Do you always get dressed up for breakfast?” he asked, tone light.

You frowned, assessing your clothes. “Oh, no I have, uh, errands I need to run later today.”

Alastor hummed at your response, pulling out your chair before you had a chance to and pushing you in. Notably, none of your bruises were visible anymore at least not at first glance.

His ego swelled as you gaped at the delicious meal in front of you. “Oh Alastor, you didn't have to go this hard.”

“Think nothing of it dear! Please enjoy.”

He sat opposite of you. He hadn't made himself a plate, content to watch you with his second cup of black coffee. You spread jam on a slice of toast, your eyes flicking to him in question before returning to your food. Your eyes widened in delight as you tried your first bites. He continued to watch you enjoy the meal he made you, taking pleasure in noticing every little change in your expression or how you hummed in appreciation. He found he quite liked your soft and delighted reactions along with your more sour ones.

“Alastor,” you said, halfway through your meal. “This is really good!”

“And no human flesh, I might add.”

“Even if you did, I—” A sharp shake of your head “Nope. No, no, no. Not entertaining that thought again.”

Alastor chuckled. “You know, my dear, if you stayed at the hotel you’d get a home-cooked meal every day.”

You poured milk into your tea. “I appreciate the offer but I already told Charlie I’m not interested in redemption.”

“You wouldn’t have to work on redeeming yourself. Since you’d be working with the hotel you’d be more than welcome to stay during your partnership. Although, fair warning, Charlie might rope you into a trust exercise or two.”

You pretended to mull it over. He didn’t expect you to say yes, at least not right away. Planting the idea in your head now could lead to him exploiting your physical proximity to each other later on.

He caught the smallest tweak of your brow when the silence lingered for too long. Before you could recover and speak, Alastor said “Take your time doll. It’s an open invitation.”

You nodded, taking a sip of too warm tea, judging by the steam.

“Anywho! Back to why I am here. How are your plans going, dear?”

“I wrote down some ideas for Charlie in my notebook.” You snapped your fingers and a notebook appeared in front of him. He took it with a raised brow and flipped through the pages, expression souring when he saw—

“It’s blank.”

“I ran into a setback yesterday,” you said flippantly, feeding yourself another bite.

“Distracted by company?”

You choked on your eggs and it took Alastor everything in him not to laugh at your flustered state.

You cleared your throat, forcing down more hot tea to clear your passage. “No no, he was more of a… muse of sorts.”

Alastor’s smile stretches in distaste. “You do remember what kind of hotel I’m trying to help run?”

A roll of your eyes. “Funny! I couldn’t think straight yesterday, I need a dick– a distraction!”

You laughed. He did not.

“Aaaanyway,” you sing-songed, eyes everywhere except meeting his, “don’t worry, Alastor. I know exactly what to do. Unfortunately, it involves eating a little crow.”

“Oh? And what might that involve, dear?”

Your demeanor turned guarded and defensive as your posture stiffened. Curious. What exactly did you have planned that would cause you to be reluctant to share?

You busied yourself with your napkin, wiping at your mouth and placing it over your empty plate. “I have a connection I might be able to persuade to help the hotel but our relationship is… strenuous. I’ll have more luck convincing him in person than on the phone.”

Alastor could tell there was more to the story but didn’t push. “I see. In that case, my dear, allow me to accompany you!”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Of course I do! What kind of facility manager would I be if I didn't see to it that your endeavors go smoothly?”

It was a reasonable excuse. Arguing with him would be more trouble than it was worth and only serve to make you look suspicious.

You shrugged, conceding like he knew you would. “I suppose that's alright.” You stood and fixed him with a look like you already regretted this. “I apologize for the headache in advance.”

Chapter Text

You’d regret this. You knew you would. Still, you also knew swallowing your pride and getting this out of the way would be worth it in the end.

Besides… it was too late to turn the car around.

You and Alastor rode in your sleek blood-red automobile. You seldom drove your prized chariot, preferring to walk or have one of your employees drive you around. Still, you held pride in your vehicle and looked forward to the special occasions when you could whip it out.

Having Alastor in your passenger seat was definitely a special occasion.

The sight of him all buckled up to your right was something you never imagined you’d see. It managed to be both mundane and comical. You’d had plenty of friends and dates in this car but this was somehow more intimate. Exciting even. The butterflies in your stomach had to agree.

Get a grip, Temerity.

You slowed to a stop at a red light. Fiddling with the buttons on your cuffs, you rolled both sleeves up to your elbow.

Your change in style had nothing to do with fashion. In Pentagram City you could dress how you liked, no one batted an eye if you looked like a relic. However, when traveling you preferred to not stand out— blending in was a survival tactic you carried over from life. As much as you loved visiting Rosie in Cannibal Town, you had to learn the hard way that to avoid being torn apart, you had to look the part.

Your life in Hell and on Earth had that in common.

“Would you like some music?” The light turned green and you eased on the gas. “Guests have full control of the radio.”

With a twirl of his finger, Alastor switched the radio on, filling the car with swing music. Big band accompanied your wordless drive down the twisted roads that lead out of Pentagram City.

Despite your apprehension, Alastor’s presence was a pleasant one. He hummed along to the music, eyes cast on the sights they flew by. The light caught in the crimson of his eyes and hair, giving him a wondrously infernal glow.

Beautiful.

You forced yourself to look away. The car crash you’d cause by gawking at him like a lovestruck mouth-breather wouldn’t kill you hard enough.

Still, you’d sneak the occasional glance at him. The chances of you having Alastor in your car again after today were less than zero. You wanted to remember this feeling of having him by your side, to admire him in this quiet moment. You wanted the image of him that he’s allowed you to see burnt into your memory for the rest of your afterlife.

Lord, you were sad.

One song ended and another began. A jocund piano tune took off, trumpets joining in with a flourish. You perked up, ears rousing in interest.

“Duke Ellington! Oh, I loved him. You know, back when I was alive, he and his band— back when they were called The Washingtonians— played at my club in Manhattan. I used to brag I made him popular.” A reminiscent laugh from. “I used to say that about musicians who never even stepped foot in my club. King Oliver, Mamie Smith, Louis Armstrong—“

“Louis Armstrong!” Alastor said, the radio effect light in his voice. “I had the privilege of having him on my radio broadcast. He wasn’t a big name then, but still a wonderful talent.”

“Get out of here!”

You two talked, and tension ebbed away. The conversation never dipped back into his life on earth which was fine. Even the smallest insight he decided to share was lovely. You noticed among sinners you were more open about talking about when you were alive. In many ways, Hell was a continuation of your life on earth, your death and respawn a rough bump in the road.

You weren’t surprised by your shared taste since you two were from the same era. Alastor did however surprise you with the range of his taste. You listened in earnest as he sang the praises of a ragtime musician you weren’t familiar with.

Ragtime was before, well, your time in America, having fallen in style by the time you made it across the pond. Alastor’s honest insight was a joy to listen to; he even rattled off a few names for you to look into.

Unfortunately, you passed the city limits sign letting you know you were close to your destination. Weaving through the narrow roads you arrived at your destination and parked your car in the sketchy-as-fuck parking lot.

You turned the car off with a huff. Fingers anxiously drummed on the leather steering wheel. “Before we get this show on the road, I’ll warn you my contact is rather… ornery, so don’t get offended if they say or do something uncouth.”

Alastor put a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Are you implying that I’m anything other than a perfect gentleman?”

“I once saw you strike a kid.”

A dismissive hand wave. “At twenty, he was hardly a child.”

“Just don’t go scaring them. I need their help.”

He promised he wouldn’t and you decided to believe him. Alastor stalked you into the condemnable building. The unkempt floors and buzzing lights were in stark contrast to the well-maintained elevator. You pushed the worn button for the seventh floor. A piano cover of a Verosika Mayday song whined overhead on busted speakers.

The familiar door to I.M.P. Headquarters greeted you. Pushing it open, an unnaturally sweet flowery aroma trying to mask the dead rat smell invaded your nose, the scent matching faded drab wallpaper and trampled carpet.

To your surprise, Loona, Blitzø’s adopted daughter, sat behind the receptionist table. She glanced from scrolling through her phone to greet the two of you in her usual impassive way. “Welcome to I.M— oh shit. It’s you.”

“Hello, Loona, hun.”

The hellhound looked between you and Alastor, unphased. “What’s with the red guy?”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, twitching in transparent annoyance. He couldn’t stand being unknown, even by those considered Hell's lowest. The corners of your lips tweaked upwards. The absolute ego of this man.

Cute.

“He’s a deer friend. Is Blitzø in?”

“He’s not gonna want to see you after last time.”

Your eyes threatened to roll back into your skull. Figures. It's not like you didn't apologize and make up. Several times. “Tell him there’s someone who wants to see him with a fat cock and fatter stacks of cash.”

Alastor grimaced at your crass language. You bit your cheek so you wouldn’t laugh at his discomfort… even though he deserved it.

Loona cracked half a smile. “He's gonna shoot you both onsite,” she said but relayed the message into the phone.

Not even a second passed when the door flew open, kicked clean off its hinges. The tall imp in question stepped out all eager and full of smiles. “Hello! I'm Blitzø. The ‘o’ is silent. What can I— OH shit dicking FUCK shiet!” He recoiled as if he saw someone horrifying, not sweet little ol’ you.

“Hello, Blitzø~” You waggled your fingers in a playful wave. “It's been too long.”

Blitzø pulled his pistol from his jacket and aimed it straight at your face. “M and M! That crazy raccoon bitch is back. And she brought her strawberry pimp!”

Alastor's head tilted at an unnatural angle, his smile tight and unimpressed. Static crackled in the air around him. “Excuse me?”

Blitzø’s employees ran into the room, weapons drawn and pointed straight at you, Moxxie with a gun and his wife, Millie, with an ax. Alastor gave you a questioning look, silently asking what you did to them.

“Can we please put the weapons down for a second?” Your eye twitched. “I just want to talk.”

“No, I don’t think we will,” Blitzø said, cocking the gun. “Especially after that bullshit, you pulled last time.”

“I apologized, didn't I?”

“I'm sorry, in what world does an apology and two and a half hatefucks magic away the fire you set to my van?!”

Moxxie dropped his aim, face steeped in confusion and mild disgust. “What?”

You ground your teeth. A headache bloomed behind your eyes. If Blitzø didn't shoot you now, you’d pull the trigger yourself. “Alastor, dear, it’s not too late to wait in the car.”

“No, I'm quite content here.” He sauntered over to the faded couch across the room and sat, legs crossed and cane tucked in his arms as he eagerly awaited to watch the rest of the shit show. “Please, don't mind me.”

You glowered at him, which only served to widen his smile.

Blitzø’s eyes shot between the two of you before locking his ire back on you. “Okay we’ll address your freak later, but right now it’s time for you to—”

You snapped your fingers and a band of money appeared in your palm. You tossed it to Millie who caught it effortlessly in one hand.

Blitzø’ lowered the gun a hair. “We’re listening.”

The imp was as predictable as he was feisty. You liked that about him, even though most of the time he gave you an ulcer.

You hopped on the corner of the desk, ignoring Loona’s irritated mutterings about your fat ass on her workspace. You crossed your legs, letting your red boots dangle against the side of the desk.

“I need a favor and... I have a job for you.” You needed to be meticulous with your next words. You had no qualms letting Alastor know you partook in I.M.P’s assassin service, but he didn't need to know why.

Ever.

“First things first. I need to get in contact with Fizzaroli.”

“Why the fuck do you need him?” Blitzø booped you in the breast with his gun. ”Gonna light his shit on fire too?”

You groaned and flicked the gun to the side. “I’ve already told you— that fire was an accident. Jesus, Blitzø, hold that grudge harder, why don't you?”

“Says the bitch with a hundred-year vendetta—”

You snapped your head to Blitzø. Narrowed eyes bore into his, your harsh gaze full of red hot ire. He snapped his mouth shut, understanding your silent plea:

Don’t.

He swallowed, guilt briefly flashing across his face. “Sorry, sorry— I didn't—” He uncocked his gun and holstered it under his jacket. “Look, why do you need Fizz?”

You unclenched your jaw and explained your project with the hotel. You expected Blitzø of all people to say something snide or dickish, but his comment from earlier took a bit of his bite.

“I can get you in touch with Fizz, but no guarantee he’ll even go for it. And if he turns you down you gotta promise not to go full psycho pyro slut like last time.”

You cringed, not from the embarrassment of recalling your temper tantrum, but because of who was in the room to hear it. “You have my word, okay? No more fires.”

“I fucking mean it, tits,” Blitzø said. “I don’t need you coming back here lighting shit on fire and thinking some strange makes it all better.”

You clenched your hands so you wouldn’t wrap them around his neck. “Bloody fucking— I get it! No sex, no fires. You wanna hear about this job or not?”

You chanced a look Alastor’s way, afraid of the expression you’d find behind his smile. His elbow rested on his knee, his chin in his hand as he watched this back and forth, his mouth twisted in amusement.

Of course he was enjoying this. Where’s a meteor when you need one?

“This is the final job I have for you,” you said, eyes back on Blitzø. “I need you to take care of the last name on the list I gave you and hold onto him, until I can pick him up.”

“Okay, but if this one ends up in heaven—”

“The last man’s piety got him sent down here. No god’s welcoming this prick to heaven.”

Blitzø nodded, a quiet look of understanding passing between the two of you. He motioned for his colleagues to lower their weapons. “It's a deal, but since you're asking us to also babysit this guy for you—”

You snapped more money into your hand.

“Done.”

Fucking finally. You hopped off the desk and handed Blitzø the rest of his money. He grabbed the roll from Millie and went to count it with glee, relaying to an exasperated Loona all the horse stuff he wanted to get.

Moxxie walked past you to grab the door Blitzø knocked down. You snapped your fingers, an idea popping in your head. “Oh! Moxxie?”

He frowned, finger pointing to himself. “You know my name?”

A confused tilt of your head. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

His wife took a tentative step his way, keeping a suspicious eye trained on you. Despite her threatening demeanor (Millie knew how to use that ax), you found the protective gesture sweet.

“It's just normally people don’t get my name right, they usually call me Boxxie or Roxxie, especially when I’m getting coffee or—”

“Blitzø would talk about you during our private meetings. He told me you're a talented musician. You're welcome to audition for the hotel’s show if you want.”

Millie's apprehension turned to joy at her partner’s praises. She grabbed her husband and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, my Moxxie is the best! That was so sweet of you to say, Blitzø.”

Blitzø rubbed between his eyes, face darkened with a flush. “Bitch, I will cut you if you don’t get out of my office right the fuck now.”

“Wow! Awful lot of sexy talk for someone in a committed relationship. You do freaky horse shit with Stolas too, or was I special?”

“Out!”

You snickered but relented. “Alright. Let's go, Alastor.”

“In a minute, my dear.” Alastor shadows carried him to stand behind the imps who regarded him with varying levels of distaste. “I do have a question for your little friends. But do go ahead and get the car running. I won’t be long.”

You faltered, and Alastor assessed them, smirk devious. He wanted to toy with them a bit, you assumed, and ask them a few questions to sate his curiosity. No harm in that.

Shrugging, you let yourself out and reminded him to play nice.

“My what an entertaining experience!” Alastor said over the radio in your car. He noticed ever since departing you abstained from sneaking glances at him like before. You were embarrassed. How cute.

“Very!” Your voice was thick with faux enthusiasm. “So entertaining that we'll never have to address it again, lest we taint its memory.”

Alastor chuckled, canned laughter accompanying him. He’s never seen you so irritated. You weren't even this argumentative with Alastor inviting himself into your home unannounced. He was almost jealous of his ability to get you so riled.

“It seems like meeting with your imp friend left you in a bit of a tizzy. Care to share why?”

Your grip on the steering wheel turned your knuckles pale. “Blitzø tends to be exhausting when he wants to. Which is all the time. It’s only cute for about two minutes.”

“Ah yes, the taller, cantankerous imp. How did the likes of him manage to catch the fancy of an Ars Goetia, I wonder.”

It was an intentional slip. You never mentioned he was romantically involved with an Ars Goetia. Alastor was curious if you’d catch him and what you’d say if you did.

You bit your lip, brow furrowed as the wheel of thought spun in your mind. When you spoke it wasn’t what he expected to come out of your mouth, “Alastor, don’t go asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

If anything, that spurred his curiosity. “Oh come now, dear, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“Riiiight. You’re so sure about that.”

The sarcastic lilt in your tone was irksome, to say the least. You spoke like one might speak down to a child asking about adult subjects. Like you knew what information he was worthy to know.

When he was silent for a beat too long, he caught you looking at him for a moment, before returning your attention to the road.

”Apparently Prince Stolas and I share similar opinions when it comes to Blitzø’s bedroom expertise.”

That was it? The big secret? Sex was all it took for one of Hell’s all-powerful nobility to hand over such a powerful tome? He’d hoped you’d provide more nuanced insight. Alastor couldn’t fathom wielding power that great and simply giving it away in exchange for something so… debauched. The thought alone was disgustingly salacious and deeply pathetic.

You frowned at him, mistaking his silence for confusion. “He’s really good in bed, I mean.”

“No, dear, I understood—”

“And on a couch,” you added, quite needlessly, “or over a desk or in a—”

Alastor’s ears flattened against his head, turning to face the window. Revulsion from his throat coated his words, “Painting a picture is not necessary in this instance.”

You snorted, an ungraceful sound he hated to admit he found rather quaint. “I’m not sorry.”

A roll of his eyes. “Will you continue down this licentious road if I ask you a second question?”

You hummed, pretending to think about it. “Depends.”

“Who are you sending those imps after? Who could’ve upset you so much on earth that you need them in Hell?”

All at once your merry disposition drained, leaving with your smile. You recovered, but not before Alastor caught a look on your face he recognized all too well. A positively delectable expression he recognized from many of his victims.

Dread.

And on you it was rather striking.

You opened your painted lips to let the lie flow like a waterfall. “Just some schmucks who owed me money back when I was alive. Got me in hot water with the local mob for a bit.”

“I see.”

The two of you settled in for a quiet drive to the hotel, the radio the sole fill-in for the silence. Somehow his conversation with you was even less illuminating than his chat with those imps.

Like you, they assumed to know his intentions. The tallest imp, Blitzø, warned him in colorful language that the grimoire didn’t work with sinners. Disappointing, but not his concern. He did, however, make the mistake of inquiring how exactly someone like him ever crossed paths with an Ars Goetia to begin with.

“Prince Stolas is Blitzø’s boyfriend,” the female imp said, her saccharine tone made Alastor’s smile sour.

“Don’t be so vulgar Millie,” Blitzø chastised, “just say we’re fucking.”

Alastor regretted his decision to stay in this building.

It was bad enough these little creatures didn’t have the decency to know who he was, they acted like he was another common sinner. Lucky for them, he wasn’t one to needlessly intimidate weaker beings like some run-of-the-mill ruffian.

”I want to inquire about your past work with my companion,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation back on track. “She’s had you kill the living before?”

”Oh yeah, she’s had us kill these two old pricks years ago,” Blitzø said, chest puffed in pride. “Easiest jobs we ever had. Those fucks were already one foot in the grave, it was like killing a baby.”

Tasteful. ”And has she ever explained why she wanted them dead?”

”Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” He fervently shook his finger, waving his arm around to emphasize his point. “I can’t go sharing our clients’ private information. We have a strict confidentiality clause.”

The hellhound receptionist scoffed. ”Oh yeah? Since when?”

“Since about five minutes after Tem set the van on fire. Look, uh, mister—””

“Alastor.”

”Right. Alastor, sir, if you want to know what her deal is with these guys you can go right ahead and ask her, okay? I’m not inviting the house fire she’ll cause when I tell you her personal shit. Word of advice: she gets real chatty after a couple of drinks but she also gets handsy if you catch my drift, so proceed with caution.”

His smile curled in distaste. He’d hit a dead end with the imps and they were no use to him. “I‘ll certainly keep that in mind.” He turned on his heel with a spin of his cane. “Farewell, little imps. Best of luck on your job.”

Alastor wasn’t about to let this go so easily. He glanced your way, your face almost serene as you hummed along to the radio. He couldn’t help but remember the palpable wrath that twisted your face when Blitzø mentioned your vendetta. The absolute venom beautifully contorted your features was a sight to behold. For a moment you burned with anger so thick he could taste it. He wanted to taste more of your rage, sample it on his tongue like a fine wine and swallow it all.

What could light the spark of your fury?

How would you look wielding that anger?

He couldn’t wait to find out.

Chapter Text

You worried your audience with Charlie was last minute, but Alastor assured you the princess was more than accommodating and flexible. The meeting with Blitzø went unmentioned. You didn’t want to reveal that in case it fell through… and you didn’t want to relive that headache.

Instead, you filled Charlie in on your ideas for the hotel. If variety was what you were offering, then the entertainment should be spread out throughout three weekends. First a day of musical acts à la Woodstock with far fewer unplanned pregnancies. Week two would be a medley of one-act stage plays; bite-size stories for easy consumption. And finally, the pièce de résistance, a show-stopping musical.

Redemption. Second chances. The inherent goodness of doing good. These themes would be the twine that tied it all together. It was what the hotel stood for, after all. You sold it so well you almost convinced yourself.

Admittedly, you weren’t entirely sure if the Princess would be sold on your idea. It was a little bloated; your penchant for greed lent to your indecisiveness and you decided to throw everything into the pot and create an overstuffed medley. There was a reason you were a financier and not a creative.

You should’ve guessed that Charlie was a firm believer in the old adage of the more the merrier. She practically buzzed with excitement, her words a hundred kilometers a minute with questions and ideas. How Vaggie was able to wrangle her girlfriend and calm her down, you had no clue.

You scribbled down a list of musicals Charlie could pick through. You assured her your players had all of them memorized forwards and back.

“As for the one-act plays,” you continued. “I can cash in a favor and get some scripts done in about a month or so, three weeks tops if I threaten them a little, haha.”

Only Alastor laughed, and that was more than an adequate reaction.

Everything was going like gangbusters with the hotel for the next few weeks. You placed someone from your theater company in charge of finding musical talent, someone you knew had a finger on the pulse of the hottest trends. Audition notices were put up all around the city and set to take place a week from then. All the while your people worked on the nuts and bolts of this venture, allowing you to focus on the big picture. Business was as smooth as bourbon.

You’d work at the hotel a few days at a time to discuss business with Charlie and Vaggie. Afterward, you’d find yourself at the bar, often accompanied by Angel Dust. You quickly grew close to him after a chat over a few cocktails. The man was a riot and hilariously filthy. Talks with him and Husk would sometimes run for hours.

And Alastor…

He'd surprisingly given you space during this time, much to your relief… and disappointment. When he had to meet with you, he kept the conversation professional and strictly on the project. When you two crossed paths he’d greet you politely before taking off to handle other matters.

It made your job a lot easier but did nothing for the tedious ache in your chest. If you were a paranoid woman, you’d say he’s avoiding you, but since you were not a paranoid woman you knew better than to think that.

It didn’t stop you from overthinking it though.

Had you done something to offend him or said something to put him off? You couldn’t imagine you did. He got a kick from watching you squirm with Blitzø. He seemed to enjoy your discussion about music. Okay, so maybe talking about how you fucked Blitzø was distasteful, but he’d heard filthier words walking down the street, he’s in Hell!

You had to accept the fact that he was simply busy. He had a job to do, and so did you.

Still, you found your breakfasts rather lonely and unsatisfactory now, and it wasn’t the Vox brand Voot Loops (that would surely give you diabetes if you weren’t already dead.) Alastor filled an empty spot at your table with his terrific company and conversation.

The absolute bastard.

The day you two returned from I.M.P. he gave you a key to a room in case you changed your mind. He even made it a point to let you know that if you ever needed him you should come by his radio tower, as he spent most of his time there rather than in his room.

You politely accepted the key but promised yourself never to step foot in that room. You weren’t about to let yourself even entertain that fantasy.

Okay, you were, but not in the hotel! You’d do that in the safety of your home with a big glass of wine and an Asmodean vibrator.

Speaking of your home, that was where you currently were. Pouring sugary cereal into an oversized bowl and contemplating whether this fine meal would pair well with a book or the radio.

Lately, more often than not, you chose the radio.

Switching it on, you had zero seconds to prepare for the assault of Alastor's honeyed voice. It haunted you, wrapping around you and forcing you to listen. No… this was a choice and you chose to listen to him talk about music, news, and food, intercut with the occasional sadistic joke. You wondered if you were beginning to like Alastor tormenting you. You always had a bit of a masochistic streak…

But listening to Alastor’s voice was lacking in comparison to his physical presence. You remedied this by showing up at the hotel with catered breakfast in tow whenever you had an excuse a reason to go in early. It was a subtle way to show appreciation, not at all obvious or desperate behavior.

Your rotary phone ranged in the middle of your brainstorming more excuses to see Alastor. You stood to answer, the voice on the other end speaking before you had the chance to say ahoy-hoy.

“You're in.” It was Blitzø.

“Can you be more specific, hun?” You spooned another bite of cereal into your mouth.

“I got you a meeting with Fizz and Asmodeus. You got yourself thirty minutes to get your tail down here and make your pitch.”

You gagged on your spoon. “Shit, Blitzø! Thirty minutes? You couldn't have called me sooner?”

“Hey, I called you the first chance I got, bitch! Those two are busy as fuck all the time so you're lucky I was able to pull this off for you. You know a thank you would be nice.”

Blitzø was right, as much as you hated to admit it. Despite everything he has been a great help considering the stunts you pulled.

You sighed, deciding to put your ego aside for a moment. “Thank you, Blitzø.”

“You're welcome, skank~” You could hear the smug grin through the receiver.

You’re sure you hit a pedestrian or two on your way to Imp City. In Blitzø’s dimly lit office, he introduced you to Fizzarolli and his partner, the sin of lust himself, Asmodeus. Blitzø mentioned that you'd be meeting with them both but it didn't fully sink in until you were in his presence.

Asmodeus radiated pure sex appeal. The Prince was one of the few rulers in Hell you truly admired. Unlike that degenerate Valentino, whose lustful machinations practically glorified furtive abuse, Asmodeus fully embodied the side of lust you delighted in. The playful game two (or more) people shared, the raw and uncut passion, the excitement, the fun. Asmodeus was the class to Valentino’s trash. You’d kill to go to Ozzie’s.

Seriously. You’ve killed for less.

After greetings and over thanking them for their time, you paced back and forth, presenting your pitch for Fizzarolli to perform at the hotel. It was pure brown-nosing but it was honest: all of Hell saw him defy Mammon and give him an unabashed middle finger. Sinners looking to turn over a new leaf and defy their masters would no doubt be inspired by his story alone.

“Even as a ‘lowly imp’,” you said, throwing in dismissive air quotes, “you were able to pave your own way despite your station in Hell. Your story is exactly what we need to convince sinners that change is possible at the Hazbin Hotel.”

Asmodeus nodded along in delight, obviously in total agreement with you singing his partner’s praises. He cooed at Fizzarolli, reiterating your stated points, albeit in a much sweeter way.

“Deepthroat his cock a little more, Tem,” Blitzø said. He stuck around, feet up on his desk, to watch the meeting despite his presence being unnecessary. “I can still see a little shaft left.”

You held your smile but flipped him off behind your back. He flipped you back with both hands and his tongue out, the adorable fucking man-gremlin.

“Blitzø’s right,” Fizzarolli said. “Well, sorta. You don't have to keep glazing me, I was already halfway on board.”

“You sure you want to do this show, Froggy?” Asmodeus asked, his voice soft and etched with concern.

“Why not? It could be fun and besides, Charlie is a sweetheart. Who could turn her down?”

Asmodeus chuckled, hand tenderly stroking his love's shoulder. “I can't argue with you there.”

Something about seeing an imp, someone whom Hell regarded to be almost the lowest of the low, with one of Hell's royalty, made you feel… sad? Angry?

No… this was envy. It tasted bitter in your mouth and weighed heavy in your bones. You forced yourself to smile through the rest of the meeting.

You didn’t consider yourself underneath Alastor, but he was definitely out of your reach, like a sweet ripe fruit perched way too high on a tree branch. Climbing to get it would only result in you plummeting to your doom.

The banter, the tender looks, the soft reaffirming touches Fizzarolli and Asmodeus shared were beyond adorable. But you couldn’t simply appreciate the warm displays of affection, no, you plagued yourself with impossible fantasies of sharing moments like that with him.

You turned up the music on your car radio, but you couldn’t shake the thoughts all the way to the hotel. Of Alastor praising you, of supporting you, of loving you.

Fucking nope to all of that! No time to entertain stupid fantasies! You just pulled one of Hell’s biggest celebrities into doing what is essentially charity work. You’re a capable, business-savvy, cold-blooded bitch, not some love-struck sap who gets so lost in daydreams she drives on the sidewalk.

“Oh shit.”

You yanked the steering wheel and swerved back onto the road, ignoring the honking, shouts, and bullets sent your way.

What you couldn’t ignore was the voice creeping under your skin calling you selfish for wanting that from him in the first place. The voice that suspiciously sounded like your mother chastised your greed, harshly reprimanding you for only thinking of others in terms of what they could do for you, give to you, offer you.

You knew every word that ever came out of her mouth only served to hurt you. Ignoring her, whether her words were real or imagined, was the only way you could ever hope to deal with her.

But you were never very good at that.

It wasn’t true anyway. You knew it wasn’t. If given the impossible chance to give those things to Alastor, you’d do it with a smile on your face. You’d do it even with no promise of him ever reciprocating.

The realization scared you more than driving into oncoming traffic.

Weeks passed and all was going well with the hotel’s venture with you. Alastor often caught you with Charlie or Vaggie going over plans or reviewing the talents. Now and then he would provide input and assistance but otherwise, he kept his distance and carried out his usual duties with the hotel.

As predicted you began to miss his presence. He didn’t fail to notice that you’d come early with catering or stay behind at the bar as the weeks passed. Every time your gaze lingered on him too long and you thought he didn’t notice, he’d revel in the attention you desperately didn’t want to give him. You were getting worse at hiding this. Did you even notice?

Occasionally in the afternoons and sometimes the evening, he caught you at the bar chatting with Angel Dust and Husker. You had too much in common with the effeminate spider; the dialogue between you two often read like a script of one of his boss’s repugnant pornos.

He failed to find an opening to get you alone, especially when Angel’s equally loud friend, Cherri, would occasionally join you two there. He considered accompanying you at the bar anyway, but with Husker there, he’d no doubt comment on Alastor’s odd behavior. The ex-Overlord was annoyingly observant for a drunkard.

Despite all that your mask was back on your face, pristine and unfaltering. He was making good progress with you only to hit a roadblock. He was back to square one, viewing you from the outside like everyone else.

Alastor couldn’t have that.

Why exactly this bothered him went largely unexamined. Alastor wasn’t one to ask why he felt what he felt and simply accepted things as they were. There was no use in dwelling on understanding feelings when one could simply act on them.

Still why you affected him like this was unusual for him. While you were a fascinating creature to observe he didn’t quite know why he’d fixated on you in particular.

Finding more out about you would surely scratch that itch. He knew you were a trove of secrets; after unearthing a few he needed to find the rest.

What else were you hiding?

Charlie's little games would have to do for now.

It happened one slow morning when you came in bearing breakfast. You were a gem, remembering everyone’s preferred drinks, including his preference for coffee. Charlie suggested you participate in a trust exercise and you agreed.

Alastor wasn’t surprised that you were already taken in with this group. He couldn’t blame you. Once upon a time, he wanted nothing to do with these misfits, but they were, admittedly, an entertaining and endearing bunch.

You climbed on the stage. The silly trust exercise required you to share something personal about yourself and then fall backward off the stage to be caught by the others below you. Alastor watched a few steps behind the group, content to watch in silence but with no intention of actively participating.

You swayed from side to side, face bunched in thought. “Let’s see… uh, I like to dance? My tail is prehensile?”

As if to demonstrate, your tail wrapped wound your leg.

“Oooh!” Angel Dust shouted in false interest. “Next you wanna tell us ya favorite color? Or who you have a crush on?”

A roll of your eyes. “Har-dee-har. Zip your lip.” A moment of thought, then you grinned like you got a wicked idea and snapped your fingers. “I got one! I love collecting cutlery.”

You hiked up your dress. Before anyone could react or protest, you revealed a garter holding several small blades wrapped around your thigh. “See?”

That little display elicited a laugh from Angel, and mixed reactions ranging from impressed to disgust from the others. Alastor had to admit he was taken aback by your reveal. He even let out a small chuckle at your joke.

“Temerity,” Charlie said in that soft voice she used when she was trying to be gentle with another’s feelings, “the secrets should be more emotional and vulnerable, and less… bladed.”

You frowned and dropped the hem of your dress. Clearly, you weren’t willing to divulge your vulnerabilities so easily. “What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”

A blatant lie. Alastor bit back laughter, although his shadow displayed blatant mirth.

Charlie tapped her chin. “Maybe… you can tell us what is important to you! Something you hold very dear.”

Your expression shifted. The playful guarded attitude gave way to thoughtful contemplation. You opened your mouth, then shut it quickly before deciding to finally speak.

”When I was alive, my mother took me to see A Doll’s House. It’s my favorite play.”

Alastor was familiar with the play; the tale of a housewife becoming disillusioned with her life and marriage before leaving it behind to find her own identity. It was an excellent story. While it lacked the energy and flare he’d come to associate with you, it’s obvious why one would hold it in such high regard.

Angel Dust scoffed, folding both sets of arms in disappointment at your revelation. “Seriously? That’s all you got?”

“Hey, that play changed my life! It’s not my fault you’re uncultured. Now catch me.” You practically threw yourself backward into their arms, giggling when they nearly dropped you.

Alastor could tell you thought you played it safe with your secret. One’s favorite media rarely betrayed their true nature, but you spoke its name with such reverence it was easy to tell that a story about a woman taking control over her life meant a great deal to you.

He hadn’t gotten to know you when you both were alive— only having the smallest glimpse of who you were— but he remembered you clearly. You were as lively then as you were now, vibrant and blithe. He knew your deal with Roman had momentarily clipped your wings in Hell, but what had held you back in life? And more interestingly, how did you overcome it?

Then came the day when you kicked down the door to announce you got that imp celebrity to agree to the show.

Charlie and the others were abuzz with questions and praise for your accomplishment. Notably— and humorously— you left out any mention of the imp that annoyed you.

“This is such great news!” Charlie clapped in excitement. “We should celebrate.”

Your ears flicked in that way when you got an idea. “You know, none of you have patronized my club. I’d be more than happy to give you all the VIP treatment. And of course free drinks.”

“I’m in!” Angel cheered, and the others followed suit in his excitement.

Alastor turned on his heel, preparing to excuse himself from this little escapade. Quick as a blink, you blocked his path. “Oh no, mister man. You’re coming, too.”

You smirked up at him, and he couldn’t tell if you were daring him to accept or decline your offer. What would devastate you more? What would be the more entertaining outcome?

“Oh, that’s a great idea, Alastor!” Charlie said. “Tem’s been here a dozen times, it’s only fair.”

He hummed, pretending to give it thought. He’d made up his mind but wanted to see what you’d do.

You twirled and walked away, hiding your face from view, much to his mild annoyance. “Hey, do what you want, but you’re missing out. My place is no fleabag dump, it’s a pretty classy and respectable joint. But if you’d rather stay here—”

“Now now, my dear, I didn’t say no.” He vanished into shadows and reappeared in front of you causing you to stumble back. “I think an evening out is well deserved for all. Especially when we’ll be hosted by our lovely hotel benefactor.”

Was this your desired outcome? One would think so with how you pressed him. Alastor expected you to stiffen, your tail to swish in a way that told him you were nervous even if it didn’t show on your face.

But instead, your smile simply grew as you led everyone out the door. “Excellent! Let’s shake a leg, then.”

Chapter Text

If your theater was your business, then your club, The Temple, was your pleasure.

You won the building in a gamble with the previous owner and had been lovingly pouring time, money, and elbow grease into it for decades. Unlike the speakeasy you ran while alive, you didn’t have to split your time between laundering money and smuggling liquor (Hell had no taxes or laws prohibiting… well anything). It allowed you to redesign the club a couple of years or so, reshaping the three-story building into a blend of the old and new. It was uniquely yours.

The many, many guests you had the honor of hosting were a mixture of demons young and old, sinners and hell-born, rich and broke. You prided yourself for having a club tamer than most establishments in Hell. Sure there was plenty of sex and drugs going on within the walls, you weren’t a wet blanket after all, but it was important your club felt like a safe place for all demons. Jet, your head of security, had his team spread throughout the club to keep an eye out for troublemakers.

The atmosphere was enhanced by the wide variety of music the club played; a blend of big band, ragtime, bebop, and the new trend they called electro-swing. Live or canned, so long as you could dance to it, it was welcomed.

You loved to dance. Once you stepped foot on American soil your feet never stopped moving. You loved the freedom in every wild, improvised move. You loved the adrenaline of a natural high. You loved the control. Control over one’s body to make it all look effortless was a skill you often practiced.

Most of all, you loved the fun it brought to every participant regardless of skill. Much like in the bedroom, the dance floor was a place where everyone was equal.

You showed the club off to your guests, pride swelling in your chest as they appreciated your baby. You took in Alastor’s face, careful not to let him catch you staring at him. His opinion mattered the most.

You set them up in a large, rounded corner booth and a responsible amount (as per Charlie’s request) of free drink vouchers.

Dragging Angel to the dance floor, you led the taller demon in a dance. He spun you around with a laugh before passing you off to an eager Charlie.

After a round of drinks they all went off in different directions: Angel and Husk to the bar. Charlie found some stray sinner to infodump about the hotel to. She chatted them up at a million words a minute with only Vaggie to keep her coherent. Niffty inquired where the cleaning supplies were and you told her to go nuts without a second thought.

Then you were all alone with dear old Alastor. The reds of his being hardly overshadowed by the club lights. He sat dead center of the curved booth with you not too close to him or the edge. You didn’t want to look like you’d flee at any moment.

You downed your second whiskey sour with a shudder. Elbow on the table and warm cheek in your hand, you beamed up at him. “Soooo Alastor, what do you think? And please be honest, I know you don’t care if you hurt my little feelings.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it dear,” he said through his pointed teeth. You struggled not to roll your eyes. “I’ll happily admit the atmosphere and music is not terrible.”

You snorted, very ladylike and refined. “I’ll have to put your glowing review on my door. ‘Not terrible’ says the Radio Demon! That’ll bring in the customers.”

“Please go right ahead and use my endorsement free of charge.”

“Gladly.” You traced the rim of your empty glass with a finger. “You ever hear how I got this place?”

“Ah yes, I remember you won it in a gamble, correct?”

“But you want to know what game we played?”

Alastor raised an eyebrow in interest and nodded. You simulated shooting yourself in the temple with your fingers. “Angelic steel bullets.”

His look of genuine surprise was not missed by you. You laughed the way you always did when you told the story.

“I’m always amazed by the desperate lengths others will go for any scrap of power,” Alastor said. “Though, not surprised.”

“Easy for you to say, Magic Man.” You sipped your drink, hiding your smile as his soured in slight annoyance. “The rest of us don’t have it so easy and have to take desperate risks.”

Alastor made a sound akin to rolling one’s eyes, sparks of radio static accompanying the noise. “Well, doll, I’m certainly glad you’re under the illusion my rise of power was effortless.”

Another laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”

The tale of how Alastor the Radio Demon grew to power was well known even these days, but the finer details of his rise were shrouded in secrecy. He no doubt relished in how the uncertainty stoked fear in the hearts of sinners. However he did it, he accomplished it all single-handedly, smile never faltering. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t in awe of him.

You’d never come right out and tell him. You stroked his ego enough for tonight.

Alastor sipped his whiskey, preferring to swish it around than to drink it, as he only ordered it upon your assistance. “Tell me, Temerity. Why have you settled in the role of a mere manager?”

Frown forming, you looked at Alastor with displeasure. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean no disrespect, my dear. I’m simply expressing that with your capabilities— and I don’t say this lightly— you could easily make your way to become quite an Overlord. I can’t help but look at you and see… wasted potential.”

Should you feel insulted or flattered? The unnatural tilt of his head in confusion told you he meant it as a compliment. While beyond flattered in his casual belief in you, his dismissal of your job offended you.

“I didn’t settle for this. I chose this. I don’t want the responsibilities of a sovereign overlord with all the meetings and targets on my back.”

”Very well, but I must say it’s rather foolish to be in the position you are and not work to gain more power.”

“I find people who pursue power for power’s sake are never satisfied. The position I’m in lets me do whatever I want. I’m truly free. How many people down here can truly say the same thing?”

Alastor’s smile thin-lipped and his eyes shifted eyes from yours for a split second. You thought maybe you said something wrong or offensive to him somehow. He sipped his drink. “I suppose that line of thinking is where you and I differ.”

You shrugged and polished off your poison. You had no issue with his beliefs, but living by them didn’t align with your afterlife goals.

The two of you lapsed into silence, music filling in the space where your words once hung. You appreciated how Alastor never felt the need to fill every moment with noise. So many people stuffed every second with noise as if a moment of quiet would result in some kind of social disaster.

The song faded into the next, and this was one you loved; an upbeat, fast-paced number kicking off with a blast of saxophones. Either emboldened by the conversation or the alcohol clouding your judgment, you stood with a flourish and held your hand out to Alastor. An invitation.

“Dance with me.”

He met your question with an eyebrow raised in amusement. Crimson eyes flicked from your hand to your eyes, and you resisted the urge to look away or shrink under the heat of his eyes.

Finally, “And what of the cutlery strapped to your thigh?”

“I’ve been at this a looong time. Believe me, they’ll stay put.”

He decided to believe you. Relief swept over you like a steamroller. With a chuckle, he placed his hand in yours and it felt like victory.

Your grin spread as wide as one of Alastor’s as he dragged you to the dance floor. Alastor led you into a basic back-and-forth two-step. Eager to follow, you pranced along. He spun you in circles; dark dress fluttered around your legs.

Greed spiked in your gut. You wanted more. You pulled Alastor into a twist, effortlessly resetting the dance to your pace. Alastor adapted. Light on your feet, you two flicked your legs back and forth in tandem.

Your heart pounded in your chest. This was a dream. It had to be because there was no way in Hell Alastor was here dancing with you so well.

Alastor twirled you away before snapping you back to him, slammed flushed against his body. He locked eyes with you; smirk utterly patronizing, as if charmed by a child.

Your cheeks heated, jaw clenched in irritation. Before you could open your mouth, Alastor tugged at your waste. A warning. He swept you off your feet like you were weightless and flipped you in the air. A gasp retched from your lips. Feet back on the ground, you didn’t miss a step. The dance floor was ice under your feet.

No surprise, Alastor liked to play dirty. You hoped he didn’t mind a taste of his own medicine.

You distanced yourself from him, then tumbled forward into a practiced backflip. Your legs wrapped around his shoulders. He grabbed you by the thighs and tossed you over his head.

Instead of your feet finding solid ground, you slid. Alastor dipped you low, your back practically parallel to the floor. Instinctually, you grabbed onto his shoulders. Alastor grinned wickedly down at you, but this wasn’t like his previous look of condescension. Pupils blown wide, mouth splitting his face, he looked hungry.

There was a twist in your chest, your head, your core. Warmth washed your skin. Tension bubbled in your throat. You laughed, childish giggling wracked your body as Alastor righted you.

If people were looking at you, you didn’t notice. Alastor clouded all five of your senses. Your chest heaved as your laughter subsided and you wiped at your sweaty forehead with the back of your hand. Somehow Alastor looked like he never broke a sweat. Unfair.

“What a marvelous performance, my dear,” Alastor said.

“Surprised?”

“Not at all.”

You swallowed thickly, the intensity of his gaze too heavy to bear any longer. A glance at the bar. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You skipped away before he could accept or decline. Wading through the sea of people, you made it to the bar, squeezing into a semi-vacant spot at the counter.

Catching sight of Husk and Angel Dust chatting at the end of the bar, you waved. Angel returned the gesture with a ruder one, Husk rolled his eyes.

You chuckled as the bartender, Collie, set two cocktails down in front of the well-dressed sinner on your left. He grabbed his drinks and turned to leave, and you saw it. One drink was an unmistakable shade of pink, almost unrecognizable under the club lights.

Your teeth ground against each other as you glared at the demon’s retreating form wading past patrons to the second story.

At least he made this a little easier for you.

“Collie, dear,” you said, pushing yourself off the counter. “Have Jet ready to handle some trouble. I'm going upstairs.”

Alaster watched as you zeroed in on a sinner. You cut the tacky dresser off in the middle of the staircase, a saccharine smile foreign on you. Sweetness no doubt dripped from your voice as the demon leered at you, enticed by your words. He nodded and followed you upstairs, eyes glued to your swishing tail.

How peculiar.

He wouldn't put it past someone with your specific proclivities to get distracted by their libido, but something told him this wasn't your usual M.O. with a man.

Not with the way you eyed him with murderous intent.

Curiosity took over. Alastor dissipated his form, using the shadows to follow the two of you to the second floor past intoxicated patrons. You led the man to an empty room with a plush leather wrap-around couch with glass tables doused in blood-red lighting.

You welcomed him to inspect the room as you shut the door. “With this package you’d get drinks and food delivered to you and your guest, a TV with Voxflix, privacy. This room is perfect for more intimate gatherings.”

The sinner turned to you, appraising you like one of the decorations in the room. You slinked toward him, hand snaking up your thigh under your dress. For a moment Alastor wondered if he was wrong about his previous assessment.

Then, you were on him, knife drawn, slicing the sinner's hand clean through the wrist.

The demon howled in pain. Drinks dropped, glasses shattered on the floor, liquids mixing with the spilt blood.

The demon grabbed at his dismembered wrist. “You crazy fucking bitch!”

He lunged at you. Quick as a flash, you leapt out of the way. You sunk the blade into his shoulder and twisted. He dropped to his knees, grabbing at the knife with a hand no longer attached to his body.

You dug your heel into his back and wrenched the knife from his body. You wiped the bloodied blade off on his jacket before sliding back into the garter on your thigh.

“Hand it over,” you said, voice colder than Alastor ever heard it before. Chills ran up his spine, a sensation he rarely felt anymore.

“Fuck you fucking raccoon cunt!”

“Charming.” You rummaged through the inner pockets of his jacket while he sputtered profanities until you found what you were looking for. Alastor didn't recognize the heart-shaped vial of pink liquid, but it clearly filled you with disgust. “Fucking filth.”

With a sneer, you dropped the vial. Liquid spread like blood across the floor, pink miasma wafting harmlessly into the air.

A hand came to your nose and mouth as you turned away from the wounded man. From the shadows, Alastor had a front row seat to your full display of emotion.

You were distressed.

He took in your lovely expression of panic. Eyes wide and darting, as your thumb dug too hard into the fat of your cheek. You heaved a heavy, shaky sigh to calm yourself.

Much like your look of wrath, panic suited you quite nicely. Your shocked expression as he dipped you on the dance floor was swell, but nowhere near as impassioned and raw as this.

Unfortunately, there was no time to savor it. One of your brutish security guards entered the room and you slipped your mask back on. He regarded the bleeding man on the floor with disinterest. He lifted the wounded demon over one shoulder like a sack of garbage.

“Out back? Like usual?”

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Jet.”

He carted the trash away, and Alastor decided to make his presence known. He stepped out of the shadows with applause, savoring how you jumped. “Splendid show, Temerity dear! I didn't expect such a brutal display after your performance on the dance floor.”

“Alastor!” You brushed herself off, smearing blood across your dress; bright red streaks across the dark fabric. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You weren't apologizing for the violence, of course. With his rap sheet of carnage that would be silly.

“Don't apologize on my behalf, doll.” He stepped closer, and when you didn't step away, he wiped a speck of blood off your cheek with a finger and licked it clean. He didn't expect the simple act to have panic blossom across your pretty little face again. He had to admit he liked it better this time, having been the one to cause it.

Before he could delve more into your responses, Niffty scrambled into the room, a tiny tornado. Trash bag in tow she grabbed the broken glass and the severed hand and tossed them into the bag.

“Tem, your club is filthy, filthy! I'll be back with bleach, hahah~”

As soon as the little bug entered, she left, trash dragging behind her like a body bag.

You used the interruption to slither out of Alastor's grasp to the door. “Soooo! I believe I still owe you a water.” And you all but ran from him, tail between your legs.

Fine. You could run. He'd catch you eventually.

What did you do?

No, seriously, the FUCK did you do?

Why did you literally throw yourself at Alastor like some kind of horny, sexy tomato? Okay, so you were a horny sexy tomato, but you were a horny, sexy tomato who knew better than to throw itself at Alastor the goddamn Radio Demon!

You’d have been better off inviting a vampire into your home and offering up your neck for the taking. The simile did you no favors equating it to Alastor.

“I’m not drinking again.”

“Ha! If I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that. I’d have, what, eight bucks now?”

You and Rosie strolled through Cannibal Town after your morning tea. Since working with the hotel, your morning meet-ups weren’t as common, so you took the chance to vent to your friend about the night at the club. As suspected, she reacted to your ravings with one part gaiety and one part vexation.

“Rosie, I’m serious.”

“You’re too serious, hun. You just told me about this fabulous dance you shared with Alastor and somehow in your mind, it’s a bad thing.”

“Yes! Nearly a century I kept my distance and now all of a sudden he’s under my skin like some kind of…” you rolled your hand, trying to think of the right word. “Skin bug.”

“Poetic.”

You rolled your eyes. You haven’t even mentioned the stunt he pulled with the blood on your face... Were there even words to describe the sensuality of it? Maybe, but every time you revisited the moment, you were too preoccupied with the softness of his touch against your skin, how his tongue darted from his perfect lips to lap at the crimson liquid, how his eyes, still glazed with hunger, never left yours.

Rosie was talking, you realized. You stored the memory for later and zoned back in.

“I’ve always thought you two should get to know each other,” she said. “Alastor’s a great fella.”

Silence possessed you. You unlinked arms with Rosie and sat on an ivory bench made of bone. “You know the story of Tantalus? How he’s neck deep in a river with fruit above his head but no matter what, he can’t eat or drink? That’s my current situation, only in my case the fruit and water know they’re unattainable sustenance and derive joy from it.”

Rosie made a noise of dismissal, waving away your metaphor. “Oh, so melodramatic! I can see why you run a theater.”

“Ha ha.”

“Temerity.” She sat with you, taking your hands in hers. “This is a good development. Alastor has a tendency to be… standoffish, but it’s obvious he genuinely enjoys your company. You think he’d dance with anyone?”

She was right, and you knew she was right. Why couldn’t you be satisfied with that? “I know. I’m not saying I wish he’d give me a chance because I’ve met those men, killed those men, then sent those men your way—”

“—Thanks again for the late-night delivery the other day.”

“Of course, hun. I’m not in the business of pushing boundaries, but I can’t help but feel that way from time to time. I hate myself for it.”

“Sweetheart.” Your friend’s voice was gentle, full of sympathy. “You can’t help how you feel. And what you’re feeling isn’t wrong.”

You laughed, meaning for it to be light, but it caught in your throat and quickly died. “This isn’t going to end well for me, is it Rosie?”

She opened her mouth to say something comforting but paused and closed her mouth again. Rosie wouldn’t lie to you. You both knew this road would lead to heartbreak, the only variable was how humiliated you’d be in the end.

“Tem, if this is bothering you so badly, then you should go ahead and tell Alastor how you feel. Get it all out of the open so you can move on.”

”No!” You cleared your throat. “I mean… I can’t, I…”

You were fucking terrified.

Rosie would never shame you, you knew this, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud. It felt foolish to admit it out loud. On earth and in Hell, you’ve been beaten, bloodied, and bruised. You’ve had a knife to your throat or the barrel of a gun to your head more times than you like to admit, yet the idea of confession and rejection terrified you more.

You liked to think, it made perfect sense. In your experience, pain was fleeting, much of it mercifully unremarkable or a distant memory. But the pain of rejection, well…

You’ve dealt with that since the day you were born.

Your one scar that never fully healed.

Despite never vocalizing your fears, Rosie understood you. “I know it seems daunting, but I think Alastor may surprise you.”

“Right, because Alastor extended such grace to Vox.”

No one knew the truth about Alastor and Vox. Most took their rivalry at face value, but older demons remember the rumors; the Radio Demon forming an alliance with the up-and-coming Overlord, the alleged relationship in stark contrast to their current mutual antagonism.

Conversely, you always suspected Rosie knew more than she ever let on. Your friend, usually so fond of gossiping, kept her lips buttoned on the subject over the years. She claimed it was improper to talk about such manners behind a friend's back, and while you weren’t convinced you never pressed.

Rosie sucked pointed teeth in exasperation. “Come now! Your relationship with Alastor is not comparable— don’t give me that look, you know what I mean. Hold out for a little while longer. I’m sure this’ll all blow over soon.”

You hoped she was right

You once again found yourself at the hotel bar, laughing at something Angel said as Husk poured you two a drink. Angel held his Fat Nuggets, the cutest little pig in his second set of arms.

“And you seriously don’t know what kind of pig he is?” you asked, flabbergasted.

Angel shrugged. “I dunno. He’s… a pig.”

“He’s a Hell Hog!”

“A little redundant, ain't it?”

“No, well yes, but… never mind.” You pet the porker on his pink little head. “How’d you get your hands on this lil cutie, anyway?”

“Nuggs was… a gift. From my boss.” Angel set the piglet on the bar counter. “Speaking of which, I need to tell you something.”

Husk grimaced, like “oh shit, here we go,” and scooted a shot over to the spider.

Angel tossed it back before fixing his eyes on a stain on the counter. “I… I’m not going to audition for the show. I wanted to tell you now so you ain’t surprised when I don’t show up later..”

Tem frowned, concerned, resting a hand on his. “Oh Angel, hun, why? You’d be dynamite!”

“Oh, honey. I know I'm dynamite,” he said with peak confidence. “I just don't think I'm the one you're looking for for all this inspirational razzmatazz.”

“Bullshit,” Husk spat. “It’s fucking Valentino.”

Angel deflated. “Shit! Yeah, Val, he… he thinks it’ll take up too much of my time away from the studio and it would ‘ruin my branding’ or somethin’.”

Husk muttered something about Valentino being full of shit, to which Angel happily concurred. You clenched your hands under the bar, nails biting into the flesh of your palm.

“Oh, what horseshit!” You scoffed. “People like Valentino will make up any excuse to have a crumb of control. It’s pathetic. Tell me Angel, truthfully, do you want to do the show? Forget what Valentino says.”

“I mean yeah, I do, but—”

“But nothing. If you want to then you will. Leave it to me, hun.”

Husk raised a half-interested brow while Angel looked ill. “Look, I appreciate the offer but you don’t have to do whatever it is you’re planning to do. My boss, Val, he's–”

“A shitstain sandwich?”

Husk nodded with a small smile as he poured a glass of water for Fat Nuggets. “Exactly.”

You hopped off the stool, all smiles and bravado. “Angel, dear, just bring your spunky little butt to auditions and do your best. I promise that’s all you have to worry about. And maybe one day, this sweet little guy will bite Valentino’s stupid bald head off for you.” You stroked Fat Nuggets back as he sipped his water. “You will, won’t you? Yes, you will, good boy!”

Angel hugged both sets of arms to him, apprehensive. You smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder (with effort, he’s tall!) reassuring your friend you’d handle it. You held your smile as you walked out the door of the hotel, unaware of the shadow behind you. By the time you made it to your car, your smile disappeared.

“Shit!” you leaned against your car and pulled out a cigarette. Another “shit” escaped your lips when you realized you had no lighter. You placed the unlit cig in your mouth, foot tapping anxiously.

How in Hell were you going to get Angel out of his scenario? You had no pull when it came to the Vees, and no hope in getting their attention, at least not anytime soon.

You weren’t one to get involved in others’ affairs. Sure you’d gladly help out your friends and lend a hand when they needed one, but going against the will of an Overlord was above your wheelhouse. Those situations tended to land one in ripe hot shit. Needless to say, you preferred to avoid ripe hot shit.

But you felt for Angel. You weren’t lying when you said he had talent, and vermin Valentino squandered it. The moth demon reminded you all too much of Roman. They were both bastards who took advantage of the scared, weak, and vulnerable, all but stole their souls, and got off to abuse. You couldn’t break Angel’s contract, but you couldn’t stand by and let Valentino take this from him.

“Something troubling you, my dear?”

You inhaled your cigarette, gagging on the cylinder until you uncouthly hacked it out.

“Alastor!” You wiped your mouth, not noticing the sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “No, no. I'm fine, I’m… thinking.”

“About how you're going to get in touch with the Vees, hmm?”

You fixed him with a look. “Should I be surprised? Eavesdrop more, please.”

He snapped his fingers, and a new cigarette appeared in your mouth. Small green flames danced along his fingertips but he made no move to light your cig for you. You leaned forward, pulling back once your cigarette kindled.

Eyes closing, you took a slow drag of the cancer stick and exhaled, acrid smoke wafting through the air. “Thanks.”

“Of course, dear, but back to your accusation. Overhearing a loud conversation in a public space is hardly eavesdropping.”

“I hear they call it voyeurism nowadays.”

Smiling tight, he hummed in lieu of false laughter. “I’m afraid you’re running a fool's errand, doll. Someone like you who’s not much of an Overlord to begin with has no hope in Hell of waltzing into the Vees tower and getting a meeting. You wouldn’t even show up on their radar.”

He pinched your cheek, condescension dripping from his teeth, as if to say “wasn’t I right?”

You pushed him away. “Oh, piss off, Alastor. You think I’m stupid? Don’t answer.”

“My dear I don’t think you’re stupid, merely woefully unprepared. But I have an idea.~” He wrapped an arm around you, nails digging into the meat of your shoulder. “A surefire way to get you in touch with Vox himself.”

Any other time you’d be overjoyed at his touch, but he had to go and be aggravating. You crossed your arms. “Which is?”

“Come now, dear. You can’t expect me to offer my services with nothing in return. Especially since you were so rude.”

“I doubt I could ever hurt your feelings, or that you’d want anything from me.”

He laughed, and her stomach churned. “That’s where you’re wrong, doll. I want to make a deal with you.”

You flicked the cigarette and stubbed it out. “Forget it. I’m not giving you my soul.”

Alastor’s eyes twitched as if the suggestion annoyed him. “Who said anything about souls? I promise to get you an immediate audience with Vox and in turn, you answer three little questions for me where you have to be fully honest.”

You pulled away from him. “What quest—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” He placed a finger over your lips. “What makes this deal worth it is the uncertainty. I can’t have you prepping lies in a desperate attempt to save face.”

Fuck.

Did he know?

He couldn’t know—

Alastor stared down at you like a predator who’d finally caught its meal. It scared you, and excited you?

No, no, no! You can examine those feelings later!

You took another step back, inwardly groaning as soon as the heat of his touch left your skin. There was a subtle tremor of his shoulders, eyes crinkling. He was holding back laughter.

“What’ll it be, my dear?”

What choice did you have?

Chapter Text

You bit the bullet and immediately regretted it.

Now you sat alone in the Vees’ meeting room, feeling on edge as the electro-sharks circled you like vultures waiting to sink their teeth into prey, studying you for any weaknesses. The room was colder than necessary, and you rubbed the goosebumps peppering your arms. Tall, glass walls trapped you in like you were the animal on display. The Overlords most likely set this room up as a subtle intimidation tactic to help sway deals in their favor.

That, or Vox just really liked sharks.

Either way, you refused to let any demon or shark bully you into lackluster negotiations. You weren’t leaving this room without getting what you came here for.

Whatever strings (and limbs) Alastor pulled got you through the door of Vee Tower like a charm. Barely a day passed before he informed you that he got you an audience with Vox. You’d be more grateful if not for that damn deal Alastor made you make.

You fretted over the humiliated probing questions he no doubt had in store. When you’d asked when he planned on cashing the questions, he made a show of thinking it over before deciding it’d be more fun to spring them on you when you least expected it. Fucking yaaaay.

The door burst open, tearing you away from your anxious thoughts. In walked Vox, the leader of the Vees, swaggering in with all the charisma of a man who reveled in being in charge. When he spotted you, his cocky smile immediately dropped to a frown. “Where the fuck is Alastor?”

Maybe you shouldn’t have, but you laughed. “Of course, that’s what he told you to get me this meeting.”

Digital eyes looked you over as Vox made his way past the table to fix himself a drink at the minibar. “So he sent you because he couldn’t face me, huh? And you’re, what, his little gofer?”

You decided to ignore his dismissive comment. Letting out an airy chuckle, you plastered on a simpering smile. “Look Vox. I know you’re a busy man and I have a lot of respect for what you do for Hell, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’m not in the business of wasting your time.”

Vox sipped his drink, a small but receptive smile on his monitor. Perfect. Flattery was an effective tool, especially— from your personal experience— with men. Especially especially with men who had egos bigger than their heads.

(Which was saying something in Vox’s case…)

“I’m working with the princess of Hell and her hotel. Your partner, Valentino, forbade his employee Angel Dust from participating, and I need him to lay off, so to speak.”

“Val’s dealings are his business. You should be having this conversation with him.”

“No offense to Valentino, but I wanted to talk to the man who’s really in charge.”

He swirled the amber-colored liquid around in his glass, his smirk widening. “Miss Temerity. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Your smile dipped a hair. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Of course! I recognize a lovely woman of a lower but respectable income bracket. Plus, that club of yours is pretty popular, especially with newer souls. You must get a lot of foot traffic through your doors.”

“I say it gets an average amount.” You saw this coming. You don’t make deals with someone like Vox without giving something in return. Not that you weren’t receptive to it. Business was business after all.

Vox set down his drink and glided toward you like one of his sharks. He ran a hand along your chair, stopping right behind you. “No need to be modest, sweetheart. I do love a businesswoman.” His fingers crept from the chair to your shoulders and squeezed. Your breath hitched as his claws dented your flesh through the fabric of your clothes. “Even if she’s friends with that old-timey radio fucker.”

He kept his tone guarded, but it slipped into a dark vocal effect when he mentioned Alastor.

He rubbed circles into your shoulders. You crossed your legs to keep from flinching and tried your best to relax. Getting tricked into having this meeting surely pissed him off. You couldn’t let his anger trickle down to you. You’d have to choose your next words carefully.

“Alastor is a close associate of mine, I’ll admit it. However, his beef with you is not on my menu, so to speak. Besides,” you snaked your fingers through his and looked over your shoulder, “you’re both big boys. Why would little old me get involved? I’m just trying to do my job.”

He chuckled low in your ear. “Good to know.” After a moment he let go, and you took the opportunity to exhale when he turned. “So I get Val to let Angel do this… whatever of yours, then what? What’s in it for me?”

A fair question. You prepared for that. “We both know it’s in everyone’s best interest to play nice and get along. How will it look when an Overlord like Val is bullying his underlings for partaking in harmless extracurriculars? ‘Petty, insecure control freak’ wouldn’t be something I’d want attached to my brand.”

Vox scowled but you kept going, “Hun, I’m just stating what you already know. And let’s be honest, between the three Vees, Val isn’t the one winning the popularity contest, sad to say.”

He mulled over your words in silence for a moment. You wondered if maybe you took it too far, but then he turned to face you with a grin, and you knew you had him.

“You know what? You’ve convinced me. I’ll have Val let Angel do his little whatever at the hotel. But you have to do two things for me.”

Again you saw this coming. You knew you had no real leverage going into this; convincing Vox to play along was always going to be half the battle.

“I’d like to partner with you. Sell Vox brand energy drinks, liquor, snacks, and etcetera at your establishments. Hang up a couple advertisements, hand out some circulars, run our ads on TV. Simple, easy. And of course, we’d pay you a commission. We’ll get you all set up with our affiliate program.”

You nodded. Honestly, it wasn’t a terrible deal. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but every opportunity to open new streams of revenue was advantageous. And if they were paying you for every sale and new customer, then it was a win-win. “And the second thing?”

“I want you as my date to the unveiling of Velvette’s new fashion line.”

That… that was the last thing you expected him to ask. You were silent for a beat too long. “Uh, not that I’m saying no, but why would you want me as your date? Don’t you usually attend those things with Valentino?”

“I think this benefits both of us. You get to be seen on my arm where you’ll get to advertise your business and your little charity work with the hotel, and I get to piss off hoof-footed, triangle-assed jackass!”

Your eyes blinked at separate speeds. “Vox, darling, again I’m not quite following.”

Vox shook his head like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “Come now, sweetheart. Alastor must hold you in high regard to take the time to swing this meeting for you. I know that asshole would hate to see an ally get in bed with one of his enemies… so to speak.”

Ah, was that his angle? Granted, you could admit Alastor regarded you to be a step up from actual vermin, but he was no altruist. He only pulled this favor for you so he could screw with you at a later date. Even then, you knew Alastor could not give less of a fuck who you got in bed with, literal or otherwise. An impersonal business alliance? He wouldn’t bat an eye.

So you shrugged. “Of course, if it’ll make you happy, dear. I’m all in.”

He shot you a sharp-toothed grin, ruby liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Excellent.”

From there it was all business. Vox offered to pour you a drink and when you declined he fixed you one anyway and slyly scooted it in front of you. To decline it would be rude, but to drink it was an act of professional submission. So you sipped at it, making sure to leave it two-thirds full.

Vox was charismatic and definitely attractive, but he was… enervating. You imagined in a more casual and social setting he would be a delight to conversate with and an excellent lay.

But you had to be on guard around him. You were well aware of his hypnotic prowess and while you knew you had a stronger will than most, you weren’t one hundred percent positive you could resist him. You were glad to finally be out of that shark-infested room.

Thank Charlie in Hell the hotel had a bar. After talks with Vox, you trudged through the doors of the hotel and plopped down at the bar. Angel was already there, drink in hand, along with Niffty who was busy fashioning roaches into jewelry.

“Husk, dear,” you said, “can you do a lady a favor and pour a gin and gin?”

Husk popped open a brand new bottle and poured three fingers into a glass. “Bad news, I take it?”

“Good news, you’ll have it!” You shot back your drink, smiling when it burned going down. “Angel can audition.”

“Seriously?” Angel gaped, barely reacting when Niffty swiftly placed roach bracelets on all his wrists. His face darkened. “The fuck did ya do?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” You waved away his concern as Charlie entered the room with Vaggie and Alastor in tow, chatting away about something you couldn’t hear. “Don’t worry about it. Knock that audition out of the park and it’ll be worth it.”

“Angel, you're still auditioning?” Charlie called excitedly as the three approached the bar. She grabbed his hands and bounced on her feet, smiling bright as a Hellish morning. “That’s wonderful! This is so exciting!”

You sipped your gin and pretended not to feel Alastor’s eyes burning holes into your back. Your new goal in the afterlife? Never be alone with Alastor ever again.

Your theater hosted The Pentagram City players: the best damned collection of actors, dancers, and singers in the entire Pride Ring. You had constant recruiters out and about looking for fresh souls and ripe talent, always holding out hope that maybe you could snag Andrew Lloyd Webber or Lin Manuel Miranda if they made their way down here. The money you’d make with them would have everyone mistake Mammon for Leviathan.

The players put on a short show for Alastor and Charlie to show them what they were made of. To no surprise, they failed to disappoint. They took a bow and Charlie gave a standing ovation. Alastor clapped with more restraint, hands in front of his chest.

You stood off to the side of the stage and let Charlie compliment the actors and tell them about her hotel. She had that pitch practiced and ready to go at a moment's notice. Impressive. Too busy watching your players get the accolades they deserve, you hadn’t noticed when Alastor snuck up behind her until his breath brushed against your neck.

“My, what a riveting performance. I knew I picked the right woman for the job.”

An involuntary shiver ran through you. What were you just saying about not being alone with Alastor?!

You faced him but didn’t look him in the eye. “Thank you, Alastor! But I can’t take all the credit. My people work their butts off. I can be a bit of a slave driver, but at least I pay them well, right guys?!”

They responded positively despite not hearing a word you said. You laughed. Alastor made a sound of mild amusement, his eyes catching on your hip.

“Tem, dear.” His brows furrowed. “What is in your pocket?”

You glanced at your hip. You elected to wear pants this day, as you often dressed in more business attire when you worked at the theater. The pocket of your pants held your new phone. Vox insisted on sending one to you and you were mildly interested in trying out the new toy. You hadn’t planned on keeping it.

You fixed him with a dry look. “Oh Alastor, I’m just happy to see you.”

He laughed flatly, then darkly added, “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You’d hoped your half-serious flirtation would turn him away. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, pulled you close, and reached into your pocket.

“A-Alastor! Hey!” You squeaked when his hand brushed the space between your hip and pelvis.

He grabbed your phone, holding it with disgust like a used rag. “What is this?”

“Come now. I know you know what— the fuck?!”

Alastor crushed the phone in his hand, spilling the glitchy, broken bits onto the floor like sand.

“There we are!” He chirped. “Much better.”

Was your eye twitching? Your eye was twitching. Alastor petted you between your ears and you fought the urge to bite his hand like a feral animal

“Oh, don’t be so sour.” He booped you on the nose. “I did you quite a favor. I know you’re well aware how that flat-face imbecile likes to spy on all the denizens of Hell.”

He was right. Goddammit, he was right. But still…

“I had it turned off,” you said.

“Irrelevant, my dear. Those frivolous devices are always poised to listen. You’re better off without one.”

You crossed your arms. “So you know what’s best for me now? What are you, my mother?”

“Did your mother also catch you hiding things you didn’t need?”

“I wasn’t hiding—”

“It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding from me.” He closed the distance between you two to loom. “If you’re not careful, I might cash in on those questions, dear.”

Brow furrowing, you sneered. “Threats, Alastor? How gauche of you.”

His smile twisted into a scowl. Before he could rebut, Alicia, the theater assistant manager, walked up, phone in hand.

“Ma’am.” Her eyes anxiously flicked between you and Alastor. “Sorry, but there’s a phone call for you.”

Your shoulders dropped, grateful for the distraction. “Who is it?”

“Some sort of fucked up goblin man?”

You thanked Alicia, then excused yourself from Alastor with an eye roll to take the call in private.

“Hello, Blitzø.”

“Hey, bitch! Get a damn cell phone already, will ya? You are impossible to get a hold of when you’re out. You know how many people I pissed off in the phone book before I got to you?”

You glared at Alastor from across the theater. “I had a–”

“It was twelve. Thirteen if I count that guy who called me back to cuss me out, and I do, so thirteen.”

“What the fuck is it, Blitzø?

“We got the guy~” he sang so proudly. “Come get him sooner rather than later, Moxxie keeps bitching that we have to keep knocking the bastard out and I’m running out of chloroform.”

It was time.

It was finally time.

You trembled, hardly able to hold the phone. “I'll be right there.”

As if on autopilot, you handed the phone back to Alicia and informed Charlie you had a personal matter you needed to attend to.

“Oh no!” Eyes wide with genuine concern. “Is everything alright?”

You smiled reassuringly. “Everything is right as rain, dear. I have someone I need to meet, but Alicia here will take care of you for the rest of the day.”

Charlie still looked worried but wished you the best of luck. You were touched. The girl was so sweet; it had to be the angel in her.

Before you reached the door, Alastor appeared from the shadows and cut you off. “Care to share where you’re heading off to in such a rush?”

“I already told Charlie. There’s a man I need to see.”

“Another bedfellow, perchance?”

Any other time you’d laugh that off. You never took offense to any comment or insult about your sexual promiscuity. They were true anyway.

But in this case, with this man, you couldn’t bring herself to even smile.

“Alastor, sweetie, I’d never play hooky at work just to get laid. Well, maybe for the right man, but the man I’m seeing is lucky I’m giving him the time of day.”

His smile grew in interest. You figured he was considering using one of his questions. You couldn’t have that. Not here.

Not about this.

You stepped around him and pushed past the door. “Au revoir, darlings! I’ll be seeing you all soon.”

The slam from the door sent a burst of chilled air that followed you out of the building.

You picked up Jet on your way to I.M.P. While you were strong for your size, he was much stronger and you needed help with the heavy lifting.

Blitzø presented the man tied up with a bag over his head with a flourish and a “ta-dah!”

You took in the slumped form of the man you loathed, hogtied and unconscious, and you felt a twinge of fear twist at your chest. And that fear quickly morphed into rage.

You clenched your fist but quickly drew back when your nail bit in too deep.

Moxxie seemed halfway concerned about what you planned to do with him, not convinced when you said you two were only going to have a chat.

But it was true. Mostly.

Jet dropped the man off in your basement, making sure to secure him tightly to the chair. You wondered where he learned to tie ropes like that, but figured it was best if you didn’t know. You made sure to pay him extra and had him take the next day off.

You sat at the top of the stairs of the basement in a white silk slip, a third cigarette between your lips. Tired eyes stared down at the man tied to the chair. A dry nothingness spread from your heart and trickled through your veins.

With a final drag, you finished off the cigarette and flicked it into the bucket of water by your feet. Showtime. You carried the bucket down the stairs and your feet carried you to stand in front of the man who’d hurt you. As a demon, he took on the form of some kind of hideous vermin. How fitting.

You dumped the icy water on his head and he sputtered to life, coughing and gagging.

You grinned down at your captive. “Good! You’re awake.”

“What the— where am I?”

“It’s a little late, but welcome to Hell, well my basement in Hell. Semantics, semantics.”

Bucket still in hand, you grabbed the quarterstaff hidden in the shadows of the oddly frigid corner of the room. As a child, a wooden one was your mother’s favorite instrument of discipline, but you preferred the heft of a metal one, especially ones made out of angelic steel.

Back in front of the hideous vermin. “Remember me?”

His lips curled in contempt. “Why would I remember some… purple raccoon broad?”

You laughed… then slammed the bucket over his head with all your strength, relishing his cry of pain. You did it again, then again. “July twenty-six, nineteen thirty-two! Ring any bells?”

At first it didn't, then his eyes widened as church bells went off in his head.

“There he is!” You cried, pointing the quarterstaff his way. “He does remember, but he might want to be more specific before I get impatient!”

”T-t-there was that dark-haired gal,” he stammered. “Me and my buddies… we met her in N’awlins.”

”Don’t be shy.” You tossed the bucket aside, not caring where it landed. “You did more than meet. Refresh my memory, what did you do again, after you spent the better part of an hour needling her away from better company?”

He shook harder than a leaf in a tornado. He looked up at you with wet, pleading eyes. “It was y-you. You were—”

You struck him across the face, bone cracking a satisfying wet crunch. Blood splattered across your skin and dress. You didn’t care.

The temperature in the room dropped. The air buzzed, and your ears rang.

”What did. You do. To her?”

Tears slipped down his cheeks, running through the blood. He was crying. Sobbing. The fucking audacity of him to be the one shedding tears; you almost killed him permanently right then and there. “I… I killed her.”

“Close!” You leaned in to face him. The smell of copper strong. “You didn’t just kill that girl. You brutalized that girl. You beat and humiliated that girl, and had your buddies do the same. Choked her within an inch of her life. Is that right?”

He nodded, eyes cast down. Coward.

“And you knew she wasn’t dead when you put her in the ground. You… knew.” Your voice quivered and you bit your lip. You had to keep it together until he was double dead and six feet under the ground. You’d had plenty of time to cry then.

“Please!” He full-on sobbed like a baby now, snot running down his nose like tears as he begged for his afterlife. “Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Oh, I know.” Using the tip of the quarterstaff, you forced him to look at you. “Only a sorry man could do what you did.”

Looking at him for this long made your bones ache with searing grief. You had more to tell him. You wanted to taunt him about his shattered legacy, about a family that would do everything in their power to disown him post-mortem for his crime. You wanted to remind him of every evil little detail you had to suffer through, while he got to live a full life, get married, have children, make memories. You didn’t necessarily want those things in Hell or life, but that wasn’t the point. This man took all possibilities from you.

There was so much you’d wanted to experience on Earth. You wanted to see, dance, dance, drink, eat, fuck, do everything you could manage to do before your heart gave out. You missed out on so much music and history and sights. You could’ve met people and had friends, real genuine friends, not the entourage you hung out with to distract from your loneliness. You could’ve taken a chance that night in New Orleans…

It wouldn’t have been easy. It would have been damn hard. But you were euphoric to live life no matter what because you got to live on your terms. It was your life. Yours!

…and then some bastards blew in and took that from you. Stole that from you in one of the most violent, degrading ways you could treat another human being.

White hot rage possessed you, and you struck him across his face again. You reveled in the sounds of crushed teeth and broken bones. You swung against his rib cage. The crunch of bone reverberated up the quarterstaff and rattled yours. Another swing, his throat gave way. You stuck him again and again and again, over and over and over and over and over anD OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND O

You didn’t stop when the staff bent out of shape or when the blood stung your eyes or when bone showed through torn skin. You didn’t stop when gore flew on your dress and hair. You didn’t stop when he stopped moving.

You laughed until you cried then you laughed again. Now he was the one at your mercy. You were the one who kept going even when he begged and pleaded for you to stop. You were the one who massacred him until all the fight had left his soul and he was a bloody unrecognizable mess.

With a final few swings, you finally stopped, quarterstaff dropping to the ground with a clatter. You fell to your knees, heart stony as you looked at the mess of what was once a man.

The first four times you exacted revenge, it felt like you were opening up an old scar and bleeding old blood, reshedding what’s been shed, and it burned each and every time. Now, for the fifth and final time, it felt like you had a bone rebroken. It was a heavier pain that lasted longer, but you knew it had to be reset in order to properly heal.

Grief, joy, and relief all swirled together in your soul in equal measure. You felt too much, all conflicting, all at once. It made your stomach ache.

Then it happened. Something that made your stomach churn over the edge of sickness.

Applause.

Crisp, solid applause. The kind you get with one pair of hands.

Seconds passed before you scraped together the courage to look behind you. You came eye to eye with the source of the clapping.

Alastor sat with his legs crossed at the top of the stairs, trapping you in the basement. Behind him, the light of your home gave him a false angelic glow, dwarfed by the glowing red of his eyes that pinned you in place like a spotlight.

”Another riveting performance my dear! You never fail to entertain.”

Chapter Text

The ringing in your ears was piercing, threatening to shred your mind. Seconds felt like hours. A chill raked your flesh. You willed your legs to move. Dread rooted your feet to the floor. Were you breathing? Your heartbeat was too strong, too fast. And Alastor…

He saw.

He heard.

He knew.

No no no no no no n

“Why are you here?” Your voice was distant, stripped of its usual bite.

Alastor slinked down the stairs, his footfalls deafening. You were a fly trapped in a web, watching the spider draw closer, ready to devour you with no remorse.

“I hadn’t the faintest idea you had such a violent streak,” he said. “So much rage in one woman. I'm almost mad that you've been hiding it from me.”

“Stop talking. Just— stop!”

He came to a halt at the bottom of the steps, less than ten feet away. Far too close.

“… you need to go.” You cringed at the sound of your voice, hoarse from crying. Shit! Your mascara streaked down your face from tears. Your hair a mess, your body filthy with drying blood and gore; you looked like a rabid animal.

It’s your fucking nightmare.

Alastor cocked his head, neck bent unnaturally. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me! Get out!”

You grabbed the quarterstaff and hurled it at Alastor. He dissipated into shadows before it could hit him and reappeared right in front of you. You cried out and stumbled back, catching yourself before you could fall into the cadaver’s lap.

Turning from Alastor, you rubbed your arms; a futile attempt to self-soothe. “You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here. Get out of my fucking house!”

You couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not like this. Not at all. Not ever. Not with Alastor. You’d rather he bisect you alive and remove your beating heart. It'd be less painful.

Alastor swept around to your field of vision and pulled your arms apart. “You’re hurting yourself.” He was right. Angry raised lines formed over your skin, blood threatening to break the surface.

“Let go of me!” You wrenched away from his grasp, nearly toppling again. You ran fingers through your messy hair, stray strands pulling free. “Why are you in my face every goddamn second?!”

He replied with a widening smile. His stupid fucking goddamn smile! Didn’t his face ever cramp? He looked downright giddy, like a child at a carnival. He was a wolf ready to devour a rabbit, playing with it before it died.

Rage bubbled from your chest to your throat in a snarl. “I’m not here to entertain you! This wasn’t a ‘performance’. I’m not putting on a show. None of this—” you waved wildly at the corpse, “was for you! You think just because I—”

You shut your mouth fast enough to make your teeth clack. Alastor’s eyes widened in… excitement? Like he anticipated something he’d been dying for. You felt like his performing monkey.

Your whole body flushed with heat; anger and humiliation writhing inside you. “I’m really glad this is a biiiiig joke to you!”

Smile narrowing, his brow wrinkled with displeasure. “You’re putting words in my mouth. I never implied I found this humorous. I don’t.”

Your jaw worked as you chewed on your rebuttal. For some reason, you believed him. Despite how he enjoyed watching you fall apart, he didn’t find joy in learning why you did so. Despite him being a sociopathic sadist who loved witnessing the dysfunction of others, he had some standards.

(A low standard to be sure, but you were in Hell, after all. The bar was so low it wasn’t even considered a tripping hazard.)

Tears burned in your eyes. You blinked them away. Deep breath. You swallowed hard. “…I am not some helpless, pitiful fucking victim, okay?” You spat the word out in disgust like one might a slur.

“My dear—”

“I’m not broken, or-or damaged, or sad, so don’t—”

“Temerity.”

Alastor’s voice dropped an octave as his tone turned serious. Your hammering heart stopped on a dime, and you were shocked you didn't keel over into a second death right there.

He towered over you, but not in his usual intimidating way. Instead, it felt almost… sheltering? “The last thing I see now is a pitiful victim.” He turned your chin so you looked him dead in his crimson eyes. “Congratulations, my dear, on a job well done.”

You moved to take your chin from his grasp, but he grabbed the side of your face and, with a gentleness you never dreamed he’d possessed, guided you to recapture you in his gaze.

“Let go…” you muttered but made no attempt to move. Instead, you chased the warmth of his palm with your cheek. “Alastor, you—! Goddamn you…”

Tears flowed freely from your eyes, spilling into the space where his skin met yours. You heaved a heavy sigh that rattled your ribcage. Eyes shut, you silently cried. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Alastor as he ‘held’ you like this. Whatever you found in his eyes, be it rapture or ruth, you wouldn’t be able to handle it. Still, you drank in the small amount of comfort he afforded you. This would be the closest you’d get to a hug from him.

Alastor brushed a tear away with a swipe of his thumb, smearing blood and makeup across your cheek. “Now then! No more tears. You still have unfinished business to attend to.”

Oh right. Him.

You lingered in the moment for a second. Two. Finally, you opened your eyes to look at the body and then, with effort, back to Alastor. “Help me bury the bastard?”

He fixed you with a sharp toothed grin and bowed his head to you. “Why, it would be my pleasure.”

To no one’s surprise, disposing of a corpse was easier with help. Alastor offered to use his powers to speed up your work, but you insisted on doing it the old-fashioned way. It was part of the healing process, and he was inclined to indulge you.

Soft jazz from his cane filled in the silence between you two as you dug the hole; the musky scent of hellish earth filling your nose. The distant sounds of a gunslinging turf fight turned to white noise. Occasionally, Alastor would chime in with a comment or joke, and you’d laugh or respond before lapsing back into the silence.

By the time you shoveled the final scoop of dirt over him, you were covered by a thin layer of sweat. As predicted, Alastor looked pristine as always. Again, unfair.

You tossed the shovel aside, and Alastor’s disappeared in a poof of green magic. Already, grass and yellow flowers from the other four plots spread and grew along the edges. Soon the whole yard would be uniform, leaving no physical reminders of the bodies underneath. Like they never existed.

Alastor dusted himself off and readjusted his bowtie. “Should we perhaps say a few words?”

The glint in his eyes told you he meant it in jest. You laughed dryly.

“What an honor it was to be a part of this. I can’t think of a better man for this to happen to.”

Alastor laughed. He reached out toward you before you could flinch. His clawed fingers threaded through your hair and he pulled away a pink lump of something; a small bit of brain. He popped it in his mouth like a piece of chocolate.

You swear, this man and his sexy cannibalism…

You looked away and stretched. “I need a drink! Feel free to do what you please, you always do anyway.”

Alastor followed you inside. Thankfully, he couldn’t see your smile.

You led him to your claret-colored parlor, a room you were quite proud of for its sundry uses. Whether you hosted supper club parties or smaller get togethers, it was a wonderful room for conversing, mingling, and even performing. The mini bar and piano near the corner were an excellent addition. Conversely, it was also the perfect room to read in or listen to music while lounging on the plush chaise.

You gestured for Alastor to make himself comfortable. He did so, sitting down in one of your cozy parlor chairs and resting his microphone against the side.

“Usually after a night like this,” you said, making your way to the bar, “I go swimming in alcohol with Mimzy, maybe go on the hunt for a good shag, buuuuut!” You twisted the cork off a bottle of gin with a pop! “Considering a certain unwanted guest, I’ll make a slight change to my plans. What’s your poison?”

You knew the answer before he said, “Rye if you have it. Two fingers.”

You hummed in assent, chuckling under your breath immaturely at his use of words. You fixed his drink along with yours— a gin rickey— and handed it to him before sitting opposite him.

The gin rickey went down easy and you relaxed as you enjoyed the tart drink. Refreshing. Eventually, when the silence was broken, you were the one to do it. “Do I want to know why exactly you're spying on me, Alastor?”

“Well, my dear, you left in such a rush today, anyone would be curious.” He coolly sipped his rye.

“So it’s not just Vox I have to worry about, huh?”

You shrugged, ignoring his bitter look he gave you over his glass. He could be pissy all he wanted, no one asked him to be here.

Even if you’re glad he was.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed the show.” You took a final gulp of healing alcohol. “That was my swan song of vengeance.”

“How disappointing.”

“For you.”

Drink now empty, you stood to grab another. You stopped by your record player, dropping the needle somewhere in the middle of a jazzy instrumental.

You placed the empty glass at the bar when Alastor's hand came down on the counter beside you. You froze. He wasn’t directly behind you, he wasn’t even touching you, but did you ever feel him. His mere presence weighed heavy behind you, pushing you closer to the bar. You were sure Alastor could see you biting your lip in the reflection of the waxed wooden counter.

“Now now, dear.” He slid his empty glass onto the counter with his other hand, momentarily caging you in. “Before you get too inebriated, I do want to inquire about these other revenge tours of yours, as it were. Now, will you tell me the truth or do I have to take advantage of our deal?”

Your brain worked at half speed. First things first, you needed to create space between the two of you.

You propped your elbows on the counter and rested your chin on laced fingers. Alastor subtly shifted back to accommodate your new position. Good.

“I’m never one to be taken advantage of, well unless I let a gentleman do the taking.”

With a disgruntled noise, he backed away. You grinned and twirled behind the bar, taking pleasure in his tight smile and grimaced brow.

You took a big swig of gin from the bottle. It was the strong stuff— Hell knows you needed it— and shuddered at the taste . “Screw it, I’ll tell you the truth. You know the worst of it already.” You busied yourself with washing Alastor’s glass, preferring to be partially distracted.

“Honestly, there’s not much to tell,” you said, eyes fixed on your moving hands. “Tonight was a repeat of the other four bastards I took care of.

“With the first two… I got lucky. They died together in some car accident and I found out through the grapevine.” The grapevine, in this instance, were the informants who worked for you scattered around the city. “Seducing them was… disgustingly easy. They didn’t recognize me, of course.”

Another big gulp of gin. You weren't going to have any left at this rate. Good.

“By the time I was ready for the third, I.M.P was up and running. Getting him down here was easy, but killing him was another matter. Long story short: He escaped. I chased him down. I got him with the angelic steel garrote I use as underwire in my brassieres."

All at once Alastor managed to look both impressed and uncomfortable. The disjointed reaction had you howling with laughter.

“Don’t look so disgusted! A lady needs support… and easy access to multiple melee weapons.”

“And the fourth one?” Alastor rushed out, eager to move on from the discussion of your undergarments. “As I recall, those little imps implied he went to heaven?”

“That was the idea at first. He went and became a man of the cloth. Can you believe that?”

“I do, unfortunately.”

You shook your head and muttered, “Load of bollocks, is what that is.” You grimaced, your old accent slipping through as it did when you drank too much. “Fortunately, in my case, the feathered schmucks upstairs didn’t buy it either.”

You took a final sip from the bottle as the record came to a soft end. Your head buzzed pleasantly; you floated an inch of the ground, lighter than air. Alastor continued to watch you and you did the same. Cheek in palm, elbow on the counter, you drank him in as greedily as you did the gin. “Sastified?”

Alastor chuckled, low under his breath. “For now.”

An exaggerated huff, you made a show of rolling your eyes. You pointed a finger at him. “You’re such a nosey Nelly, you know that? Who gave you the right?”

“I’m a radio host, dear. Staying in the know is a part of my profession.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

You baltered over to the piano and sat at the wide bench. Fingers pattered along the keys. A horrible idea popped into your head and you didn’t fight against it. “Tell me if you recognize this.”

Your fingers drifted along the keys, playing a song for Alastor you'd only have the courage to do when zozzled out of your gourd. The piece was golden candy for the ears, the soundtrack to a pair walking through Central Park on a beautiful day.

You came to the end and faced Alastor, who'd crept to stand behind you while your back was turned.

“I didn’t know you were one to tickle the ivories,” he said, a note of intrigue in his voice.

Pride swelled in your chest. You grinned like a dummy. “Well, I don’t have it here as a paper weight.”

He sat beside you, elbow grazing yours, and walked his slender fingers across the keys. “George Gershwin, ‘I've Got a Crush on You.’ I'm quite familiar.”

“Hopefully not from the musical. I saw it on opening day and found it dreadfully whelming. But that Gershwin? Oh!” You placed a hand on your heart. “I bet you he’s in heaven.”

“You think so?”

“If he’s down here I would’ve nabbed him by now, along with Cole Porter and— Oh!” You clapped. “Here’s a song I know you don’t know!”

Unlike the gentleness of the first song, your fingers flew across the keys with vigor. A sly smirk spread across your face when Alastor leaned back slightly in surprise. ‘Mess Around’ by Ray Charles was decades after both of your times, but you made it your mission to stay up to date with music, even if you preferred the classics of your time.

To your shock, Alastor seemed to be the same way. Without warning, the song suddenly became a duet as he took half the song to play himself. You faltered, but only for half a second. His cocky grin fueled you, spurring you on to play better.

The two of you played together, the moment of synchronicity filling you with elation. It drew to the end when Alastor stole the song, making a show of sliding down the keys with a final touch of a note.

Wild giggles bubbled from the bottom of your lungs. You wiped away a tear. “Alastor! You’ve been holding out on me. If you did that every time you invited yourself over, I wouldn’t mind as much.”

“Doll, I was under the impression you quite liked my company.”

“Oh, I love your company, but you need to learn how to knock. Otherwise, I might take Vox up on that offer for discounted security.”

Immediately, the mood soured. Alastor turned slowly to stare you down, the static effect in his voice stronger when he asked, “And why, pray tell, did he offer you that?”

A dismissive wave of your hand. “Oh, you know. That’s how they all go down. People like Vox use gifts as a tactic to make you more agreeable down the line. I took the phone because he kept insisting.”

Alastor gave you a questioning look. You threw your hands up.

“He wore me down! The man’s persistent. At least you come by it honestly. Well, sometimes. Only an absolute fool would trust you absolutely.”

“Are you implying you don’t trust me?”

A complicated answer you had no hope of answering late at night and drunk. Instead, you riffed on the keys and chuckled under your breath.

He pivoted the conversation back. “What else went on with you and Vox?”

“I had to agree to be his dumb date to some dumb fashion show. Actually, it’s not that dumb. It’s actually pretty lavish, I’ve seen it on TV before and I’ve heard that—”

“Do you not see how foolish this is?” he asked rhetorically, as if he were addressing a child. “Vox is not someone you want to be indebted to.”

“Oh, and you are?”

The lights flickered above you. Alastor brow tweaked in annoyance. “You quite readily accepted my deal for someone who doesn’t trust me.”

“Who’s putting words in whose mouth, now?”

The words were out before you realized. Alastor gave no outward indication that you’d admitted to trusting him. You were no absolute fool, but you were a fool nonetheless. You knew Alastor wouldn’t use information on you to hurt you physically or humiliate you in a public way. Not that he wasn’t cruel, but doing so wouldn’t serve him practically. But he had the power to destroy you emotionally. You knew, he knew, and you handed that power to him on a silver platter. Like a fool.

You might as well have served him your heart for the feasting.

“A-anyway, don't you worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle Vox.”

A laugh. “Quite easily, I’m sure.”

Alastor stayed with you longer than you’d expected he would. You talked and laughed and drank, often goading the other to guess the name of the tune you’d play on the piano.

This was leagues ahead of how you normally spent your time after a night like this. You always enjoyed time with Alastor, but you never had such casual fun with him.

At one point he convinced you to sing the lyrics if you could recognize the song. You did, singing along to the melody before you quit, laughing off the embarrassment.

“The poor dear,” Alastor said. “If only she could sing as well as she danced.”

“Oh, stuff it!” But you laughed.

The alcohol was a problem. With enough liquid courage in you, you leaned into the Radio Demon, head against his shoulder. Everything in you told you to pull away, but you were too content. He felt too good.

Alastor noticeably tensed but made no move to remove you or push you away. Slowly, he relaxed, silently accepting your touch. Another victory.

“Alastor?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an ass.”

He hummed in mild annoyance, returning his attention to the piano. Soft melody, light and comforting. “Enjoy that one, my dear, because I won’t let you get away with that again.”

To say that Alastor was in awe of you would be an understatement.

Of all the sides he’d gotten to see of you— your charm, your wit, your hilarious indignation— this might be his favorite.

More than your anger, it was your zeal. You carried fervor with you in everything you did. It was rather endearing.

However, Alastor was more than pleased to confirm he was right about your rage; your impassioned display of righteous violence was positively decadent. He practically salivated as he watched you work, the entire scene unfolded before him like the petals of a rose; bright red and beautiful. Currents of excitement shot up his spine like electricity, a feeling that was both familiar and unfamiliar to him.

Then to watch you unravel again once he announced his presence? He could hardly contain his excitement. You were vulnerable. Vulnerable, unhinged, and at his mercy. Emotionally helpless. Alastor finally had you right where he wanted you. You could no longer save face. He saw you, raw and unfiltered, your mask shattered beyond repair.

Alastor took no pleasure seeing you relive your trauma— he was a great many things, but he wasn’t that kind of monster! However, seeing you panic like caught prey when you saw him, post revenge? That he cherished.

How you snapped and screamed at him? How you cried? How his mere presence left you in hysterics? Positively entertaining.

How you were adamant that he shouldn’t see you in a lesser light? That he recalled with distaste, but not for you. It was almost laughable, the idea that faceless, degenerate scum could ever sully his vision of you.

And were you ever a vision.

Splattered in blood, flecked with organs and bones, you glowed in the light of heaven. You were radiant, a spirit of retribution avenging yourself sevenfold.

Alcohol made you ever more transparent in your affections. The song you played for him was practically a nonverbal confession. Still you held your tongue, refusing to outright admit to anything. You had slipped up once, and oh! Was he eager to see the look on your face when you did and…

If you confessed your attraction to Alastor, he’d assuredly turned you down. Of course he would. Not out of cruelty, but simply a lack of interest in such affairs. Unfortunately in his experience, rejecting one’s advances was the death of a relationship.

Alastor hoped you had better control of your attraction to him than… others he dealt with. He wasn’t quite ready to end things with you. If he were truthful with himself, he’d say he’d never be inclined to end things with you. You’d grown on him too thoroughly to cut you off and remain unharmed. Good company was rather hard for him to find in Hell. To cast it away would be foolish.

Besides, he had an unfinished deal with you, and he had zero intentions of letting it go to waste.

Chapter Text

You were sick. More so than usual.

Ever since that night with Alastor, you had a knot in your stomach that refused to go away.

Thankfully there was no shortage of work to keep your mind too busy to ruminate. Work with the hotel was smooth sailing. Music was planned, auditions wrapped up— as predicted Angel got a lead role— and rehearsals were underway. Between that and running your bar, you had no time to dwell on how Alastor caught you during a horrifically vulnerable and revealing moment.

You didn’t fixate on how tipsy you got and how that made you bold enough to initiate touch with Alastor. Or how he didn’t push you away and how amazing that felt. Not a single time. Especially not at night when you tried to sleep.

You certainly didn’t think about how whenever you and Alastor met in the hotel to review event progression he treated you no differently than before. How he behaved like his usual cordial, charming, irritating self, and never mentioned what happened that night.

You absolutely did not consider how he caught you at your lowest, knew your greatest shame, how he saw you… and nothing had changed.

Did you appreciate that? Or did you resent him for crossing that boundary with you without permission? Did that change the nature of your relationship with Alastor? Or was it foolish to consider that at all? Maybe it was foolish to think any of this mattered. Would ruminating on this drive you mad? Was that what Alastor wanted? Was that his game plan?

You didn’t know because you weren't even thinking about those things. None of these thoughts crossed your mind, not once, not one time.

And you definitely weren’t looking for Alastor as you, Charlie, and Vaggie assessed the hotel’s amphitheater. Nope! You were a businesswoman doing serious business things with professional-level focus.

The hotel’s amphitheater was beautifully grand: Plush red leather chairs wrapped around in a semicircle of the large golden stage with ornate apple designs and a tall satin curtain, white instead of red. Chandeliers made of hundreds of multicolored crystals sparkled overhead.

You couldn’t have imagined a better place for the performances. A part of you worried there were too many seats, but Charlie was confident every one would be filled. For whatever reason, you trusted her gut.

Crew members scurried around, cleaning or testing equipment. A flash of red in the corner of your eye; your head swiveled so fast your neck cracked. It was Niffty, scurrying along the seats and chasing some fuzzy, bug-like vermin with a sewing needle, getting close but no cigar.

“Hey, Niffty,” you called. She eyed the critter with a murderous intent before scrambling over with her usual big, happy, smile.

You fished out one of the knives from your garter and presented it to her. Instead of taking it, she stared wide-eyed in awe at you; The Lady of the Lake handing her Excalibur.

Charlie and Vaggie frowned with concern. Vaggie waved a hand in front of Niffty’s face. “Uh… Nifft? You good?”

Finally she spoke, her voice quiet. “Am I worthy?”

You played along. “The worthiest, my dear.”

Cackling, Niffty snatched the knife and jumped back into the hunt, weaving through crew members’ legs and knocking a few of them over. She chased the varmint onto the stage.

You cupped your hands, shouting, “Save me the bones!”

“Gotcha!”

Niffty swan dived off the stage and chased the critter out of the amphitheater, laughing like a mad woman drunk on power.

Oh god, what have you done?

You turned to the girls. “I’ll take full responsibility for the damages.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her.” Charlie waved away your concern, her smile uncertain. “I’m sure it’ll be fine—”

A distant shriek of pain— that could’ve been from anyone for any reason— confirmed her sentiment.

“Anyway!” Charlie clapped her hands and spun on her heels. “Things look like they’re going well here. How about we meet with Husk and go over the refreshment situation?”

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

The wall behind your headboard was thoroughly wrecked; peeling paint and crumbling plaster revealed the ragged brick underneath. Once again, your talent for picking lovers was a blessing and a curse.

Mostly a blessing.

You called some of your employees to have it fixed, and figured you might as well have the room repainted while they were at it. The whole process would be a few days at most.

Your home was made to entertain guests, not keep them. You needed a place to stay in the meantime, so you packed some clothes and your essentials and did what you promised yourself never to do… you checked into the Hazbin Hotel.

You could’ve stayed with Mimzy, it’s been a while since you’ve seen her. Or with Rosie and caught her up to date about all those things you weren’t ruminating on. You had plenty of acquaintances who would’ve let you crash on their couch for a few nights, but in the end you succumbed to impulses you knew would bite you in the ass later. You were a child told not to touch a hot stove… in this weird metaphor where you were also the mother telling yourself not to touch the hot stove.

You were your own worst enemy. Maybe your mother was right.

An energetic Charlie greeted you at the hotel, oh-so happy you’d be staying for a few days, followed by Angel, oh-so happy to finally have a night off from dealing with Valentino’s bullshit.

A night like this couldn’t go to waste, so Angel called Cherrie, and you along with Husk hit up Consent, the nightclub you’ve heard so much about.

It was either that or stick around and risk having an awkward conversation with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Ruminated-On.

Of course, you had to change out of what Cherrie had poetically dubbed, “old granny lingerie.” You wrangled together an outfit more befitting of a modern setting. You had a short wine-colored dress you accessorized with a leather chest harness with Succubi wings (because you used every excuse to wear it in and out of the bedroom). Once Cherrie squished your cleavage and mussed up your hair, you were deemed acceptable to leave the hotel.

Modern clubs weren’t really your style, but Consent was a pretty decent joint. The place was teeming with infectious positive vibes and the music was decent. At least you had a great time shaking your ass after a couple shots.

The thumping music and flashing lights moved you, and for a while your mind was free and blissfully numb as you danced with the Cherrie and Angel (drinking was more Husk’s speed). Cherrie ribbed you for how you danced, while conversation with Husk was a welcomed reprieve from the dance floor. The entire night, Angel insisted on taking pictures with everyone between shots of tequila and shots of even more tequila.

Speaking of which, it was your turn to buy drinks for the group. You brought them over to the corner table where your friends gathered and presented them all with a flourish and a big, drunken grin. “Voila, mes amis! Afterlife-saving alcohol. Buvons!”

“Don’t spill the good shit!” Cherrie laughed, helping you set the drinks on the table.

The four of you toasted with your shot glasses before shooting them back. It burned deliciously all the way down, warming your cheeks and relaxing your muscles.

You slammed the glass on the table with a big, contented sigh. “Ah! Just what I needed.”

“You’re telling me,” Angel said. “You’ve been tense for days. Somethin’ happen, toots? Ya ain’t getting laid enough?”

“Pffft! No! To both. I’ve been… overworked, ‘sall.” A very convincing dismissive wave of your hand. “Y’know with the event and my club and… stuff.”

Husk mmm-hmmed knowingly, eying you but staying quiet. As long as you’ve known him, he could see right through anyone and everyone. His six sense was what made him such a good gambler, good enough to be quite the Overlord, once upon a time.

“Well, maybe there’s been something… but it’s whatever, y’know. Hardly interesting at all.”

Cherrie leaned in, playfully jostling your shoulder. “C’mon! Spill it, bitch. You’re drunk enough to overshare.”

You considered it for a moment. Alastor already knew about the worst thing to ever happen to you. Telling these three how you felt about him couldn’t be any worse… or if it was, your fuzzy brain couldn’t produce the reasons.

Your fingers drummed the table. “I’ve been suffering… from a certain infliction… involving Alastor.”

“Certain inflict— the fuck are you on about?”

“She means she has it bad for Alastor,” Husk said before taking another swig of his drink.

Your fists pounded the table, mortified. “Husker!”

“What? It’s the fucking truth.”

“Seriously?” Angel asked in genuine surprise. “You have a thing for Freaky Face?”

Cherrie laughed. “Well fuck me double dead!”

You covered your face with both hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“Pretty much.” Husk shrugged. “I have no reason to give a fuck and I still noticed.”

You groaned, and dropped your face flat on the table, drinks clattering from the force.

“You wanna fuck the creep?” Angel asked.

“What?!” You lifted your head, chin on the table.

“I said…” He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled over the music, “‘You wanna the creep?!’” His outburst earned your table a few semi-interested side glances from passers’by.

“Oh!” You laughed, flopping backwards in the booth. “Abso-bloody-lutely! The moment I saw him I wanted to jump his bones.”

Actually, the thought that ran through your head the night you first laid eyes on the drop-dead gorgeous stranger with the glasses and killer smile was that he looked like danger, vice, and sin… and that he probably ate people. It’s what spurred you on to steal him away for yourself.

No one ever said you were a well woman.

“Hold on a sec.” Cherrie brow creased over her eye and looked at you skeptically. “Ya serious with me right now?”

“Of course. Have you seen him?”

“Exactly why I'm askin’.”

You scoffed. “You must have cataracts because he is so goddamn fine, a certified looker and I am always looking. Very disrespectfully, I might add.”

“Look,” Angel said. “I'm not saying he's unattractive—”

“I am.” Husk and Cherrie said in unison.

“—but he's, like, the physical embodiment of a fuckin’ nightmare.”

“He is, isn't he?” You sighed dreamily, slanted smile on your face at the thought of Alastor. “I remember the first time I saw him grow in size to eat a person whole. He unhinged his jaw like a goddamn snake. I couldn’t sleep for days! And those weird magic tendrils he has make me—”

“No!” Husk held his hand, his face awash with absolute disgust. “No. Stop, goddammit. I’m trying to keep this shit down tonight.” He took a swig of his drink, as if to wash down your train of thought like vile medicine.

“Twenty or thirty years ago, I saw him with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. His bare arms?” You fanned yourself dramatically at the memory. “Oh! I could double die!”

Cherrie laughed, smacking the table. “Girl, come on! You’re actin’ like some Victorian prude seeing ankles for the first time.”

“Sounds about right. I was raised by two of them.”

Angel frowned. “I thought you lived around my neck of the woods?”

“Mon ami.” You put a hand on his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “They’re called boats.”

He flipped you off with three-fourths of his hands; you and Cherrie burst out laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Angel waved away your jest. “So Creepy Face makes you dehydrated, huh? Why haven’t you jumped his spooky bones yet?”

I cringed like he suggested I chew on broken glass for fun. “Be serious, Angel. You live with the man. You think he’d ever be receptive to anyone jumping his spooky bones?”

A shrug of both sets of shoulders. “Eh, fair. I always got the feeling he didn’t play on any team.”

“And that’s fine, y’know? I don’t want to change him or anything, but when it comes to Alastor…” You grabbed another shot and swished the clear liquid around in the small glass. “I’m a dizzy yuck carrying a torch for the gigglemug and I’m going mad as a box of frogs.”

“Uh, in fucking English please?” Cherrie asked.

“She means she’s down baaa-aaad.” Angel sing-songed, waggling his brows.

Cherrie chortled, throwing you a look of mock sympathy. “Aww! You want him to be ya boyfriend, ya sentimental mug?”

They laughed, and Husk shook his head in pity.

Thoroughly humiliated, you finished your shot. Then two more… and then one last shot for good luck. “Thank you all for the wonderful evening. Excuse me while I go play in traffic.”

You stood, but Angel grabbed you by the arm and pulled you back down. “Relax, toots. We’re just razzing ya.”

“Yeah, chill out, ya drama queen!” Cherrie slid over one of Husk’s tall glasses of alcohol, much to his annoyance. “Here’s what you’ll do. Down some liquid courage and screw the next guy you see. Random dick best medicine for a broken heart.”

Your nervous laughter was unconvincing even to your drunken ears. “A broken whaaaaat are you talking about? You… silly little lady.”

Cherrie rolled her eye. “Uh huh. Start chugging, skank!”

Husk argued this was a terrible idea, and Angel ended up playing mediator between him and Cherrie. You heard none of it as you downed a pint of whatever in six seconds. It was sweet and terrible, like dirty sugared nail polish.

A rush of warmth rolled through you under your skin, making you shudder. You stood with the empty glass, holding it by the rim. “Mish we luck, darlings!” Purposely, you dropped the glass, and ignored the shouts of protest around you as you bantered back onto the dance floor.

It didn’t take long for an over eager demon to approach you. You’d spotted him eyeing you earlier but didn’t pay him much mind. He was some type of weasel-faced demon with jagged teeth and a jacket over a garish button up.

You stilled as unwanted hands snaked over your hips from behind, making your skin crawl. Cologne flooded your nose, making you gag.

“Hey, honey tits. You’ve been dancing all night. Why don’tcha kick up your feet and sit on my face a while?”

No fucking thanks.

You looked at him over your shoulder, red lips curled into an unamused smile. “That couldn’t have worked for you before.”

He chuckled with unwarranted smugness; rancid beer breath wafted over your cheek. “Come on, sexy.” A squeeze of your hips, an unwelcomed hump against your ass. “Bet I can show you a good time.”

“For some reason, I’m doubtful.” You wiggled from his grip and turned to face him. “I must ask you to, respectfully, piss off. But please do have a terrific night, you noisome sack of soiled taint.”

You turned to walk away, but he grabbed at you again like he had the right, tugging on your tail, hard.

The ghost of a smile lived on your face as you swallowed down a terrified yelp. “You’re gonna take your fucking hand off me.”

He scowled like you were piss on the sidewalk he stepped in. “Look at Roman’s favorite little slut thinking she’s better than she is—”

A flash around your fist; you introduced his mouth to your brass knuckles. The bones in his jaw caved before he crumbled like a ton of bricks at your feet. All at once the music cut out as dozens of eyes suddenly locked on you and the man you sucker punched.

Your friends at the table stared at you, stunned. “What the hell?” Husk shouted. “It hasn’t even been a minute!”

“Oh shit!” A group of about ten or so men ran to the passed out bastard at your feet. “Oi, what the fuck! You killed Ricky!”

The bastard in question stirred, rolled over, and spat out a few bloodied teeth.

You motioned to him like a sack of laundry. “Ricky’s right as rain, fellas. What’s the problem?”

No surprise, you were the problem, if the several guns aimed at your chest were any indication. Angel, Cherrie, and Husk rushed to your side, guns, bombs, and cards out in defense.

Fist to jaw, you cracked your neck from side to side. “So you wanna dance?” You grabbed one of your thigh knives and flicked it, the blade extending to the length of your forearm. “Let’s cut a rug!”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Cherrie whooped, tossing a bomb up and catching it with one hand. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”

And fuckin’ go you did.

You rushed the nearest goon. Ducking under his firing gun, your blade cleaved clean through his kneecaps. He howled and toppled over, severed legs left standing right, blood spurting like a busted fountain.

Soon the battle unfolded into a blur of carnage and unadulterated violence. The crowd, desperate not to get hit in the crossfire, screamed and fled out the door in droves. A flurry of bullets, blood, and explosions rocked the building. You caught glimpses of the others through the chaos and smoke: Angel gunned down the larger guys in the back. Husk, quick as a whip, threw his playing cards, slicing through torsos and necks. Cherrie threw her bombs with reckless abandon, her laughter accented with explosions. And you twirled light on your feet, slicing and dicing with experienced ease.

The smoke cleared, the fight ending faster than it started, the night capped off with the four of you surrounded by massacred bodies and rubble. You ended up cutting a juicy fat check to the extremely pissed off owner.

The four of you rode the high of victory all the way back to the hotel, laughing and talking way louder than necessary. After exchanging good nights, you shuffled to your room, singing under your breath and rummaging your purse for your room key.

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras… Il me parle tout basaaassSHIT!”

Where was your key? You dug through your purse, even dumped the contents on the floor. Lipstick, condoms, and spare tampons spilled on the floor, but not your room key.

Shit.

Shit shit shit!

Husk wouldn’t be able to get you a second key until morning, and you had no idea what room he or Angel slept in. That left…

“… shit.”

You knocked on the door three times. Thirty seconds passed, a minute, the silence painfully deafening. You contemplated sleeping in the lounge when the door to the Radio Tower eased open.

“Ah, salut!” You leaned on the door frame and nearly stumbled. Despite your nerves, you couldn’t hide your dopey happy grin. “There's the man I wanted to see!”

Alastor's permanent smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Temerity! What brings you here at this hour? And in such a state?”

Oh, right. Once again you stood before Alastor splattered in the blood of your enemies. You two had to stop meeting like this.

“Listen, my door is all—” You clicked your tongue and pantomimed turning a key in a door. “And I need you.”

“To unlock your door?”

“… yes, that.”

A look flashed across his face you had no hope of discerning while inebriated. He stepped through the door and whirled his microphone behind him.

“I see! Well, I’m more than happy to be of assistance!”

You figured he’d use his freaky voodoo/hoodoo powers to summon a key, instead he strolled down the hall. Seconds passed before your three remaining brain cells figured out you should follow him. Alastor stopped in front of your room door. This was his way of messing with you, letting you know he knew where you slept.

…or maybe you were paranoid, but what was more likely?

Once at your door, he tapped it with his cane and the door eased open with a glowing green light. “There you are, my dear!”

“Merci beaucoup, Al-a-stor~”

You blew him a kiss and spun into the room, confidently inelegant. Alastor couldn’t help his hum of amusement. Even this sloppily drunk he found you to be more amusing than unsavory.

Alastor turned to leave when a terrified “Oh, bollocks!” stopped him in his tracks. Seeing you dig through your bra was not what he expected.

“Wait! Never mind.” You pulled your hand free and dropped three small white blobs on the dresser with a clatter. Teeth, Alastor realized. Sharp and jagged canine-like teeth.

A twitch in his eye as he regarded you. “Temerity, why were there teeth in your undergarments?”

“They’re not mine.”

Speechless. He was speechless, brow furrowed, head tilted to the side. Your blasé attitude left him with more questions.

You seemed to mistake his expression for annoyance. “‘m sorry about this. I know it’s late. I bet you were sleep sleep.”

“Not at all, actually.” He and insomnia had a complex relationship, to say the very least.

“Why? Because sleep is the cousin of death, or because it’s stupid?” You struggled with the lascivious harness strapped across your chest, pulling it off with so much force you nearly fell on your back. “We’re dead! Why do we even need to sleep? Or eat? Or have sex?”

Well, he could agree with two out of three of those things.

Alastor casually dusted off an outstretched sleeve and fixed his suit. “A very astute question, my dear. I’m afraid you’d have to ask the feathered schmucks stairs,” he said, using your own words from the other night.

You snorted, laughing behind a blood-speckled hand. “Alastor! Lord, you alway make me laugh…”

You rolled on your stomach, swinging your feet in the air and beaming at him with pure admiration, expression unfiltered due to your intoxication. “Remember that time at the bar? Those clods yapped and yapped about their old ladies, going on and on, and they started needling you about ‘your gal’ and you went—” you sat and cleared your throat, pushing up imaginary glasses. “‘My gal made a great meal, but I sure do miss her!’”

Alastor’s eye twitched. Your impression of him left much to be desired.

He didn’t listen as you went on to describe the night, because he recalled it clearly. He remembered that night decades ago at the speakeasy Mimzy worked. He’d spent many a night there schmoozing, drinking, dancing, prowling for possible prey.

In particular Alastor remembered the dark-haired, bright-eyed woman with far too much confidence who spirited him away to the dance floor, proudly declaring, “You look like a fella with stamina! You’re my partner now!”

He remembered sitting at the bar with you after hours of dancing and a few drinks in, hazy with smoke and surrounded by faceless dregs who jabbered on and on about uninteresting manners. His joke— really his attempt to steer the conversation off course— was received well by you alone.

Smile lines crinkled around your eyes as you snorted. Without skipping a beat, you said, “How sweet! My man only gives me the cold shoulder.”

He grinned, hardly noticing or caring when the others retreated from the bar. “To think he’d treat a dame like you so poorly. How tasteless.”

An exaggerated head shake. “I’m thinking of throwing him out.”

“In that case, I’d love to have you for dinner sometime.”

You leaned in, your permanent self-assured grin replaced with one of girlhood giddiness, in stark contrast to the jokes about cannibalism. “As long as it doesn’t—“ you stifled a laugh, “doesn’t cost you an arm and a leg!”

“Of course not, dear! Perhaps afterwards we can have a nice chat over a cup of Joe.”

You lost it, conceding to him the win in the battle of cheesy puns as you giggled like mad and wiped away tears.

Back in the present you swiped at tears of laughter and threw yourself back on the bed. “We were so dumb! It wasn’t even funny, I just—” A deep yawn rolled through you, “…appreciated your commitment… to the bit…”

You went silent, a soft rumble as your breathing deepended, and you fell sound asleep in an instant. Alastor would almost admire the ability… if it wasn’t simply because you were drunk. He’d seen you tipsy before, from afar at functions. Even when you two met you weren’t as wasted as this.

In your inebriated state you didn’t know what you revealed. Despite your candor about discussing your life on earth, you never mentioned your shared history with Alastor before meeting again in Hell. He thought you’d forgotten, but clearly that wasn’t the case.

He had to keep that in mind.

While brief, meeting you was a splendidly memorable night. At the time, he regretted never having the chance to meet with you again, despite your insistence that the two of you should. Someone like you was a rare fine, a true gem among the clods.

Alastor sensed you held similar secrets to him. Not necessarily that you killed people, but he could tell you protected yourself with charisma, hid behind smiles, and kept your true identity hidden within the depths of your soul. Despite your charm and wit, none of the people in your entourage stayed by your side as the night progressed.

Perhaps if one had you wouldn’t have met your fate that night…

Well! Enough reminiscing for one night! It was time for him to return to his Radio Tower, but once again something stopped him.

He looked over your sleeping form. Gentle snoring rumbled in your chest like distant thunder, a soft exhale escaped your parted lips. Your blood red heels (that most likely weren’t that color when you put them on) dangled over the foot of the bed.

His smile twisted as he took in your vulnerable sleeping body. What was it you said to him the night he found you, splashed with crimson in the same manner? Only an absolute fool would trust him absolutely.

Yet here you were, willing to be vulnerable in his presence.

Alastor could only fathom falling asleep in front of Rosie, but their relationship was the exception that proved the rule. While he meant you no physical harm and knew you didn’t fear him, it was appalling to him you’d choose to put yourself in this position.

Frankly, it was pure foolishness.

Perhaps the alcohol was to blame, but he doubted it. Coming to him was one option of many and you chose him. You trusted him.

For reasons he didn’t quite understand he found himself kneeling at the foot of your bed, ready to remove your heels.

It would’ve been more interesting to do this when you were awake. After all, most of the joy of violating one’s personal space came from annoying them, drawing expressions and reactions from them by mere proximity.

Would you be appalled and act disgusted by him violating your boundaries? Perhaps given your state you’d finally give in and confess to him. That could be fun, but nowhere near as satisfying if you did it clear headed, cognisant of the consequences.

Alastor found himself doing it anyway, gently slipping off one at a time and setting them aside. He knew first hand one shouldn’t sleep with shoes on.

Your skin flecked with blood reminded him of that night he saw your mask shattered in the perfect marriage of theatrics and brutality. His eyes glance to the blood smattering the fat of your thighs. An unfamiliar pang ached in the center of his being, a feeling he could only register as hunger.

How peculiar…

The feeling caught him by utter surprise. His taste in flesh never included friends; his psyche deemed them off limits and he was unable to view them as food.

But looking at you defenseless and covered in blood— like a wounded lamb purposefully dragging itself into the lion’s den— the uncomfortable longing stirring in him had to be hunger…

Alastor stood, more quickly than necessary, forcing his eyes off you and onto your room. Then he saw something that forced that feeling to rise into his chest, a final revelation before he vanished into the shadows.

Your radio from home sat on the nightstand.

Chapter Text

You drank enough to make a fool of yourself, but not enough to have dreamless sleep? Typical.

You weren’t granted the peace of the abyss behind your eyelids. You didn’t even get to enjoy the recurring dream of your family’s house fire. Instead, you were assaulted with retina-scorching lights, lecherous gazes, and a cacophony of mutilated jazz.

An invisible big band signaled your appearance on the stage. The audience’s eyes split and multiplied like cells into hundreds of thousands of leering pairs. The tiny needles inside your garish outfit stabbed at your flesh with every move and breath. Your feet, bleeding and blistered, filled too-small shoes.

You danced day and night, a shell of your former self, a puppet on taut strings. Every piece of your body bled to rot and fell off. Chunks of you screamed as they hit the stage. Limbs twisted out of sockets, tearing at the flesh. Teeth fell out of your mouth and hit the stage like scattered coins. The lights melted your eyeballs; the mess dribbled onto the stage like runny yolks.

And when your soul detached from your eviscerated carcass it danced as well. It danced until its scattered remnants crumbled into nothingness, your essence less than dust. It was over. Done. But it still hurt. Why did it still hurt? Why did it hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and—

Stupid. You were stupid for letting that pillock at the club last night get under your skin. Decades separated from Roman, but his influence on your afterlife clung to you like smoke from his putrid cigars. The smell refused to be washed out completely. It lingered and hit you when you least expected it, not unlike the demon himself.

Being associated with your old boss abuser was more common years ago, but it still happened on occasion. Sometimes it was a collector of old Pride Ring memorabilia. More often than not it was a fan of Roman’s Merry-trices that recognized you and had to let you know they did. You hated it every time. It served as an embarrassing reminder that you weren’t the only one in Hell who remembered your time on stage.

It was a comfort knowing that physical evidence of your time on stage was next to nothing. You set many a fire to make sure of that.

Sleep was rough. Waking up was even worse. You’d wish for the sweet release of death if you weren’t already buried in a shallow grave on the outskirts of a Louisiana bayou, flesh long since consumed by gators or (preferably) opportunistic deer.

Okay, maybe you were being dramatic, but bloody hell did you feel like someone drove a stake between your eyes (being in Hell you knew the feeling). The sunlight filtering in your hotel window was lemon juice in the paper cuts of your eyes.

Someone slipped mail correspondence under your door in the wee hours before dawn, along with several red feathers… for some reason. A letter from Vox; a direct request demanding asking to see you now as soon as it’s convenient. He’s bothering you with a physical letter, meaning you were high enough on the totem pole for last night's debacle to affect their brand. So much ass needed kissing to damage control this mess. At least Vox had a nice tush.

You sipped your morning cuppa, wishing Husk was up so you could mix it with some scotch. Alcohol got you in this situation, so more would obviously solve your dilemma. Alcohol and caffeine: a winning duo.

Meeting Lucifer Morningstar was on the day’s itinerary. While Pride wasn’t your vice of choice, you did like to dabble in that sin from time to time. Seeing the handsome devil in person was on your kicked-the-bucket list. Over drinks one evening, Husk had mentioned Alastor’s disdain for the king of Hell, and you hoped that meant you’d see little of the Radio Demon today.

Memories of last night were vague, but you could fill in the blanks well enough to know you drunkenly embarrassed yourself in front of him. Between your borderline flirting, detestable accent slipping in, and gratuitous French, you fought the knee-jerk reaction to swan dive out the window and introduce your face to the concrete. An extreme measure, sure, but desperate times, desperate measures, and all that jazz.

Remembering what exactly you said made your head throb from the effort. You couldn’t have been that wasted last night, right? Mot if the worst things you did were flirt, French, and fuck around… right?

Alcohol affected you in stages, and last night you were just past Stage One (the aforementioned triple-f comportment). At Stage Two, you overshared like a motherfucker, and your native English accent slipped into your speech; like a disk in your spine. Stage Three was… ugly. Really ugly. You’d devolve into a miserable maundering mess. Every regret or unsung feeling, every existential reflection of your choices, every cruel word from your mother’s mouth overwhelmed you.

It was in the throws of the third stage— sometime after setting Blitzø’s van on fire, but between hate-fuckings— you once confessed to him the circumstances of your death. Something you previously only shared with Rosie.

Flaunting flirtatious French fuckery around Alastor was enough to make you want to bury your head under a blanket of bricks. Ever since you planned to never be alone with Alastor, God in his everlasting cruelty made it his mission to stick you two together in embarrassing situations and laugh in your face.

Sighing, you finished your tea. No, you couldn’t blame God… no matter how much you wanted to. Your soul was a magnet and Alastor was a goddamn negative charge.

(Or however the fuck magnets worked…)

Case in point, you set your cup down and turned on your radio like you did every morning.

Despite getting little sleep last night, your body woke you like clockwork to listen to Alastor’s broadcast. The familiar wails of Alastor’s double damned victims greeted you. Their tormented screams melted into a lively piano instrumental that kicked off your morning routine.

Alastor’s mellifluous voice was your morning boon. The jocund inflection he infused into every word was enough to make the piano in your chest riff a merry little tune. You dressed and listened to him recount the latest news and goings on in the Pride Ring: territory takeovers, deals and disputes with the top Overlords, some juicy drama sprinkled in for extra flavor.

In the middle of applying your makeup, Alastor plugged the Hazbin Hotel, a last bit of business before he queued the next song.

“… and now for something a little easier on the ears for my listeners who might be finding themselves rather fried this morning. This one’s for you…”

The first few notes of Josephine Baker’s “C’est Lui” (a song entirely in French) wafted into your room, striking you dumb.

You smeared lipstick across your cheek. “Shit!” The aforementioned piano keys jammed in your rib cage. The rusty piano wires wrapped around your heart.

You wiped lipstick off your cheek. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw…”

That crimson, deer-eared asshole teased you in front of all of Hell! No way that wasn’t at your expense, an inside joke for all to hear. The man was an absolute goblin. An utter terror. A little shit.

And you found yourself chuckling.

The soulless eyes of Vox’s sharks stared you down as you waited for the Overlord to arrive. You and the sharks were in the midst of a staring contest you were losing.

Was their water as cold as the room? Was that even water they swam in? Real sharks were cold-blooded, but these guys (gals? Fishy pals?) looked partially electronic. Luckily, you remember to dress in a sweater and thick tights under your skirt, although the fluff on your tail wasn’t full enough. It swished behind you in agitation, fur on end.

The door flew open and you blinked, cementing your loss to the predators. Vox strolled in, a big and nearly sincere smile on his screen as he approached you. “Temerity! You’re looking lovely; how are you fairing this fine, Hellish day?”

Business mode turned on. You smiled back. “Right as rain, Vox darling.”

Pleasantries, pleasantries. Vox guided you to sit, hand to the small of your back. He leaned one hand on the table, towering over you. “My dear, I noticed the phone I gave you was out of service. What happened there, doll?”

Your eyes rolled on their own. “Our ‘mutual friend’ happened. I know, I know, it's so hard to believe. Alastor’s such a technophile.”

He scoffed, an electronic effect frying the sound. “The regressive bastard can’t even let his friends decide if they want to embrace modernity. Fucking typical. I’ll send another one.”

“You don’t need to do that—“

“Nonsense! After all, I need to be able to contact you in a manner much more efficient than snail mail, don’t I?”

There was no weaseling out of phone ownership so long as you partnered with the Vees. Oh well. You’ve heard of hackers able to bypass the spying system. You’d have to look into that. And ask Angel to show you how to use the damn thing. And hide it from Alastor.

You smiled unctuously, chin on your laced fingers. “Well if you insist, I can’t refuse. Both our time is valuable, no sense in wasting it.”

His digital eyes glimmered with satisfaction, a nod that said “Very good.” Vox pushed himself off the table. “Temerity, there’s two reasons I called you here today. Velvette needs to fit you for the dress you’ll wear on the red carpet. However, with her meeting running behind, we have time to discuss the second matter at hand.”

A crackle of electricity in his hand manifested a small remote. He pressed a button and summoned a projector screen. “I heard last night you found yourself in a bit of an… altercation.”

Another click of a button played a video of last night’s club brawl, the footage taken from a hidden security camera. Dust and debris obscured most of the fight, with the occasional limb chucked across the dance floor like a macabre game of horseshoe. Then, when everything cleared, you were amongst your friends, slicing through men like holiday hams.

You glanced at Vox, brow raised. “I assure you I didn’t start that fight, but a lady always makes sure to end one.”

Vox laughed. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t bring you here to admonish you. We haven’t gone public with our partnership yet! There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got to say you are quite the spitfire.”

A smolder deepened his gaze, a soft heat in his eyes. Your smile quirked. “Vox… Do you charm all your business partners like this?”

“Just the ones I find lovely.”

A gasp from you, playful and exaggerated. “Scoundrel! This is a place of business.”

He grinned, showing you those shark-like teeth. “Anyway, no harm done. I’m sure you won’t make a habit of bar-fighting potential clientele.”

Ah, and there it is! The admonishment you expected. The message was clear: mind yourself.

Your gaze narrowed slightly. Did he mistake you for some shortsighted teenager who needed the obvious pointed out? The condescension in his voice was doing him no favors… even if his voice was kinda sexy.

“Besides,” he added, not noticing the gleam of annoyance in your eyes, “your little scuffle made you quite popular.”

Vox hit the button again. Up popped one of the pictures you took with Angel last night from his social media (and don’t ask you which— they were all the same to you). He had an arm around your shoulder and another around your waist as you pressed into his side. Both your smiles shone bright and fierce. From the high-up angle of the shot, your cleavage was on full display, breasts spilling out of your dress and the picture. Of all the pictures for Vox to pull up so quickly it had to be this one…

Vox scrolled through the comments. “Searches for your name and your businesses have gone up exponentially since last night, which is wonderful exposure. There’s no bad publicity, in your case anyway.”

He droned on about the cultivation of your public image and other technobabble you didn’t understand. You hardly heard him as you read the comments. What in the holy Hell did “bark bark bark mommy/hj” or little pictures of eggplants next to water droplets mean? Moments like these reminded you how old you really were.

You leaned forward, face twisted in confusion that bordered on contempt. “This is great and all, but should I even want to know what 'show me dat raccoon gyatt’ means?”

“It's all positive, I assure you!”

Your least favorite Vee sauntered in, wings wrapped around his spindly form like a robe, unaware or not caring that he was interrupting. Oh, and of course this ass had a Robotic Fizzaroli trailing behind like an awestruck puppy, carrying two drinks on a platter.

Bile congealed in your throat at the sight of him. Your eye twitched, and your headache was coming back. Wonderful.

A century of practice kept the disgust off your face, but you couldn’t help but recoil at the smell of pheromones oozing from his every pore. You had no time to hold your breath as the moth demon traipsed past your chair and sat on the table between you and Vox. The aphrodisiac burned the sinuses of your sensitive nose.

All relaxed, Valentino regarded you with a sharp smile that didn’t meet his eyes. He held out his hand and the Fizzaroli-bot handed him a drink and the other to Vox. ”So you’re the little minx who stole Voxxy away from me and had me let Angel act in your little play?” He chuckled, but it held no warmth.

He said the word ‘play’ like you would say ‘anal warts’ or ‘Valentino.’

Vox introduced you two. Ever the professional, you reached out your hand to shake his. “Valentino, it’s a—”

He took your hand and pulled it to his lips in, what you thought, was to kiss it. Instead, he pushed up the sleeve of your sweater to lick you, knuckles to elbow. Electric needles stung in the trail of the slimy appendage.

Your smile soured as you cringed hard enough to crack your ribs. ”…pleasure.”

The smug man smirked at you, dropping your hand, satisfied. “Aren’t you just the most adorable little trash panda~”

He grabbed your face with one hand and inspected you like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Don’tscratchhiseyesoutdon’tscratchhiseyesout, that’ll prove his point, don’t—

“Tell me mapache, why do I recognize you?” He chuckled again, toxic breath washing over you, smoothing out the wrinkles on your brain and replacing all thoughts with static.

Unease colored your laughter, the sound more unconvincing than you wanted. The cliche, “I have one of those faces,” tumbled from your mouth somehow.

Vox sat at the head of the table, looking cross with his partner. “Val, is there a reason you’re here?”

“I had a minute free and wanted to see what you were up to… and with who, mi cariño.” A playful flick to one of Vox’s antennas. “Am I interrupting your private meeting? Were you planning on giving her one of your… oral reports?”

Vox’s screen colored adorably. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when his phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. Excusing himself, you were left all alone with the moth demon. He busied himself with finishing his drink and lighting a cigarette in a slender black holder, saving you from small talk, at least for a moment.

Valentino’s smoke wafted over you, making your stomach turn in a mix of nausea and excitement, the act a disgusting reminder of an old memory.

“Are you sure you haven’t done porn before? It couldn’t have been for me, I’d never let a cutie like you go.”

When you laughed politely he added, “No, I’m serious. I’d shoot you right between your pretty little eyes if you tried to leave.”

He said it lightly like he was flirting. It’d be easy to assume he was joking, but many truths were said in jest.

You could play that fucked up game.

In a move that surprised you, you stood, knee sliding on the table as you leaned into his space. You fixed him with a dangerous grin, fangs flashing.

“Valentino…” you drew out his name as your fingers walked up his arm. Your hand reached his chest, warm through his winged robe. “I’d slit your goddamn throat before you ever got the chance.”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then chuckled, low and throaty, venom drooling down his chin. “Mmm… you’re a feisty one. I can see why Vox is so… interested in you.”

Your chest heaved as you took deep, shuddering breaths. The smell of his smoke, him, was intoxicating, revolting, and dizzying all at once. You had the horrifyingly intrusive thought to see for yourself how he tasted, to drink sweet poison from the source.

Shiiiiiiit.

You eased away, biting your lip. A fang pierced the flesh and you tasted blood, the metallic taste guiding you back to your senses.

The air was thicker around the two of you now, heavy with a tension you never wanted with this demon. With the smug look he was giving you, he was more than receptive to it.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiii—

To your massive relief, Vox returned. He shooed Valentino back to his studio, then escorted you to Velvette’s workshop before taking off to do more work.

Velvette was… abrasive. Under different circumstances, you might’ve liked her, but her type-A energy combined with her accent reminded you too much of your mother. Not to mention how she mass-produced date rape drugs… The source of those drugs you just had prolonged exposure to. Your mind was still foggy, your skin burned cold.

You were grateful that Velvette could change and adjust several dresses with a snap of her fingers. As a girl, you hated being poked and prodded all over, hated how the seamstresses manhandled you to size you for dresses you hated. The loose garments of the Roaring Twenties were a welcomed change.

In your current state, being manhandled would be rather enjoyable, which was the last thing you wanted right now.

Velvette snapped again and examined the outfit you wore with harsher scrutiny than you thought necessary. “Do a spin for me.”

You did as asked. The VoxTech blue (or Vlue™) dress was long yet revealing, shimmery with delicate silver chains and scant red highlights. It was gorgeous, but you weren’t in the right headspace to appreciate it.

Velvette nodded, approaching you. “I'll do some touch-ups. As for your choker…”

She reached for it and you pulled away. “No.” You touched it, fingers brushing over the pulsating eyes sitting in place of a jewel. “It’s sentimental. It stays.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I can make that work.”

Finally, you were out of that nightmare tower.

After struggling for so long to keep your head above water you stopped fighting. You let yourself slip under the water of your induced heat, the cruel and apathetic ocean sweeping you away.

It made you sick. Your stomach churned with anxiety and unwanted arousal. Many sinners with animal features experienced estrus and ruts. Yours was always unwelcomed. In recent years, there were pills available to dull it, which you popped like Tic Tacs.

You knew others chose to ride it out or embrace it, but you never did. You hated feeling so out of control of your own body. Denying your cravings and suppressing the feelings put the reins back in your hands. You weren’t a stranger to enjoying the temptations of the flesh (duh), but you couldn’t enjoy it when your mind and body weren’t in agreement. And you voted with your mind every time. It’d be too easy to get hurt or taken advantage of. You couldn’t let that happen again.

And you couldn’t go back to the hotel. You couldn’t work like this. You couldn’t let anyone see you like this.

You couldn’t let Alastor see you like this.

The simple thought of him was enough to drive you wild, your brain drowned in the flood of a hundred sensual scenarios. His clawed hands on you would feel like paradise, his weight and warmth against you divine. Lord that mouth, his perfect fucking mouth. He’d devour you. Literally, metaphorically, whatever. Either way, you’d let him.

You slapped yourself and swerved back onto the road, dodging most of a pedestrian. You’re not yet delusional enough to think seeing him while in this state would be anything other than a death sentence for you. He’d be disgusted with you. Revolted.

You’d sooner die than throw yourself at Alastor like a rutting animal. You’d sooner crash your car into that dragon statue in front of the hotel than—

Foot to brake, your tires screeched like mad. Your car skidded straight into the statue. You pitched forward, head slamming into the steering wheel. Glass exploded. The world turned black. When you came to, you sobered long enough to stumble out of the car.

While the statue was fine, the front of your beloved car now resembled a smashed soda can. Blood dripped from your hairline and down your temple. Shattered glass pierced your skin and tore your tights.

The static of distress invaded the space between skin and bone. If your heart was pounding before, then it was throbbing now. It pounded like a steel drum against your rib cage. Everyone in the hotel could probably hear it.

The hotel. Someone was bound to come out and see what all the commotion was. Help was behind the doors of the hotel... but so was Alastor.

It took all your strength to turn and walk away, your bones more liquid than solid and your brain more gas than liquid. You needed to get away to safety. Away. You cling to the idea like a life raft, trusting it to keep you afloat.

Heartbeat in your eyes blurring your vision, you staggered your way through the streets of Hell.

Chapter Text

“What the hell happened?!”

Charlie clutched at the sides of her head, gawking at the burning hunk of rubble beneath the statue of her fallen companion. Vaggie stood beside her with a comforting hand on her partner’s shoulder, her expression equally dumbfounded but harder.

Alastor's shadow set him behind the two girls. “What have we here? Someone left us a present?"

Vaggie rolled her eye at his joke. “We’d know what happened here if someone let us put security cameras out front, Alastor.”

He didn’t dignify that silly idea with a response.

A few of the hotel’s dregsguests flocked outside to gape at the burning wreckage, their horrid little devices already in hand to snap pictures or record videos to share with other witless sinners.

Niffty scuttled past them, hauling a fire extinguisher more than half her size. The poor thing sprayed foam in her eye before turning it onto the flames— chortling as if she hadn’t doused her eye with chemicals.

Flames glinted off the blood-red remains of what was once a car. Alastor recognized that vehicle. He’d ridden in it not too long ago. Fragments of a pleasant conversation about music returned to him, your presence congenial, almost a comfort.

What wasn’t a comfort? The appearance of Lucifer Morningstar’s obnoxious, oversized hat waltzing into view to join them in front of the hotel. Charlie explained the situation to the short king, glancing uneasily at Niffty still battling the flames.

“Oh yeah, the car…” Lucifer drawled, scratching at his cheek. “Would this be a bad time to mention I noticed the accident ten minutes ago?”

“Dad! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“This is Hell, Charlie! There’s a car crash every three seconds. If anything, I’m surprised this is the first time we’ve got one on hotel property.”

The fire swelled from modest campfire to raging bonfire. Niffty dropped the extinguisher, letting it roll into the fire. She stared at the flames in awe, the tendrils dancing in the reflection of her big, round eye.

“This car belongs to our dear Temerity,” Alastor said.

Lucifer blinked. “Who?”

Imbecile! An annoyed exhale escaped Alastor’s nose.

“Dad. I’ve told you before…” Charlie said gingerly, hands pressed together. “She’s the one helping us with the events for the hotel. Remember?”

“Right! Right, right, of course I do…”

The Father of Lies was a surprisingly terrible fibber.

“Aaaaaanyway,” Lucifer went on, “if she’s a purple raccoon lady, then I think I saw her stagger that way.” He motioned his scepter towards the street, where dried blood splattered across the cement, leading away from the hotel.

Alastor narrowed his eyes at the trail, lips thinned in thought. Charlie and Vaggie asked Lucifer if you seemed seriously injured. A fair question! Your post-wrecked behavior reminded him of a wounded animal searching for a cave to die in.

An explosion erupted from the car. Shrapnel flew every which way, flames rolling higher. A stray, fiery tire sunk through the air like a cannonball and crushed an unlucky bystander. Sinners made sure to catch in on camera. Niffty awarded the chaos with a standing ovation.

Alastor pushed his smile. “Not to fret good chums… and Lucifer. I’ll get to the bottom of this and ensure our precious benefactor is right as rain!”

“You think she’s okay?” Charlie asked.

Her concern for others was trivial yet endearing, in a childlike sort of way. He patted her head paternally, his smile turning smug at the sight of Lucifer’s sneer.

“I’m sure she’s fine, my dear,” Alastor said. “Tem is much tougher than she looks, you know. Allow me to put your worries to rest.”

With that, Alastor nodded farewell and departed from the group. Strolling past the car, he snapped his fingers and summoned his minions to fix the damage.

A tugging on his pant leg stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see Niffty grinning madly. She held a lidded container a little longer than a breadbox. “This is for Tem. The knife she gave me is perfect.” She giggled, twisted.

Alastor hummed, amused, and took the box. “I’ll be sure to give it to her.” A snap of his fingers, the box vanished, ‘pocketing’ it until he found you.

The blood you left behind for him made his investigation quite easy… at first. The trail turned to splatters then abruptly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, giving Alastor no further indication of where you might have fled.

Was he worried? Heaven’s, no! This may be Hell, but anything less than a kill with an angelic weapon served as an inconvenience at most. Why, Alastor collapsed a building on you and you bounced back like a daisy!

He’d been honest with Charlie when he said you were tough. In Hell, strength was essential. Weakness, physical or mental, perceived or real, got you picked off the street like a, well, like a daisy.

If anything, the trail ended because you simply patched the wound. With no other clues, he decided it was time for a house call.

Chills whipped past your unexpecting landscapers as Alastor’s shadows carried him to your front yard. The outside of your home was as decadent as the inside. Your posh, two-story, Edwardian abode had walls the color of bleeding pearls. The hedges that lined the path to your door were in bloom, luscious red petals surrounding passive demonic eyes.

As much as Alastor would love to intimidate your gardeners, he remained in the shadows. This whole situation felt off. He had an inkling telling him to hold off on revealing himself, telling him to wait.

The front door swung open and Mimzy hurried out. Tucked under one arm was a red leather satchel; a thick, heavy blanket rolled under the other. She shoved a small orange something into the bag, magenta eyes flitting left and right.

His eyes followed her scurrying away, not noticing a groundskeeper before bumping into him. The satchel hit the ground and flopped over, the contents spilling out. That little orange bottle rolled away. It seeped into the shadows before Mimzy noticed.

The groundskeeper quickly apologized and absconded back into the safety work, before Mimzy had the chance to go off on him. She instead grumbled her frustrations to herself, squatting to unceremoniously shove the spilled items back in the bag.

“Can't have your little goons run this errand for ya? Nooo, it's gotta be me. Just cuz I'm squatting at your house uninvited? But do I complain? Never.” She stood, an exasperated sigh leaving her lungs. “I'm too kind for my own good.”

Mimzy was many, many wonderful things, but “kind” wasn’t the first, third, or tenth word Alastor would use to describe her.

Alastor rematerialized once Mimzy disappeared down the road. Head tilted to the side, ear grazing his shoulder, he inspected the orange Varmaceutical bottle. He rolled the bottle between his thumb and fingers, the capsules inside tumbling over each other. A clawed thumb brushed over the white splotchy remnants of a long-removed label.

Clearly, this medicine was important, and Alastor— too kind for his own good— would return them to you.

Alastor followed behind Mimzy, keeping to the darkness. Many passengers— willing and unwilling— found traveling through his shadows creepy or off-putting, but he found the chill of the dark to be comfortable in a nostalgic way. It brought forth memories of hitting up various jazz venues, slinking through the streets of the Vieux Carré in the wintry Louisiana air in search of his next victim, or being ankle-deep in bayou waters, catching catfish with his maman.

Travel wasn’t instantaneous. His essence moved through physical space. Surfaces weren’t as solid in this shadowy state, but he could still hear the screams of the damned and the general chaos of Hell. He could pick up on the lovely pungent smell of iron or burning flesh.

Your perfume mangled in the gore and smoke of it all stopped him dead in his tracks.

Alastor paused a block or two short outside of Cannibal Town, letting Mimzy vanish ahead into Rosie’s Emporium. He let the sounds of Hell melt away, becoming inaudible over his radio frequency thrumming in his ears. His shadows cackled and crawled along the buildings. Alastor took in the horror around him, heartbeat rising in excitement.

Broken, battered, mangled bodies lay strewn across the street like a battlefield. Abandoned knives, your knives, stuck out of the guts and skulls of half the sinners. A glint of silver— a wire coiled around another sinner’s broken neck. One fellow wore your shoes, heels lodged in each ear. Another had so many bullet holes he could be mistaken for Swiss cheese.

He strolled down the rust-colored sidewalk, humming and making way for the several cannibals to have a beautiful midday picnic. A dozen or so beaten bodies up for grabs, not accounting for any already snatched up by a hungry cannibal.

Was this truly all your doing? Your perfume— something sweet but palatable— hung heavy over the massacre. What possessed you to partake in such a random act of violence? Unlike him, you didn’t kill for fun. You were needlessly practical when it came to murder, even if you had a flair for the dramatic.

A not-quite-dead man slumped against a building, hugging his lower half seated next to him. He hacked up blood and rubbed at his eyeless sockets.

Alastor spun his cane with a flourish, poking the end at the man’s exposed intestines. “Excuse me, my good man! Not to interrupt, but may I inquire about the nature of your injuries?”

“That cunt…” he spat the word then spat out a bloodied tooth. “She tore through everyone like a roided up honey badger.”

Alastor’s smile grew. He leaned in closer, easing his weight to rest on his microphone. “And what did this woman look like?”

“I dunno, man. Purple and, uh, ring-tailed.”

“A raccoon, perhaps?”

“I guess…” A gurgle from his torn throat, his guts coming out for fresh air. “That little skank was wanderin’ around all alone and dizzy, just asking for it. Of course, I made a move.”

Red eyes narrowed. “Made a move?”

“I didn’t even grab her all that hard, but of course the bitch overreacted.“

“You grabbed her?” A rare heat behind his chest, spreading through his rib cage.

“Can you blame me? I'm a man. She—“

Alastor speared his microphone through the boor’s skull. Cracks on the brick wall splintered and spread out like shattered glass behind the dead man’s head, his face now resembling a crushed melon. Shadows descended on the corpse, bathing it in darkness and leaving nothing behind. His screams would be a minor addition to future broadcasts.

With a twirl of his cane, he shook it clean of blood and brain matter before making his way to Cannibal Town.

Heat slid under your skin like the hands of clawing men. You swallowed a groan, then swallowed a heavy gulp of sweet tea from the pitcher Rosie brought you. You paced back and forth in your self-enforced prison above her Emporium. Sitting wasn’t an option. Stillness was a death sentence, a gateway for your mind to wander.

You tugged on the neckline of the borrowed nightgown that stuck uncomfortably to your clammy skin. Even your choker squeezed too tight around your neck. It had to come off so you could breathe. Placing it on the vanity, you caught sight of your reflection. You looked like, well, Hell. Cuts and bruises peppered your body and unmade face. Your hair looked like a rat decided to squat in it without paying rent. Worse than that, you saw the unpleasant markings around your neck, dark and ugly and uneven. Strangulation bruises from how you died, you knew, a humiliating and permanent reminder of your brutal end.

You averted your eyes and wiped away the sweat forming on your forehead. This was not a fever you could sweat out.

Mimzy, fucking Mimzy, forgot to bring your heat suppressants, the ONE thing you needed more than anything. She insisted she had them, but you dumped the contents of your red bag onto the bed and turned it inside out. You couldn’t find the cure for that distracting, burning need swirling in your lower belly. You sent her back to your place to get them. You’d almost feel bad for snapping at her if you didn’t know for a fact she threw a party at your house the minute you left. You bet she was snogging men in your bed, the lucky broad.

In the meantime, you had to relax, which was about as easy as playing a piano with two broken hands. You lit a lavender candle. You read one of Rosie’s books on how to serve your husband. You took a long shower, spending the first twenty minutes scrubbing off blood and the next frozen under the shower head in a useless attempt to cool off.

The calls to your assistants and managers letting them know you were M.I.A. served as pleasant distractions, but as soon as you hung up, the arousal seized you again. Eavesdropping on Rosie’s muffled conversations with her clients distracted you for a moment, but grew old when you couldn’t make out enough words to effectively snoop.

You tried to rest, fluffing and re-fluffing the pillows on the bed, pulling your weighted blanket on, kicking it off. How could you sleep when the lack of a warm body pressed against made your flesh ache to your bones? How could you sleep when thoughts of savage fornication consumed you? When it left you uncomfortable under your skin.

Fuck that fucking bald-headed, bitch ass, moth-ass pimp and his stupid fuck-vapor saliva…

Restless legs swung over the bed and carried you to Rosie’s gramophone. Maybe you could dance this restless energy out of you. You flipped through the lacking collection of records. Marches, waltzes, and slow piano pieces were lovely to listen to, but nothing you could cut a rug with.

The air in the room shifted, sliding like static across your skin. Your sensitive nose picked you the faintest scent of blood and electricity. You turned around and nearly keeled over on the spot.

“Temerity! You look simply awful.”

You jumped and bumped into the gramophone, hand to your racing heart.

Alastor stood in the middle of the room as if he belonged there. Why the fuck was he here? And why was he so motherfucking gorgeous? How did he find you? Rosie wouldn't have let him see you… Not like that would’ve stopped him.

Quickly, you fastened the choker back on. “Alastor! You know closed doors aren’t merely a suggestion. One of these days you’ll pop in while I’m indecent.”

“I thought you were never decent?”

“Haha.” You ran twitchy fingers through your hair, pushing back the stray locks stuck to your sweaty forehead. “I assume you’re here about the accident? Please tell Charlie I’ll pay for the damages.”

Succinct. All business. He had to accept your answer and beat it (ha) so you go back to pacing around like a caged animal in peace. You turned back the gramophone, allowing panic to rest on your features. You thumbed through the records absently as if you weren’t about to lose your mind.

“That’s all been taken care of, my dear.” Alastor crossed the room and leaned against the wall, right in your line of vision. He didn't fail to notice how you glanced away from him to pretend to look through the albums. “Right now, I’m much more curious about how our darling benefactor is doing. Your nasty crash caused quite a stir back at the hotel.”

He and his canned audience laughed, and you joined in until the laughter you feigned turned into an animalistic chitter, rumbling from the back of your throat. Your hand flew to your mouth.

“What was that, doll?”

You cleared your throat. “Nothing, nothing. Didn’t my assistant call the hotel on my behalf?”

“If so, it happened while I was out looking for you.”

Of course…

You turned your attention to the empty bag on your bed, looking for nothing to keep your eyes off Alastor. “Well, as you can see, I’m right as pain. Rain. Rosie patched me up.”

Alastor gently shook your pill bottle behind his back, a mocking gesture just for him. Placing it in his inner pocket, he strode to the bed and made a show of sitting right in front of you, taking pleasure in how you cringe.

You placed a hand on your hip and wryly said, “You’re still here.”

“Why Temerity, I thought you loved my company?”

You grabbed a hand fan from your pile of belongings to beat back the heat burning in your cheeks. Why, why, WHY did you tell him that? Were you stupid? “Well yes, dear, but I’m under the weather at the moment. Afraid I’m not quite up to snuff.”

He lounged on your bed, head resting in his hand. Lord, you’d never get to sleep with his smell all over the sheets… “Speaking of snuff, it seems like you had a ball out there, painting the town red.”

Another strained chuckle. You gripped the fan tighter. “Oh, right. The chow line.”

Alastor waited for an explanation you weren’t in the mood to give. You made the mistake of looking at his face a moment too long. How did he not fall in love every time he looked in the mirror?

All crimson and sharp angles and blood and knives and pain, Alastor was a celebration of violence— a bloody stunning creature. His perfect mouth with those soft, closed-mouthed smiles hid those vicious wolf-like teeth. He spoke beautifully and tore sinners to shreds with that perfect mouth.

Alastor was a goddamn forest fire in winter. Fire and ice raged inside your chest, scratching and screeching to be set free, tearing at your bones, demanding to devour and be devoured.

You dug your teeth into your lip, wondering how it’d feel to have him bite your neck and thighs, the sweet pleasure from the savory pain, the thrill of knowing he could very well consume you and choose not to.

You snapped the fan shut and snapped back to your senses. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing. I’ll return to form tomorrow.”

Alastor sighed in disappointment, making no move to get off the bed. He stared at you for another moment, and you burned like you might catch ablaze; you were already so hot. You squirmed, one foot rubbing the back of the other leg. Turning to get another cup of cold brew tea—

“Before I depart, I have something for you.” Alastor stood before you, handing you a box.

You jumped. Again. “I may be dressed like a ghost, but it’s you ling me into a heart attack.” You eyed the box suspiciously.

A flippant hand wave from Alastor. “Oh, relax. It’s from Niffty, and I assure you I didn't peek inside.”

You grinned smugly. “Respect for my privacy? What a novel concept for you.” Careful not to touch his hands as you accepted it, you placed the box among your things on the bed.

Alastor rolled his eyes. You were just determined to dismiss him, weren’t you? Very well. Time for his ace in the hole.

The shk-shk-shk of a rattling in a bottle turned your blood to ice and your heart to stone. You whipped around to see Alastor holding an orange pill bottle between his thumb and forefinger. Your Devoxamine.

“I saw this fall off Mimzy’s person,” he said with fake innocence, a shitty grin on his smug face. “What might they be?”

“Give me those.”

You stepped towards him and grabbed for the bottle. He pulled them out of reach. Another reach, another pull.

“Alastor.” You snarled, lip curling to reveal fangs. “I’m serious. Don’t make me bite you.”

“Ha! I’d love to see you try.”

His voice rattled you to the bone. That… That did something to you. You snarled; that only served to excite him more about messing with you.

“What are these?” he asked again.

You hesitated. “Painkillers.”

“You don’t seem to be in pain.”

“On the contrary, there’s a big, red pain in my ass right now.”

The bastard had the nerve to laugh. He tossed the pills to his other hand, making a show of inspecting them. Blood roared in your ears, drowning out your inner voice telling you to stop, but you were already moving.

You lunged, seizing his wrist and pinning it to the wall beside his head.

Seconds felt like minutes as you two stared each other down, tension hanging in the air like smog. No doubt his ears picked up the sound of your hammering heartbeat. A deep, ragged exhale as you struggled to control your panting breath. You bit your lip, fang cutting into the flesh.

Alastor grinned wildly, brows disappearing behind his fringe as eyes trailed the pretty stream of crimson rolling down your chin. He tutted. “My, my, what’s got you so testy?”

You opened then quickly shut your mouth. He smelt like a well-loved book and gore. Redolent. Visceral. Lovely… His eyes, red as fresh blood, burned you to the core. You could count his lashes. He wasn't moving away. He could but didn’t. Alastor let you keep him pinned to the wall. It didn’t matter why. The thought alone made you melt.

You licked your lips and tasted blood. The taste of copper brought you back to your senses.

You snatched the bottle and turned away to gag pills down dry.

“Thank you for checking on me…” You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the hotel.”

Wooden floorboards creaked under his steps. “Temerity, Temerity…”

The pill bottle fell from your hands, capsules spilling on the floor. Why did your name have to sound so good in his mouth? Alastor’s hands clutched your shoulders, clawed fingers digging in.

Excitement pooled in your tummy. You shook with the effort to keep your composure, eyes crossing in the process. His hands were warm. So warm. Hot. His breath brushed against your ears, making them flick. Then he spoke those horrible words…

“Just what are you hiding from me?”

A chill ran over you. A neon green shackle appeared around your wrist, a reminder of the deal you made with Alastor, a souvenir of the handshake that sealed your deal.

You felt your grimace down to your gut. You stepped out of his grasp but couldn’t look at him even as the shackle dissipated. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“Answering a question with a question, I see. I’m afraid that won’t get you out of this, so you might as well go ahead and tell me.”

“I went to see—“ Your hands slapped over your mouth, the truth ready to spill from your lips like rotten bile.

“Come again, dear?”

A sigh fluttered from your lungs. Fingers gingerly slipped from your parted lips. You faced him. “Alastor… what did I tell you about asking questions you don't want the answers to?”

His smile grew, patiently waiting for your inevitable confession.

You stalled, smoothing out the wrinkles in your gown, wiping the sweat from your brow, and sitting on your bed. A deep exhale shriveled your lungs— a sigh heard across the Pride Ring.

You told him everything. The words poured from your mouth like they no longer belonged to you. You told him where you went this morning, who you saw, whose pheromones drove you into heat. You admitted to running to Rosie's to not embarrass yourself in front of everyone and having Mimzy bring you pills to ease your symptoms.

But this deal pulled things out of you, things you hadn't wanted to admit to yourself, much less to him.

You spoke to the floor. “Those fuckle chucks you saw outside that I took care of? They all—“

“Made a move?”

“Right. They all ‘made a move’. It was mostly self-defense.”

“Mostly?”

If you sighed anymore you’d be bereft of air in your lungs. “I’m sure you understand how the dumb animal part of your brain makes you act… off your trolley?”

He hummed noncommittally. Of course. You were the only asshole who got to be vulnerable in this relationship.

“My dumb animal brain,” you continue, “for whatever stupid reason, makes me feel like some sinners aren’t worthy of me. They look at me and I go crazy, but that’s not why I killed them. Some of those fuckers were… insistent, like they smelled vulnerability on me. They were weak and a threat.”

You clasped your hands on your lap, still unable to look at him. You didn’t know if you made sense, you didn’t care. He wanted an honest answer and that’s what he got.

“I see,” he said, and you couldn’t tell if he really did or not. “But I got the feeling there’s more you’re hiding from me.”

There was. The fact he prompted you meant he knew exactly what it was, and wanted to make you say it.

You scowled, then, to your surprise and his, you laughed. You actually laughed, bitter and pissed. Standing, you approached Alastor, your smirk rivaling his. You invaded his space, smiling wider when he leaned away a little.

Your tail coiled behind him and snatched away his microphone. His expression turned from curious to irritable in an instant.

You spun away, tapping on the microphone to test it. “Testing, one, two. Alastor, dear, I hope you’re listening, because I’d rather immolate myself than repeat this…

“I’ve been thinking of having hot, steamy sex with you this entire goddamn time! Even now, I am consumed with thoughts of savage fornication with you. Congrats on being a part of my stupid fantasies!”

He reached for his microphone and you pulled away. “Ah, ah, ah! There’s more! I’m sure you’ll be tickled pink to know I feel like complete and utter shit about this. I hate having a dumb animal brain that tells me it’s a great fucking idea to mount you. But I’m glad you’re here to trample on my boundaries yet again for your own damn amusement! Are you entertained? You got the answers you wanted?”

Alastor towered over you, sclera flickering black with rage. A chill rolled off him and hit you. He was incensed. Good. His anger you could handle.

He grabbed his staff back. “Temerity, you’ve clearly snapped.”

You snorted and flopped back on the bed with your arms crossed. “Baby, I snapped at fifteen.”

His eye twitched— from annoyance or amusement, you couldn’t tell. “If you ever do that again—“

“Oh no!” You placed hands on your cheeks, pantomiming fear. “Please don’t hurt me, Mister Radio Demon. Don’t rend my screams from my soul for your broadcasts. I’d just die!”

You were being reckless, overplaying your hand. Helping the hotel could only protect you so much; Charlie would be angry if anything happened to you but it’s not as if it’d be the end of her working relationship with Alastor.

Still, you stared him down with a mask of cold indifference. You didn’t fear what he could do to you, not physically.

Alastor seemed to recognize this. You two were at an impasse. He made an extravagant show of twirling his cane and turning on his heel. “Rest up, my dear! I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

And with that he waltzed right out of the room, door closing on his way out.

You listened to his footsteps fade away. Then you waited what felt like a hundred more seconds before you grabbed a pillow and shrieked your feelings away into it.

You had gotten under his fucking skin.

That had never happened before. Not with you. How’d you accomplish this?

Alastor gripped his microphone so tight his knuckles turned pale. He was taken aback by your sheer audacity, the utter gall you possessed even when he humiliated you.

Now, he’d be lying to himself if he said he saw your confession coming. Admittedly he felt… appreciative of your restraint under the influence of that rakish moth Vox decided to keep around. Alastor understood fighting for control in a situation where you had little of it. For that he harbored no ill will, but if you hadn’t thrown him off by stealing his staff from him like you did, he would’ve reminded you he warned you about engaging in business with Vox. Look at the trouble it caused you, even if it was entertaining.

You always had so much fight in you. He found it exhilarating. Intoxicating, even. And it maddened him that he didn’t get to see you single-handedly lay waste to over a dozen men while not even having all your wits about you.

Quite frankly, it took his breath away.

You took his breath away.

Coming down the stairs, Alastor spotted Rosie with a customer. She gave him her card, telling him to not be a stranger as she sent him on his way. Then her blackened eyes spotted Alastor and her smile widened.

“Alastor, hun! What a nice surprise! Did you have a nice visit with our little Tem?”

What did he have to hide?

Chapter Text

You were out of the Hazbin Hotel and back home where you belonged. Finally, you could put all the murders and car accidents and fires and sexual harassment and Alastor behind you and move on by doing what you did best: working your tail off.

Being busy gave you the perfect excuse to avoid Alastor. Not that he was particularly keen on seeking you out. At the hotel, he was almost the perfect gentleman. He kept everything professional and your meetings brief so he could slink into the shadows away from you as quickly as possible.

You made the Radio Demon uncomfortable. If your mother could laugh, she would.

If Alastor was uncomfortable, it’s his own damn fault. He nosed his way into your business when you were clearly unwell. The bastard didn’t understand the concept of going too far. Or the concept of boundaries. Or the concept of minding his own fucking business.

Well, he did. He just didn’t give a shit.

He wanted space? Fine. That was fine. Totally fine. Gave you the chance to get work done.

A major snafu hit the hotel when one band quit out of nowhere and the other got consumed by a carnivorous plant that wouldn’t digest them until after the event. You and your team scrambled to find last-minute replacements.

The queen of multitasking, you filed away the new talents’ freshly signed contracts and stored them into subspace all while you talked on your cell phone with your assistant about something… not quite business-related. Still, it was a priority of yours. The cordless phone came in handy. Hopefully, with Alastor keeping his distance, he wouldn’t destroy this one.

“... alright, then how much does it look like Rancor needs?” You paced, feet burning a hole in the hotel’s velvet carpeting. “Alright, I’ll cut him a check and meet you at the theater — I know he’ll say no. Level with the fella for me. Okay? Perfect.”

You thanked your assistant, Dixie, for handling this personal errand for you and hung up your phone. Sighing, you plopped onto the barstool, chin in your hand. Husk greeted you with a nod and slid a glass your way. You shook your head.

“Thank you, Husker, but no. I need to keep my wits about me.”

“The best idea you've had in ages, my dear.”

You jumped. Alastor stood behind you, appearing from the shadows without a sound because of course he did.

Your eyes landed on the lovely black antlers adorning his crown. Something akin to shame churned in your gut. You dragged your attention to Husker, turning your back on Alastor. “Actually, darling, pour me two — no, three fingers of gin. I feel my neuralgia coming on.”

Husk grunted, amused. “You want that mixed with anything?”

A second of thought. “Tonic.”

Alastor leaned on the counter, stealing your attention back. His shitty smirk made you seethe. Husk, sensing the tension, poured your drink before taking a step back to re-polish the glasses. “I’ll leave you two to… whatever the fuck this is.”

You crossed your legs, eyes on the slice of lime in the clear liquid and not his face. “So what is it, Alastor? You frighten another stagehand into cardiac arrest? Eat someone you weren’t supposed to?”

His mirthful little chuckle made your stomach flip, and you resisted the urge to smash the glass to bits in your hand just to deal with just how much you liked the sound of it.

“Charlie implored me to come fetch you—”

“Doubtful she used that wording, but go on,” you mumbled into your glass, taking a sip.

“—so you could meet her father.” Alastor said “father” with all the disdain of you referring to your father.

You choked on your drink. Very demure. “Right now?”

“I know it’s on rather short notice, but the king can be rather… sporadic.”

No surprise there, Lucifer was a bit of an enigma, his behavior only becoming more erratic and withdrawn in the last few years.

You placed the glass on the counter, finger leisurely tracing the rim. “I guess I can’t blame the man. I’m sure the King of Hell is a very busy man, not to mention lonely without his wife around. The poor devil’s probably agitated all day; no outlet for all that stress and energy. All alone and bothered and...” You blinked, licking your lips. “Forgive me, you were saying?”

Alastor’s smile tightened with disgust, silently judging you with his eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t even think about it,” Husker warned you. “The man still got his wedding ring on. I doubt he’s interested.”

You gasped, hand to your heart in pantomimed offense. “Husker! I am appalled you would even think I’d go after a married man. Again. When the last time I did, a bitch sent bombs to my house.”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck?”

A wink his way told him you’d tell him later. He returned to his bartending duties, shaking his head.

Alastor — annoyed attention wasn’t on him for more than six seconds — plucked your drink from your hand. “Is that the only reason? And here I thought you had good taste.”

The bastard had the gall to take a sip from your drink. Really, it shouldn’t have surprised you, yet here you were, mouth agape like you didn’t already know this man possessed both au and dacity.

“Excuse me, what the fuck?”

“I’d hate to see you embarrass yourself again, dear. The last thing I’d want is our proprietor making a fool of herself in front of Lucifer Morningstar.” Condescension from his words seeped its way under your skin.

“You love it when I’m the fool, Alastor,” you said bitterly. “You’ve made that crystal fucking clear.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you're on about.”

Great! He got your eye twitching!

“You want a list, gigglemug?” You whispered harshly, jabbing a finger into his shoulder. “How about we discuss the times, plural, you broke into my fucking house—“

“Broke in implies I forced my way in like some sort of animal.”

Exactly!

“Oh, forgive me. The times you let yourself into my home without permission. Much better. Or maybe we can talk about the time you withheld my medication to fuck with me, or when you exploited our shitty deal while I was drugged by the moth predator and got me to admit I want to have sex with you?”

You whispered the last few words like a foul confession. They spewed out before you could stop them. You didn’t regret it. Or maybe you did. WHY did you not use the past tense?

“Key word being drugged, my dear.” Those roguish blood-red eyes captured yours and froze you in your chair. “So unless that’s still the case, I don’t quite see what the issue is.”

You opened your mouth, then quickly snapped it shut when you thought better of it. The impish glimmer in his eye made yours twitch once more, the motherf—

“For the record, Alastor,” you spoke slowly, like you were scolding a child, “the issue is the lack of boundaries.” You spun on the stool to face him fully, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. “Let me run a little thought experiment for you: Imagine, if you’re at all capable, our roles were reversed, and I was the one sticking my pointy little nose into your business when all you wanted was to rest. How would that make you feel? Not great, would it, old sport?”

His eyes narrowed in annoyance. Satisfying. You playfully smacked his shoulder with a laugh. “Oh, right. Look who I'm talking to.”

His voice dropped half an octave, the filter usually accompanying his words fading away. “Meaning what, exactly?”

All self-preservation gone, you pressed, smiling wider when you got the sense it pissed him off. For better or for worse, you also possessed both au and dacity. “Careful, Alastor. You only have two questions left. Wouldn’t want you to waste them.”

The two of you held eye contact for far too long. His static ran over your skin, a warning, a threat. You weren’t inclined to heed either way. His smile couldn’t hide his aggravation. The reckless part of you wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he’d finally snap and either swallow you whole or bite your head off.

Thankfully for your sake, Charlie, cheerful as ever, bounded over to the bar with her father in tow to cut the tension. “Alastor! Tem! There you two are.”

Lucifer regarded Alastor with all the displeasure of finding chewed gum on a toilet seat. “You were supposed to bring her forever ago. Are you having trouble with your only job, errand boy?”

“My apologies, sire.” Alastor's tone was anything but apologetic. “I was unaware you were so pressed for time you had none to spare for the hotel.”

Their back and forth was lost on you as you took in the angel before you. You never awoogaed for a man, but for Lucifer Morningstar, you came pretty damn close. Your brain stopped for a moment. He was ethereally beautiful, like crepuscular rays during a sunrise. As a child, your mother would often scold you by saying you were full of the devil, and for the first time in your entire existence, you wished the cunt was right.

You hopped off your stool, skipping past Alastor like he wasn't there, not noticing the utter disgust on his face.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” you said, sweet lilt in your voice. “Time seems to fly by when I get into it with Alastor.”

“Yes, the bellhop seems to have that effect on people.”

You chuckled, a genuine laugh. A slight electrical change in the air made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If anyone else noticed, they didn’t mention it.

Somewhere between introductions and a curtsy, it dawned on you: those red feathers Niffty tucked under your door belonged to Lucifer.

How the Hell that adorable little menace got her hands on them you’d never know, but you made a mental note to thank her later. You’d fashioned the lovely plumes into a headpiece to go along with the gown for your “date” with Vox… with special permission from Velvette, of course. Control freak tendencies were present in every Vee; it was a hellish miracle the three hadn’t consumed each other. Being obnoxiously domineering must be a requirement for joining. A glance back at Alastor. Yep. Checks out.

Your eyes lingered briefly on his antlers before shooting your attention back to Lucifer. “I hope you’ll honor us with your presence at the show, Your Majesty. It’d be a shame for you to miss it.”

His passive indifference switched to something you could only describe as abundant parental support. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss Charlie's big event for anything in Hell.”

Charlie’s eyes sparkled with validation. “Thanks, Dad, but it wasn’t just me. We wouldn’t be able to do any of this without Tem’s help.”

Seeing the chance to get on Lucifer’s good side and simultaneously piss Alastor off (the more desirable outcome), you pounced. “Don’t sell yourself short, Charlie. I’m only here because I was inspired by the passion you so clearly poured into every aspect of the hotel.”

Charlie beamed with appreciation. Behind you, the crackle of radio interference accompanied a derisive chuckle. You fought the urge to turn around to make crude gestures.

Alastor could read you like a book, immediately recognized the intention behind your sudden sycophantic display. Begrudgingly, he had to admit the tactic was rather effective and even charming, your praise rooted in sincerity. It’d be foolish not to brown-nose in your position.

A dismissive wave of your hand. Dismissing him without turning around. “Yes, yes, and Alastor escorted me here.” He couldn’t see your eye roll, but he heard it in your voice. “Your Majesty, Charlie, do you mind if we go somewhere far, far away from here and talk? There are a few last-minute things I’d love to get our King’s opinion on, if you have a minute to spare?”

“Huh? Oh, sure thing, Wem.”

Charlie cringed. “It’s Tem, Dad.”

“Of course. What did I say?”

Following the Morningstars away from the bar, you flashed Husker a cheeky grin. It wasn’t lost on Alastor that you didn’t bother to deem him worthy of even a glance.

Which was fine with him. Clearly, you were still sore from your encounter with him at Rosie’s Emporium. You held such a grudge!

Alastor shouldn't be surprised, he supposed. You were quite the stubborn one; one of the many entertaining things he’s come to learn about you.

And there was always so much to learn about you.

He recalled what Rosie said to him the day he hunted you down to her Emporium. She’d laughed when he told her about the deal between the two of you. Her parting words to him rolled around in his head ever since that day: “You should ask Tem about the Saturnalia Slaughter the next time you see her.”

The Saturnalia Slaughter.

A sentence that sent a shiver down his spine.

A sentence that made him want to put you in a terrarium to observe, cut you open on an operating table to study.

A sentence that made him want to sink his teeth into your beautifully mangled neck and never let go.

Putting those thoughts away, he hummed softly and polished off the rest of your drink. The faded remnants of blood-red lipstick stained the rim of the glass. Smile softening ever so slightly, he caressed the bottom of the smudge, thumb cutting a clean line across the bottom part of the stain.

Behind him, Husker cleared his throat, snapping Alastor out of his thoughts. He shattered the glass with the flex of his hand.

Yellow eyes warily glanced at the uncut hand. “You alright there, boss?”

Alastor dusted off the shards of glass stuck in his skin. “Care to share why you think I wouldn’t be, Husker?”

Husker groaned, exasperated, shaking his head. He knew better than to press the issue.

For a moment, Alastor quietly watched as Husk grabbed a broom and swept up the glass, debating whether to ask this of the ex-Overlord. “Husker,” he finally spoke. What do you know about the Saturnalia Slaughter?”

An apathetic shrug. “I know it was an ambush where Rosie and her cannibals took out a couple hundred men.” Husk glanced at him. “Why do you ask?”

Alastor wasn’t about to tell him why. Husker, like Rosie, had the preternatural ability to read people. However, in Alastor’s case, the old bartender would undoubtedly read into the situation incorrectly and insist on things that aren’t there.

“I was simply curious about how knowledgeable my pet is. Looks like you need to familiarize yourself with the events of this realm. You know what they say about people who refuse to learn from history.”

Alastor condescendingly pinched Husker’s cheek. He swatted Alastor’s hand away before passing him to dump the glass into bin. “Look, if you’re asking me if Temerity was ever involved in that massacre, I don’t know. She’s never talked about it with me. Why don’t you ask her yourself if you’re so interested—”

Alastor was already gone by the time Husk turned back around. He sighed and returned to work with the shake of his head.

“Hmph. They’re both idiots...”

Charlie was like a dog with two tails, running up and down the hotel to make sure everyone was available to watch the Vee’s “big event.” All the employees gathered around the television. Charlie was by far the most excited to see you and Angel Dust at this overblown spectacle, but the rest of the collective still showed interest to varying degrees. Even Husker was in attendance, flask in hand.

Alastor’s presence, however, was solely to appease Charlie. He made sure to stay on the opposite side of the group from Lucifer — there were only so many annoyances he could take in a single night. Stragglers coming and going through the hotel weren’t inclined to join in with Alastor in attendance, which was perfectly fine by him.

He didn’t see the big deal in seeing the two of you on some tacky screen, and he made his opinion known, loud and crystal clear. Angel Dust lived at the hotel, and you recently sojourned here. Alastor had no need nor interest in seeing you dressed differently than how you usually were. Oh, the things he does to get ahead…

The TV turned on, and Alastor’s eyes instantly glazed over, the buzz of a frequency only he could hear in his flattened ears.

Vox’s ego and insecurity were on full display, the VoxTech logo plastered repeatedly across the Step and Repeat banner, as if anyone would forget who’s responsible for this piffling waste of time.

The demons traipsing across the chintzy electric blue carpet were, supposedly, famous Hellborn and up-and-coming sinners. Alastor found them all to be rather unimpressive. Every year brought new demons who boasted their power only for them to be nothing but a flash in the pan or a voice in his broadcast.

The Vlue™ Carpet host also left something to be desired, their insipid questions getting enthusiastic but equally insipid answers. Some legitimate players in Hell appeared and for a moment Alastor’s interest was mildly piqued, but for the most part, he sat there in his chair for fifteen minutes, smile stretched to an ache, his eye twitching in irritation. His mind wandered to thoughts of violence to entertain himself.

His restraint should be praised. A lesser man than he would’ve put their fist through the screen.

Finally, a moment of relative intrigue arrived. Charlie squealed and bounced in her seat between Vaggie and Lucifer on the couch. Turning up the volume, she waved her free hand to shush them all.

“Look, everyone! There’s Angel and—” Charlotte gasped. “He looks a-maz-ing!”

“Yeah, he does,” Vaggie concurred. Even Husk took mild interest in the ensemble, separating himself from his flask long enough to pay attention.

Admittedly, the foul-mouthed spider looked decently presentable;the sleeveless black and maroon satin dress and matching make-up he wore made for a clean and sophisticated look, even if the ensemble matched that degenerate moth’s tacky suit.

Alastor paid minimal attention to the literal sex pest talking about his newest underwritten pornographic film. His ears twitched when Angel Dust said to the interviewer, “Val’s fans are all gonna come running to cum watch this in theaters. It’ll be an absolute blast.”

Every now and then, there’s a moment of perfect clarity that makes you take a step back to view reality and you ask yourself What the fuck am I doing here?

For Alastor, this was one of those moments.

Angel and his dolt of a pimp went on their merry way, and another adult film star took their place. Thankfully, the others were talking over the brief interview, drowning out her discussing whatever film project she had subjected to be in.

A flash of blue and purple appeared on screen, and there you were, arm in arm with that pathetic excuse of an overlord wrapped around your waist, a practiced grin on his rectangular mug.

“Oh, wow!” Niffty gawked, her eye wide open in awe at the sight of you in your dress. The others reacted similarly, amazed by what you wore. But it took everything in Alastor not to suck his teeth or roll his eyes so hard it was audible over the television.

The gown was ridiculous! Gaudy and devoid of any ounce of your personality. It was tight, especially over your chest, with the flesh of your hips exposed in some sort of hip window? Delicate silver chains draped over those same areas, along with around your neck and shoulders, making you sparkle garishly. The dress flared below your knees, mermaid-like, the material covering your heels, a stark contrast to how you normally dressed, legs free since you obviously valued mobility. Worse, those lurid electro-blues Vox was fond of drenched you. The ensemble featured very little of the red that looked good on you, save a few scant highlights and a feathered headpiece that was obviously a personal effect.

Despite the silly dress, you stood elegant as ever. Poised confidently with a bright smile, you waved to the demons off-screen there to watch the show in person. Your presence alone nearly made him forget Vox at your side.

Still, Alastor preferred to see you dressed down, covered in your victims’ blood, and a little mad: a lovely look that suited you well.

“...Alastor?”

It was Charlie leaning over to see him, a curious look on her cherubic face.

“Say that again, my dear. I’m afraid I was too invested in this riveting program to hear you.”

“I asked what you thought of Tem’s dress. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

“Ha! I suppose ‘stunned’ is one way I could describe it. It’s certainly a brave ensemble.”

Charlie’s darling smile faltered for a moment, but if she detected the sardonic lilt in his voice she didn’t point it out.

Back on the television, Vox bumped his gums about his ridiculous angelic protection technology he still pretended the company was developing, despite Heaven’s current ceasefire concerning the exterminations. Fear-mongering the denizens of Hell for his benefit would be impressive if he weren’t so hilariously transparent, the flat-faced fool.

Vox held you to his side like a prop, his arm around you sliding down until his claws dug into the flesh of your exposed hip. This display had nothing to do with you and everything to do with Vox using you to make slightly more money, gain slightly more influence, and greatly get under Alastor’s skin. His old friend was reaching new heights in pathetic pettiness if he thought an impersonal business deal meant anything.

Finally, Vox stopped his self-serving speech when the interviewer asked about you. Alastor’s smile widened almost imperceptibly; you had the foresight to jump in before Vox spoke over you. You charmingly introduced yourself and your businesses, reiterating your affiliation with the VoxTech brand and your excitement moving forward with a partnership with the Vee’s and so on and so forth.

He’d understand if you meant that; it’s a guarantee that you’ll benefit from this deal more than Vox. But Alastor could see through the mask of an eager minor Overlord you wore. You simplified yourself for the cameras to make yourself more relatable. The average sinner wouldn’t notice. They’d perceive you exactly how you wanted: polished and clean, your textures and edges smoothed out, invisible to everyone.

All except for him.

“At the moment,” you said, smiling and flashing fangs, “I’m working with the Hazbin Hotel. Princess Charlotte and I, along with help from her wonderful staff, are curating a three-week event of music, singing, and theater. Everyone across the nine circles is invited to come out and watch. Attendance and food are free. More details are available if you go on the Internet and, uh, ‘Voogle it?’ Am I saying it correctly, Vox dear?”

Charlie squealed with excitement. She hopped off the couch, barely able to contain her glee. “That’s us! That’s us! She was talking about us! On TV! You guys!”

“Babe. Breathe,” Vaggie said, but she was smiling at her partner. She placed a gentle hand on Charlie’s shoulder to guide her back to the couch.

Charlie went on — a touch more calm — about how this was good advertising even before the event and how pretty your dress looked and how ready she was for more sinners to check in. Vaggie and Lucifer listened with smiles. Husk was less involved, still content with his flask. Niffty was… her adorable gremlin self, observing everything with that twisted little grin, giggling and swinging her legs in the air from the spot on the coffee table.

On the TV, you, Vox, and the interviewer laughed at something he had said. Vox pulled away from you, prompting you to spin around so he could show you off. “Look at her! She’s beautiful in this dress.”

As the interviewer agreed, you smirked at Vox and whispered something to him that the microphone failed to hear.

“Later, dollface,” Vox chuckled, the words barely audible.

Alastor’s eye twitched. The corners of his lips curled in revulsion. On TV, you laughed and played coy when the interviewer asked you what you said, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Finally, the interview was over. You took Vox’s hand with ease, and the two of you departed down the carpet, out of sight from the camera.

Hand in hand.

The disgust pooling in Alastor’s throat was his cue to leave. He stood with a twirl of his cane. “Well, that’s enough television for one night, chums! I wouldn’t want to have my wits about me scrambled before bed, but please don’t stop watching this slop on my behalf.”

Lucifer leaned to mutter to Charlie, “The butler knows he can leave the room without announcing it?”

Alastor’s eye twitched yet again. “Oh, forgive me, your highness,” he said purposely, adjusting his monocle; “I had no idea you were even in the room. I suppose I didn’t see you all the way down there.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but Charlie jumped in, turning up the volume on the TV louder than necessary. “Hey, Dad! Look at this thing over here now!”

In truth, Alastor was grateful for her intervention. He was just irritated enough to pull the Devil into a petty argument over nothing. Normally, he’d gladly do so, but at the moment he was liable to say or do something… unbecoming.

He retired to his room. The gentle ambience of the bayou greeted him, a welcome change from the din of the TV. A nod of his head and soft jazz music drifted through the air like a kite in the wind. Skimming through his collection of books, he landed on one to unwind with for the night.

Alastor sat in one of his chairs, ankle over knee. Despite this being a book he enjoyed, the words read flat in his mind, devoid of tone. Sentences blurred and ran together, leaving behind no impact after his eyes scanned over them. He’d jump back to reread the sentence two or three times. He’d jump back to reread the sentence two or three times. A word or phrase in the text would encourage his thoughts to wander…

Love, jealousy, hatred, burst out around us in harrowing cries—

He snapped the book shut, green flames consuming the pages. Teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. He clenched his fist around the fire and charred remains. Claws digging painfully into his palm brought him back to his senses.

Blood rolled from his fist down his arm, staining his coat sleeve. He let out a sigh he should’ve snuffed out. Instead, it escaped to join the trickling waters and the cries of phantom animals in the bayou.

But the bayou heard his rue, as soft as it was.

He heard the scurry of frantic paws across a fallen log before he saw the creature. A blur of gray and brown shot towards the base of a tree. The critter — a raccoon — doused its mass of food in the frigid waters of the bayou, completely oblivious to the predator that shadowed her.

She took several bites with gluttonous joy, the hunk of meat leaving her maw bloody. Shreds of muscle tissue fell from her fangs and into the water and sank into the darkness. She devoured her meal of venison heart, gorging herself until there was nothing left but gore in her fur.

Alastor crouched, and the raccoon finally took notice of him. She flinched but didn’t flee. Rather, she foolishly approached his outstretched hand, sniffing for food but finding nothing but burnt ashes and drying blood. Humming softly, he stroked her furry head, and she nuzzled into his hand. He scratched behind her ear, hand moving behind her head to stop her from running.

What was the harm in a late-night snack?