hazbinhotei

[hazbinhotei]

[hazbinhotei]

restless. – an alastor x gn!reader star wars au.

warnings: nothing but a very inaccurate star wars universe

word count: 2288

summary: Intrigued by the tales of a lone Force user unbound by Jedi or Sith teachings, Sith Alastor simply can't resist the challenge of unraveling your mystery.

sith!alastor x gray jedi gn!reader. let me preface this entire scenario by saying i have completely no knowledge of star wars minus the very, very surface level information i researched online to write this self-indulgent story. but fran, gray jedis aren't lore accurate!—yes, but alas, i don't care. i've just been itching to bridge together my reoccuring thoughts of adam driver kylo ren edits with our favorite charming radio host. please and thank you.

The whispers began like all rumors do—hushed voices in dimly lit cantinas, exchanged between sips of luminescent drinks and the clink of credit sticks. A Gray Jedi, they said. Someone who neither bent to the will of the Jedi Order nor surrendered to the darkness of the Sith. A ghost, a myth, a power too great and too indifferent to be real.

Alastor found the concept utterly captivating.

His sharp teeth glinted as he grinned, sipping at a drink he had no real intention of finishing. The Empire had little patience for fairy tales, but he was able to convince them otherwise. A powerful Force user outside their grasp? That was a threat!, or so he claimed.

In truth, Alastor didn’t care if this Gray Jedi posed a danger. He simply had to see for himself. If they existed, oh, what fun he would have! And if not, well, he could always create a bit of chaos before leaving.

The planet his findings led him to was Kordanis—a rather dull, dusty world with jagged cliffs and markets stuffed between towering rock formations, illuminated by neon signs struggling to outshine the twin moons. It reeked of desperate traders and cutthroats who made their fortunes on the fringes of war. Alastor had sauntered through the crowded streets after his ship landed, his crimson eyes gleaming as he found a significantly crowded bar with several particularly interesting groups of bounty hunters littering the tables and counters of the establishment.

And so here he was, drink in hand, waiting patiently with his upturned ears until he heard it: the first mumblings of your existence since his arrival on Kordanis.

“You didn’t hear? Some old man swears he saw ‘em,” a Rodian murmured to his companion, voice low but not low enough. “Out past the dunes, where no one goes. Says they just… exist out there. Not helpin’, not hurtin’. Just livin’.”

“Sounds like nonsense,” the other—a human—scoffed, but there was a tremor of unease in his tone nonetheless.

Alastor’s smile widened. Oh, how he loved an audience.

With a snap of his fingers, the lights in the cantina flickered, and an unnatural hush fell over the crowd. The temperature seemed to drop, a shadow stretching unnaturally long behind him. He tilted his head, stepping forward, savoring the way the Rodian’s breath hitched.

“Well, well, well! Isn’t that just fascinating!” Alastor practically sang, his voice honeyed with mock intrigue. “A Gray Jedi, you say? Living a quiet, little life? How absolutely… pitiful.” His grin sharpened. “Tell me more.”

The bartender of the establishment, a green-skinned Twi’lek, interrupted before the two bounty hunters could reply, grunting at Alastor. He placed the mug he was drying down on the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “This planet’s neutral space, Sith. Take your war somewhere else.”

Alastor sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. "Oh, how utterly boring," he lamented, rolling his eyes. "I was hoping for a bit of hospitality. Alas! If words won’t do, perhaps a little… persuasion?"

With a flick of his wrist, the air itself seemed to tremble. The lights dimmed further, an eerie pressure filling the room. Glasses rattled against the bartop, and a faint whisper, something just at the edge of hearing, slithered through the minds of the patrons. It was not words, not exactly—just the sensation of something watching from the shadows, ready to pounce at any second.

The bartender’s jaw tightened, but his bravado wavered. “Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t bring trouble back here.”

The two hunters, now thoroughly unsettled, swallowed thickly as Alastor turned his gaze back to them. "Now then! If you fine gentlemen don’t mind, once more, from the top," he said, his grin stretching wide once more. "Tell me everything."

One of them, the Rodian’s human companion, licked his lips hesitantly. "We've… we've seen signs. Supplies vanishing from traders' routes, strange footprints near the mountains. Some say they hear whispers in the wind, but no one's actually seen 'em."

Alastor scoffed, tapping a sharp nail against the bar. "Oh dear, a ghost story? How absolutely riveting!” His voice was thick with sarcasm, his tone sickeningly condescending as he rolled his eyes. “What makes you think this little Gray Jedi exists?”

The Rodian shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his companion before replying. “I-I never said they were Jedi! Just… something else. Something powerful.”

The human, more gruff but equally wary, grunted. “Yeah, we’ve never seen ‘em, but we aren’t necessarily the kind of folks who go out searching for a guaranteed death wish. We’ve seen dozens of creatures go after ‘em, but no one’s ever caught ‘em in the act…”

The Rodian finished his buddy’s sentence, nodding his head eagerly to try and avoid Alastor’s wrath just in case he decided their information wasn’t worthy of his time. “People always disappear when they go looking.”

Alastor scoffed, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Oh, how mysterious!” He leaned in, flashing a toothy grin. “And where, my good gentlemen, do these unfortunate seekers vanish?”

The Rodian from before, still looking shaken, spoke up. "There’s a desolate mountain range to the north. Difficult to navigate. That’s where the sightings lead."

Alastor hummed in thought, intrigued. "Now that is interesting. A puzzle wrapped in isolation…”—Alastor paused for a second, gazing over the two bounty hunters before replying dismissively—”You two seem smarter than you look."

Without so much as a thank-you, he spun on his heel, striding toward the exit. The patrons exhaled in relief as the shadows lining the walls vanished, slipping back under Alastor’s long red cape, though no one dared to move until he was fully gone.

You stirred the stew slowly with a wooden spoon, watching as it bubbled. The aroma of simmering herbs filled your modest home, the only sounds being the quiet crackle of the fire and the occasional whistle of the wind outside. Life was simple here. You preferred it that way.

You had heard the stories of the Jedi and the Sith. Of empires rising and falling, of heroes and tyrants waging wars in the name of balance and power. But you had never cared for any of it. The Force was a tool, nothing more. It did not demand your loyalty, nor did it shape your destiny. You existed beyond the petty squabbles of the galaxy, and you intended to keep it that way. 

Just as you were about to stop stirring, you felt him. You felt him before any of your other senses were alerted to his presence—a shift in the air, a singular drop of grain in the Force making you pause.

You did not turn immediately. Instead, you reached with your free hand for a ladle hanging on the kitchen rack above you, dipping it in the broth and lifting it to your mouth for a taste. Still a bit longer, you hummed to yourself as the flames under the cooking stew flickered.

The wind outside had changed. 

Someone was here. 

Someone powerful. 

You exhaled through your nose, setting the ladle aside on the counter. “Knocking is customary,” you said, your voice calm, even as your grip tightened slightly around the wooden spoon.

There was no response for a beat, until laughter echoed around your home. A rich, unsettling chuckle that seemed to dance through the air. Then, a voice, far too joyous for the circumstances:

“My, my! You are a hard one to find indeed!”

You turned. And there he was—tall, dressed in dark red robes that clashed with the night. His yellow smile was too wide, his blood red eyes too bright. He did not carry himself like other Sith. He was not weighed down by anger, nor was he wrapped in the suffocating rigidity of the Jedi. No, he was something else entirely. Something that only craved control.

“Alastor,” he introduced himself with a grandiose bow, as if this were some cordial affair. “A pleasure to meet you, truly!”

You did not return the sentiment, pursing your lips slightly at the intruder in your home. “You’re Sith.”

“Oh, let’s not put labels on things so soon! I’ve come such a long way, after all.” He took a step closer, hands behind his back, his voice laced with something almost playful as he observed you. “You’re quite the elusive one! And my, my, what rumors they tell. A being completely one with the Force, all alone in the wastelands, wielding great power yet doing absolutely… nothing with it! What an interesting tale.”

You met his gaze, unshaken. “And?”

His grin did not waver, but there was something sharp beneath it now. “And… I simply had to see it for myself.”

The fire flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Outside, the wind howled, as if the very planet was holding its breath. You studied him, this Sith who did not act like a Sith. His energy crackled in the Force—wild, erratic, almost musical in its chaos. It was clear he was not here for conquest, not here for a fight. He was here because he was curious. Because he wanted to see what happened next.

And perhaps, so did you.

Alastor hummed, taking in the space around him with an exaggerated tilt of his head. “I must say, I was expecting… well, more. A fortress, perhaps? A hidden temple? Not a humble little kitchen.” His eyes flickered to the pot. “Ah, but what is this? Stew? Surely not what a being of your power concerns themselves with.”

You turn to face the stove once more, stirring the pot absently. “I eat. It keeps me alive.”

He watched as you turned your back to him, his grin practically taking the entirety of his lower face as he narrowed his eyes to watch your silhouette. You were so disinterested, so bored, it made his mind light up with pure fascination. “Ah, a pragmatic answer! But tell me, truly—do you not find it dull? The quiet? The solitude? All that power, and yet here you are, toiling over dinner.”

You met his gaze as you glanced behind, your voice flat. “I guess that means you’re not here to try my stew.”

Laughter bubbled from him, a melodic, almost manic sound. “Oh! I do like you! So astute! No, no, I’m afraid my palate requires a different sort of indulgence.” He leaned forward, his red eyes glinting. “You know, don’t you? That I bear no true malice.”

“I know.”

He paused, momentarily intrigued by your certainty. “And yet, you still fail to grasp my purpose here.”

You sighed, setting the spoon down to face him once more. “I don’t concern myself with politics. You’re here out of curiosity, I know that much. But I don’t know why someone like you would waste your time trying to find someone like me.”

Alastor placed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Oh, but curiosity is reason enough! You are the only one of your kind! A force user, a Gray Jedi, powerful enough to remain untouched by both light and dark. And yet you do… nothing with it?”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “You speak as though power is a thing that demands to be used.”

“Doesn’t it?” He tilted his head. “Every wielder of the Force I have encountered has sought something. Purpose. Power. Control. Even the Jedi, in their self-righteousness, are bound by their own dogma. But you…” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “You are indifferent. You’re practically a blank slate, my dear.”

(You didn't feel the need to explain to him that your lack of interest in seeking something higher wasn’t born from indifference, but rather from isolation—from being seen not as a person, but as something irreverently powerful. A force to be studied, feared, or sought after, never simply understood.)

You regarded him for a moment before replying, raising a brow hesitantly at him. “Indifference isn’t a lack of power.”

Alastor let that thought settle, a slow, appreciative chuckle slipping past his lips. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Perhaps that is what makes you so dangerous. Or…” He leaned in close, his red eyes glowing as he stared intensely into your own. You bristled slightly, feeling him trying to read your mind, yet you unsurprisingly didn’t budge, “so restless.”

He pulled away, his grin never fading. “Ah, but I shan’t overstay my welcome! I have what I came for.”

Your already raised brow lifted even more, frowning as you crossed your arms defensively. “And what’s that?”

“Why, the answer to my question, of course! You are exactly as they say—a force of your own, untethered, unshaken.” He took a dramatic step backward, offering another bow. “Delightful! Simply delightful.”

You watched him, unmoved. “You’re leaving, then?”

“For now!” His laughter echoed once more, rich and theatrical. “But I do hope you don’t mind a repeat visit. I have a feeling you’re quite good company!”

And with that, he was gone, slipping into the night like a specter, leaving nothing behind but the lingering echo of his amusement and the faintest whisper of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You repeated the word he used to describe you in your head: Restless. Were you restless? You hadn't thought of it before, simply living day to day with the mundane tasks you conjured up for yourself. The closest thing to excitement was fending off the occasional hunter foolish enough to track you down—that is, until Alastor showed up.

You slowly turned back to your stew, watching as the flames returned to their usual flicker once Alastor's presence fully left your premises. You watched the bubbles rise and pop quietly, your stomach churning in worried confusion. You sighed deeply to yourself: what did you just get yourself into?

[hazbinhotei]

as i just scheduled the last request in my inbox, this is a soft reminder that:

my requests are open!

i don't have set rules for my requests yet since this is still a fresh account (and i'm trying to be as open as possible), but i'd love to make any alastor x reader ideas come true — au requests are also very welcome! send any prompt my way and i'll try to do my best <3

[hazbinhotei]

hello!! I came with a request hehe, what if reader was a detective when alastor was still alive and they managed to pin his crimes back at him, they just need more evidence for proof... they died from a stupid death LIKE imagine them meeting alastor in hell and he's like oh fancy seeing u here, what's your cause of death? reader died from falling off the building or sum idk but its kinda funny bcs alastor wasn't expecting them to die from such a cause ? he be expecting them to live long after what they did to him on earth... also to see them here in hell? wth did they do to lend themselves here ( feel free to take on this request, and thanks in advance if you do! sorry if its a little vague i iust wanna spill this idea after listening to daisies by the pilot alastor hehe )

my darling anon, thank you for being my very first request!✧˖°.

now rereading your ask, i realize i essentially missed almost all of your cues and might have went fully off the rails with my own scenario, but i hope you still enjoy nonetheless... you are always more than welcome to request more ideas to me <3

[ read the scenario here ᯓ★]

[hazbinhotei]

find a way.

warnings: murder, descriptions of both alastor's and reader's deaths, mentions of bones breaking, alastor being a little shit, mentions of cannabalism (thanks rosie!), slightly yandere!alastor if you squint hard enough

word count: 3111

summary: Dying before you're able to reveal the truth of the Bayou Butcher, you find yourself somehow back in your late lover's arms (potentially with the murderous help of your very lover).

alastor x detective!gn!reader. thank you to the anon who requested this story—i might have gone a little off the rails with this one. sorry if the tones are all over the place, i really tried keeping this as short as i could (but i really could have written a multi-chapter story with a prompt like this)! hope you all enjoy!

The air in New Orleans always carried a humid weight, thick with the scent of damp earth, magnolias, and the faint decay of something best left unnamed. It clung to your skin, soaked into your lungs, but tonight, it felt heavier than usual. Or maybe that was just your grief making everything feel just a little harder to bear.

It had been twenty-eight days since Alastor died.

A ridiculous death for a man so utterly drenched in theatricality. Gunned down in the woods by some jittery hunter who mistook him for a deer, of all things. If only they knew what had really been skulking through the trees that night—what kind of predator had truly stalked those woods. What kind of smile had stretched across his face as he buried yet another body beneath the gnarled roots of the swamp. How he had likely still been grinning when the bullet tore through him, the joke of it all too delicious to resist.

You had spent those twenty-eight days trapped in a haze of grief, your mind slipping between fond memories of him and the horrifying suspicion that had taken root long before his untimely demise.

The Bayou Butcher.

A string of disappearances, bodies found days later carved up with something far too precise to be called mindless brutality. You had been on this case for months, following the trail of carnage through the underbelly of the city, through the murky swamps and dimly lit backstreets. And the closer you got, the more you realized that the pieces of the puzzle looked disturbingly familiar. The sharp, clean cuts. The haunting laughter some witnesses swore they heard in the distance. The overwhelming sensation that the killer was playing with you, leaving breadcrumbs just for the fun of watching you chase after them.

Then suddenly, Alastor died; and the murders stopped.

You weren’t a fool. You knew. You had known for some time. But knowing wasn’t the same as proving, and some foolish part of you—some lovesick, desperate part of you—wanted to be wrong. Wanted to believe that you hadn’t spent years sleeping beside a monster, that the hands that held you so gently weren’t the same ones that had carved up bodies in the dead of night.

Which was how you found yourself here, wandering through the bayou with nothing but a lantern, a revolver at your hip, and the gnawing certainty that he was still watching you.

The swamp was eerily quiet, save for the occasional croak of a bullfrog or the distant splash of something unseen breaking the surface of the water. Spanish moss hung low, ghostly fingers stretching toward you, swaying with a breeze that didn’t quite exist. The lantern’s light flickered, casting long, shifting shadows that played tricks on your weary mind. You swore under your breath as the sudden movement of a beetle caused you to jump in fear, your voice shaky as you cursed Alastor’s entire existence.

The deeper you went, the more the world seemed to close in around you. The trees loomed taller, their branches like skeletal limbs reaching for you. The mud sucked at your boots, thick and unwilling to let you pass unscathed. You could practically see Alastor's crescent smile in the moon shining brightly above you.

Then, a whisper of movement. A trick of the wind… or something more?

You turned sharply, the beam of your lantern slicing through the darkness. Nothing but trees and tangled roots. The reflection of a pair of red eyes—

No. Just the glint of light against stagnant water.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, an almost rhythmic thumping. Like laughter, distant and familiar, curling around the edges of your thoughts. You shook your head quickly, trying to dispel the chills creeping up your back.

“Ah, detective,” the memory of his voice purred. “Still chasing ghosts?”

You gritted your teeth and pressed forward. If there was anything left of Alastor’s secrets, they’d be here, buried beneath the cypress trees, hidden in the mud where he had left his victims to rot. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally find the proof you needed. Maybe, just maybe, you could finally let him go.

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter. It sent a shiver down your spine, a primal warning that you were not welcome here. That you were trespassing in a graveyard of his making.

You stumbled upon a clearing, the earth disturbed, something recently unearthed or perhaps never properly buried to begin with. The stench of decay slithered into your nostrils, thick and undeniable. You knelt down, brushing away the wet leaves, the lantern’s glow illuminating the unmistakable sight of bone.

Then, the ground shifted beneath you.

Your foot caught on something—an exposed root, gnarled and treacherous. The world tilted, the lantern flew from your grasp, and you barely had time to register the sharp crack of your neck meeting unyielding wood before everything went black.

Silence.

And right as your consciousness slips, your very soul leaving your body, you hear it. A chuckle—low, amused, dripping with that ever-present jollity you thought you’d never hear again. As your chest heaved for the last time, you stared up at the trees.

Red eyes blinked into existence, shifting and swirling in the dark like embers catching fire. A shadowed figure loomed just beyond the veil of death, the air thick with something unseen but unmistakable. A presence. A voice, silk-soft and brimming with delighted cruelty.

“Now, now, darling,” it cooed. “I do hope you weren’t expecting a peaceful end.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. A final, shuddering exhale as the cold crept in and the world faded to nothing but his laughter, ringing through the trees like a death knell.

And then his whisper, curling in your ear, seeping into the marrow of your bones like the inevitable rot of something long since claimed by the bayou.

“Oh, darling,” he drawled, voice lilting with amusement. “You didn’t really think I’d let you leave me, did you?”

The last thing you felt was the curl of phantom fingers tracing your jaw. A lover’s touch. A predator’s claim.

“Damn you, Alastor,” you wanted to say.

But the swamp had already swallowed your voice whole.

Rosie had surprisingly gotten to you before Alastor did.

Her thick New York accent rang through your ears as your senses struggled to adjust, the overwhelming sight of varying shades of red making your head spin as you slowly opened your eyes. Everything was red—the sky, the streets, even the very air seemed to hum with a crimson glow. Your vision swam as you tried to make sense of it all, your equilibrium thrown completely off.

"Oh dear, let’s get that fixed," Rosie said, her clawed hands suddenly gripping your face. Before you could react, she tilted your head with a loud 'krrrck!'. Your spine jolted, the sensation somewhere between relief and pure agony. "You must've died hitting your neck with the way your head was all screwed up! Ain't that better."

Your hands shot up to grasp the side of your head, your mind still catching up with your body. Had that really just happened? You swallowed, testing the movement. No pain. No resistance. It was as if she had snapped everything back into place with the casual ease of someone used to handling broken bones.

You blinked up at the woman in front of you, the full realization creeping in like a slow, sinking weight. You were dead. And judging by her... unsettling appearance—wide, hollowed-out eyes, sharp-toothed smile, a presence that reeked of something both inviting and ominous—you could only assume the worst.

"Where... where am I?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it aloud.

Rosie grinned, amusement dancing across her face. "Oh honey, where do ya think? Welcome to Hell!" She spread her long arms out as if presenting a grand prize, her voice laced with something between mirth and menace. "Surprised ya ain't screamin'. Most fresh meat ain't this calm!"

You exhaled sharply, mind racing. You had no idea how you were supposed to react, but screaming felt pointless. You had spent the last month chasing a ghost—and now you had become one.

Rosie seemed to take your silence as a good sign. "Nice to meet you sweetheart, I'm Rosie. Think of me as the mayor of this part of the ring." She hummed to herself, placing a pointed nail at her chin as she inspected you. 

"So, ya know anyone down here who might lend ya a hand? Get ya settled? Mother, father, old boyfriend perhaps?" The empty voids of her eyes seemed to glisten with amusement at your bewildered eyes, your reactions delayed as you tried to make sense of what she just said.

Before you could even realize it, a laugh bubbled past your lips, humorless and breathless. ‘Know anyone down here’? You practically had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at her words. You knew deep down that murderous lover of yours was down here with you, since there was absolutely zero chance of him seeing the pearly gates. Sighing softly, you reply: "I’m sure a man named Alastor Hartfelt is somewhere around here."

Rosie’s hollow eyes widened, the jagged grin stretching further across her face as recognition dawned. "You know Al? My, my, that boy's been down here for a month and he's already makin' headlines."

Of course, he was. This time you couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling, a pinch of unsurprised annoyance in your chest at the mere thought of him already trying to make a name for himself in this wretched realm. He was Alastor Hartfelt, after all.

Rosie wasted no time ushering you forward from your spot on the ground against a tree, leading you through the streets of what she called 'Cannibal Town' (you were too scared to ask if she meant it in a literal sense) until you reached a gaudy, vibrant storefront—Rosie's Emporium. The moment you stepped inside, you were hit with the scent of something sickly sweet, like sugar masking something far more rotten beneath. The shop was cluttered with all sorts of strange oddities, from towering shelves of canned goods labeled with unfamiliar names to displays of pastries that looked suspiciously human-shaped.

She plopped you onto a plush chair and clapped her hands together. "Now, sit tight while I ring up your ol’ pal. He'll wanna hear about this."

As she turned away, you glanced around, trying to push down the nausea creeping up your throat. Your gaze landed on a tray of delicately arranged cookies labeled "Lady Fingers."

Too literal.

Rosie caught the look on your face and burst into laughter, slapping the counter with one clawed hand. "What, not a fan of homemade treats? Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get used to the way things work around here soon enough."

You swallowed hard, forcing down the disgust as you leaned back in your seat with a small nod. Despite your horror at your new permanent residency in Hell, Rosie had been a surprisingly very accommodating host. She was in the middle of explaining the whole power system of Hell, explaining the different Overlords who ruled over ‘Sinners’ when the bell above the door jingled. Rosie turned with a gasp of delight. "Well, speak of the devil!"

You straightened slightly, wiping your (now very inhuman looking) hands on your pants. You were oddly nervous, blaming your newness to everything as the reason why you felt out of place. You barely had a second to clear your throat before Rosie flung open the front door with a flourish. And there he was. 

Alastor stepped inside, exuding that same lively confidence he had carried in life, his grin ever-persistent. Though, this time, his teeth had become sharp yellow spikes, your throat closing at the way his appearance was so close to being human yet so horrifyingly demonic. A pair of fluffy red fur—were those ears?!—lined the top of his head, his previous brown curls now red with black ends. His once deep skin now morphed into a muted gray, his honeyed eyes now a glowing bright red that matched basically the rest of his very red, very Hellish appearance. He greeted Rosie with his usual polite enthusiasm, but the moment his eyes landed on you, the entire atmosphere of the emporium shifted.

A record scratch blared through the air, so sharp and sudden you winced.

A quiet moment passed by before you shot him a flat look, fiddling your fingers behind your back as you fought back the nerves of seeing him after a whole month; this time in an entirely new world. "...Please tell me you didn’t develop some sort of weird demonic radio powers."

Alastor blinked, then let out a burst of laughter—a static-laced, warped sound, as if spoken through a microphone. "Oh-ho! My dear, how delightful it is to see you again! And so soon!" He stepped forward, eyes roaming over your new Sinner form, his grin stretching impossibly wider. His eyes seemed to narrow imperceptibly at your neck, your mind wondering if it was clear you died from a fracture. "My, my, death has done quite the number on you. But oh, how I missed you!"

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Cut the act. Let’s get this over with." Your voice was sharp, defensive, though your heart was betraying you with its erratic beats. "You were the Bayou Butcher, weren’t you?"

Alastor tsked, amusement flickering in his red eyes. "I always knew you would be the one to figure it out!" He let out a theatrical sigh. "Tell me, did you tarnish my name? Did you flourish in watching my legacy turn to ash as you revealed all my secrets?"

Your mouth twitched in embarrassment, a shameful blush dusting your cheeks as you paused for a moment. "I died before I actually could."

Something unreadable crossed his face, but his grin remained steady. A knowing sparkle danced in his eyes, one that made your stomach twist. "Ah, what a shame," he murmured, the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice as the radio static that surrounded his voice oddly disappeared. (You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped at the familiar sound of his raw voice, your cheeks warming even more at being so close to the man you loved dearly and hated so much at the same time.)

You narrowed your eyes, a suspicion creeping in that you didn’t dare voice. You remember the chills on your body that night in the bayou right before your death, something unseen watching you from the shadows. In the center of the emporium, Alastor watched as the gears slowly churned in your head, his eyes watching you like a hunter watching his prey walk into the trap he layed out.

Before you could dwell on it, Alastor took your hand in his, lifting it to his lips. "But what luck! You’re here now! Right back at my side where you belong."

Your fingers curled slightly, a frown tugging at your lips. "You sound way too happy about this."

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a rare glimpse into something deeper, almost tender beneath all the showmanship. A sight you hardly saw, but knew all too well what it meant. "And why wouldn’t I be?" he purred. "After all, did you really think I'd simply let death do us part?"

You let out a deep breath, exhaling all the stress and loneliness of the last few weeks into the warm air. You looked at him, watching him rub the back of your hand with his soft velveteen hands. Your heart clenched, twisted, but you couldn’t deny the warmth creeping through you at his words. As much as you hated to admit it, some twisted part of you was glad to see him, to hear his voice, to be near him once again.

Alastor chuckled, tilting his head as he observed you, his expression lingering between smug and affection. "Oh, I do believe I’m seeing that little smile! Admit it, you missed me."

You rolled your eyes, but the ghost of a smirk betrayed you. "I missed my peace and quiet, that’s for sure."

Alastor gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "How cruel! And here I thought our love transcended such petty grievances."

Raising a brow at him, you continued with your waveringly indifferent tone. "Oh, please. You were probably prancing around Hell long before I got here, already charming your way into some demon’s good graces."

His grin widened as he leaned closer, his voice dipping to something more intimate as he rested his forehead against yours, his spine curling to meet your height. "Ah, you know me so well, cher." He closes his eyes for a moment, his grip on your hand becoming so gentle, so tender, as if he was worried this was all just a figment of his imagination. "But none of them compare to you, dearest. You were always my favorite dance partner."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of irritation and something far too affectionate settling in your chest. You huffed, lightly shoving his shoulder with your free hand. "Still as dramatic as ever, I see."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, spinning you in place with an effortless twirl, as if he were leading a ballroom dance. "Why of course! Have you already forgotten the man you fell in love with?" He gasps with faux offense, pulling you tightly to him.

His glowing red eyes sparkle with that dangerous frivolity you recognize from all those years together, his mouth morphing into an impish grin as he looks down at you. You felt his clawed fingers hold your waist tighter, his eyes scanning your face to remember every single detail of your new demonic appearance. You could only look back at him in slight amusement, surprised to find him eyeing you with such intensity. His lips pulled tightly together as he fought the urge to shadow you away from all of Hell, somewhere private where he could spend this new eternity with you—and only you. 

You glanced down at his parting lips, time slowing down as he opens his mouth to say something to you without the accompaniment of radio static once more. You were certain that if you had a heart left in that dead chest of yours, it would have skipped a beat at his next words.

"You know, for you, dearest, I’ll always find a way to have you back at my side."

[hazbinhotei]

13.... 137... 137 notes?!?!!!

i'm so happy you guys are enjoying this little oneshot! <3 i'm currently editing my next one to be posted later tonight, but i just wanted to show my appreciation for the love shown so far. love you all dearly!

coming home to you.

warnings: none besides tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 804

summary: After a long, exhausting day of overlord duties, Alastor finds solace in the one place he truly feels at ease—home, in your arms.

alastor x gn!reader. just a short little scenario to help me bust out my very old, very outdated fic writing skills. lord has it been a while. enjoy!

You hum to yourself as you rinse off your plate, watching the last remnants of your dinner swirl down the sink. Your shared hotel suite with Alastor was silent, save for the pocket dimension of his hometown bayou leaking the sound of frogs croaking and crickets chirping into the room. It was a particularly peaceful night—as peaceful as it could be in Hell—and you relish the slowness of it all.

Normally, you would have waited for Alastor to return home from work before eating, but tonight was one of his late ones. Instead of his usual duties working around the hotel, Carmilla had rung up all the Overlords, calling an emergency meeting at her building to discuss the ‘future state of the Pride Ring.’ Whatever that meant.

His words echoed in your mind, spoken with that ever-charming lilt: "Don't wait for me to eat, cher." So, you had taken his advice, eating alone at the small table in your shared suite. It wasn’t the same without him, but you knew he’d appreciate coming home to a warm, welcoming space.

Just as you finish drying the last of your cutlery, the door to the hotel room creaks open, a sound normally followed by a charming comment or dramatic tease from its owner. But tonight, it drags like a body across the floor, heavy and slow. Alastor steps inside, his usual unshakable grin barely holding its form, his shoulders drawn with an unfamiliar weight. The Radio Demon, the grinning nightmare of the Pride Ring, looks… exhausted.

You’re at his side before he can blink, reaching for his striped red coat with practiced ease.

“Welcome home, darling.” Your voice is soft, soothing, the very opposite of the blaring white noise that so often accompanies him. You peel the crimson fabric from his sharp shoulders, the weight of it far heavier than it should be, steeped in the burdens of whatever dealings he’s handled today. He lets you, uncharacteristically still as you hang it up, your fingers brushing over the lapels just a moment longer.

“You know,” he drawls, his voice carrying that ever-present hum, though softer now, sleepier. “I do believe I’ve found my favorite part of the day.”

You hum in acknowledgement, trying to fight off the blush creeping up your neck at his affectionate words as you lead him to the couch with a gentle tug on his hand. He follows, pliant, sinking into the plush cushions with an exhale that nearly sounds human. Nearly.

Before he can so much as adjust his bowtie, you’re already working on it, nimble fingers loosening the fabric with a tenderness most would never dare to offer him. His eyes, normally glinting with endless mischief, watch you with something quieter, something raw.

“How bad was it?” you ask, brushing his hair back, reveling in the way he leans ever so slightly into your touch.

His chuckle is breathy, almost disbelieving. “Dreadful,” he admits, closing his eyes as your fingers trail down to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck. “A bore, really. Politics, power plays—the same old predictable tricks.”

He sighs as you press a firm kiss to his temple. “The only true entertainment,” he continues, his voice tapering into something softer, “is right here.”

Your chest tightens at that, warmth spreading through you like honey in tea. You shift, guiding him down until his head is resting in your lap. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t quip or tease. He simply lets himself be held. “You’re such a terrible liar,” you muse, twirling a red face-framing lock of hair between your fingers. “You would go mad if you couldn’t wreak havoc on the citizens of Hell.”

He only hums in response, the sound deep from his chest as he gazes up at you with half-lidded eyes. For a while, there’s only silence. The gentle hum of the hotel, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the slow, steady glide of your fingers through his hair.

Then, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet, he murmurs, “I do hope you know how much I appreciate you.”

You pause, fingers stilling for just a second before continuing, even gentler than before. Your smile is small but genuine as you lean down, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s nice to hear.”

Alastor chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before pulling you down into his arms. You yelp as he shifts, dragging you onto the couch with him until you’re properly tangled together. His grin, tired as it may be, finds its strength again as he nuzzles into you, his arms looping around your waist with an ease that speaks of years spent loving you.

And for once, the ever-boisterous, ever-smiling, ever-exhausting Radio Demon allows himself the simple comfort of just being.

With you.

[hazbinhotei]

Silly doodles of silly characters

[hazbinhotei]

coming home to you.

warnings: none besides tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 804

summary: After a long, exhausting day of overlord duties, Alastor finds solace in the one place he truly feels at ease—home, in your arms.

alastor x gn!reader. just a short little scenario to help me bust out my very old, very outdated fic writing skills. lord has it been a while. enjoy!

You hum to yourself as you rinse off your plate, watching the last remnants of your dinner swirl down the sink. Your shared hotel suite with Alastor was silent, save for the pocket dimension of his hometown bayou leaking the sound of frogs croaking and crickets chirping into the room. It was a particularly peaceful night—as peaceful as it could be in Hell—and you relish the slowness of it all.

Normally, you would have waited for Alastor to return home from work before eating, but tonight was one of his late ones. Instead of his usual duties working around the hotel, Carmilla had rung up all the Overlords, calling an emergency meeting at her building to discuss the ‘future state of the Pride Ring.’ Whatever that meant.

His words echoed in your mind, spoken with that ever-charming lilt: "Don't wait for me to eat, cher." So, you had taken his advice, eating alone at the small table in your shared suite. It wasn’t the same without him, but you knew he’d appreciate coming home to a warm, welcoming space.

Just as you finish drying the last of your cutlery, the door to the hotel room creaks open, a sound normally followed by a charming comment or dramatic tease from its owner. But tonight, it drags like a body across the floor, heavy and slow. Alastor steps inside, his usual unshakable grin barely holding its form, his shoulders drawn with an unfamiliar weight. The Radio Demon, the grinning nightmare of the Pride Ring, looks… exhausted.

You’re at his side before he can blink, reaching for his striped red coat with practiced ease.

“Welcome home, darling.” Your voice is soft, soothing, the very opposite of the blaring white noise that so often accompanies him. You peel the crimson fabric from his sharp shoulders, the weight of it far heavier than it should be, steeped in the burdens of whatever dealings he’s handled today. He lets you, uncharacteristically still as you hang it up, your fingers brushing over the lapels just a moment longer.

“You know,” he drawls, his voice carrying that ever-present hum, though softer now, sleepier. “I do believe I’ve found my favorite part of the day.”

You hum in acknowledgement, trying to fight off the blush creeping up your neck at his affectionate words as you lead him to the couch with a gentle tug on his hand. He follows, pliant, sinking into the plush cushions with an exhale that nearly sounds human. Nearly.

Before he can so much as adjust his bowtie, you’re already working on it, nimble fingers loosening the fabric with a tenderness most would never dare to offer him. His eyes, normally glinting with endless mischief, watch you with something quieter, something raw.

“How bad was it?” you ask, brushing his hair back, reveling in the way he leans ever so slightly into your touch.

His chuckle is breathy, almost disbelieving. “Dreadful,” he admits, closing his eyes as your fingers trail down to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck. “A bore, really. Politics, power plays—the same old predictable tricks.”

He sighs as you press a firm kiss to his temple. “The only true entertainment,” he continues, his voice tapering into something softer, “is right here.”

Your chest tightens at that, warmth spreading through you like honey in tea. You shift, guiding him down until his head is resting in your lap. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t quip or tease. He simply lets himself be held. “You’re such a terrible liar,” you muse, twirling a red face-framing lock of hair between your fingers. “You would go mad if you couldn’t wreak havoc on the citizens of Hell.”

He only hums in response, the sound deep from his chest as he gazes up at you with half-lidded eyes. For a while, there’s only silence. The gentle hum of the hotel, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the slow, steady glide of your fingers through his hair.

Then, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet, he murmurs, “I do hope you know how much I appreciate you.”

You pause, fingers stilling for just a second before continuing, even gentler than before. Your smile is small but genuine as you lean down, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s nice to hear.”

Alastor chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before pulling you down into his arms. You yelp as he shifts, dragging you onto the couch with him until you’re properly tangled together. His grin, tired as it may be, finds its strength again as he nuzzles into you, his arms looping around your waist with an ease that speaks of years spent loving you.

And for once, the ever-boisterous, ever-smiling, ever-exhausting Radio Demon allows himself the simple comfort of just being.

With you.

[hazbinhotei]

i guess i should create an introduction post?

but hello everyone! i'm francis, a girl who's been hyperfixating on the red radio man since the pilot release. i have utterly no clue how this blog is going to go (and if it'll even stay active after 2 days), but i'm pleased to have you here with me in the meantime.

i write solely alastor x reader stories. most stories will have a gn!reader but if i decide to write any nsfw topics, they will most likely be f!reader. i'll specify in the post ♡

asks are always open, so feel free to send me some fun ideas for scenarios. i'll create a more formal post if this little hazbin haven does seem to hold more lifespan than i currently give it.

until next time! ⋆˙⟡