#Alastor/oc

[shinynewboots]

Sweet Nothings: An Alastor Story (18+)

Summary: Alastor loved his wife. His beautiful, angelic wife with the perfectly imperfect chip in her front tooth. His poor wife, who whispered sweet nothings into his ear as he killed a man.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: Angst, assault, implied sexual assault, murder, blood, gore, mutilation, death, corpses, hallucinations, decomposition, Alastor before Hell

AN: Definitely one of the darkest things I've ever written. I hope you all enjoy it!

AO3

Alastor entered the house, discarding his shoes as he always did lest his wife playfully scold him about the dirt and mud he was liable to track into the foyer. She was right, of course, as Louisiana found itself stuck into the crevices and empty spaces of his shoes, skin, and soul. His mother used to scold him for the same thing (never his father however, and so she spent most of her days sweeping the house free of the bayou rather than face his wrath). 

He dutifully went to the kitchen and began to prepare them a pot of coffee to wind down and discuss their days over. The kitchen was tidy, as his wife preferred it that way. 

“What if we have guests, Alastor? I can’t have them thinkin’ we’re livin’ in a pig stye.” She replied whenever he felt she was working too hard on the housework and expressed as much to her. They never did have guests, but he appreciated the sentiment 

He grabbed the two mugs of coffee, his black and hers a creamy tan color (5 sugars and 2 dashes of cream). She preferred the sweeter things in life. He had no idea why she had chosen to marry him, as his soul was as bitter as the black liquid he held. 

“Here you are, darlin’,” He said, dropping the ‘g’ like a sticky southern night as he set the coffee beside her chair. She sat quietly, watching the fireplace. The radio that sat on the side table played gentle static. 

“How was your day, cher ?” He asked, dropping in the chair beside her and facing the fireplace. He looked over at her and took in the delicate softness of her face, the gentle lines that crinkled when she smiled at him. Her wispy blonde hair glowed against the fire and it took everything in him not to brush it behind her ear just as an excuse to touch her. 

She didn’t answer him. She rarely did when they were alone anymore. Not that this bothered Alastor, he could talk enough to appease the both of them. She preferred it that way anyway, listening to him talk. She was always more reserved, a bit of a wallflower. 

“Well, the show went well, darlin’, as always. Though I know you listened to it. I did play a new song by that Ellington fellow.” Alastor said, taking a sip of the bitter liquid. “ Mood Indigo. A tad somber, but I found I quite liked the mystery of it.”

She didn’t respond, but he could tell by her expression towards the fireplace that she agreed with his assessment. 

“I did also run into Mimzy, oh don’t give me that look,” He jested as he thought he saw her expression drop. “You know she adores you. She asked why she hadn’t seen us at the club in a while.”

Another sip. “Oh course, I gave her your condolences and alluded to your health. I hope you don’t mind darlin’.”

Of course, she didn’t mind. She would be up in arms if she had. 

Alastor smiled at her, a bright brilliant smile, more genuine than the one he wore around town. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, his large hand completely covering her small, bony one. 

“I do so enjoy our evenings together, darlin’.”

His enchanting wife had been eager to accompany him on his unsavory nighttime activities. She always had an eye for finding his newest victim. Her preferred targets of choice were men who harassed women on the street. Men who got a little too handsy with a young lady who was too far deep into the giggle water. Men who found pleasure and little shame in antagonizing the women of New Orleans. 

Alastor found he agreed with his wife’s choices. Even if she hadn’t egged him on, he would have come to the same conclusion of victim himself. He could still remember the day he had saved her from being a victim of an unsavory character himself. 

He had heard her call out from a New Orleans sidestreet and by the grace of some divine being, he had managed to find her with a man’s hand around her throat and his hands under her dress so far that he could see her cotton slip. She had screamed and struggled against the assailant, her cherubic face contorted into terror. 

The noises, the high-pitched scream she made as the man attempted to violate her in the most unimaginable way would visit Alastor in his sleep. It was the worst noise he had ever heard in his life and they haunted him. The fact that he was almost too late to save his beautiful mourning dove haunted him (in an even worse way than the way his mother enduring his father’s abuse stuck with him deep in his bones).

She had been radio silent since the assault, except when she went with him on the prowl for their latest victim. Alastor relished these moments when his angel of a wife would whisper her sweet nothings in his ear, goading him into murdering these dregs of society. 

“Slit his throat, my love,” She whispered, her breath sweet like muscadine wine as she stared at Alastor with the reverence reserved for a saint. “I want to watch’m bleed.”

And what could Alastor do but oblige when his wife asked him so sweetly, her doe brown eyes afire with blood lust. 

“Please,” The pathetic man begged in front of him. Alastor stared down at him, his smile wide and maniacal. How he loved when they begged for their worthless lives. She never said as much, but he knew his wife loved it as well. “Please don’t kill me.”

The man in front of him had followed a girl, no older than 17, as she walked down the street in the moonlight, out of the safety of the street lights. The man had approached her, leering at her as he pulled the girl closer to him, his hand cupping her breast as she cried fat tears and let out panted breaths.

“A perfect victim,” His wife had said as she pointed out the man. And that was all it took. 

“You’ll have to beg better than that,” Alastor laughed, his knife teasing at the man’s throat. Alastor had already cut at the man’s thighs, striking him down to save the poor girl. Blood seeped through the man’s trousers, and he could swear he could smell piss as well. 

“Please, please sir, let me go,” The man cried. 

“Alastor, please,” His wife asked. And like a good husband, he did as he was told, and slid the knife across the man’s throat. Blood poured from the man’s neck as he let out a distraught scream and tried to fight against Alastor who moved to stand before him like the devil himself. 

The man struggled, crawling towards Alastor while he held at his slit throat. His efforts were in vain as she crumpled to the ground, his eyes turning glassy as he stared into the New Orleans night sky. 

“Stand back darlin’, wouldn’t want to dirty that pretty white dress,” Alastor said, moving towards the man to gather the body and take him to their dumping grounds. His wife smiled sweetly and moved so that the blood pooling in the alley wouldn’t dirty her. 

Alastor’s brown suit was utterly stained, but his wife had been good about teaching him how to get out the best of stains. She would accompany him on his kills but never clean his clothes of their evidence.

“Your mess,” She would say with a teasing shrug. 

Alastor gathered the body as his wife stood in the shadows and the two made their descent into the bayou to gut and dispose of their latest victim. 

Like the skilled precision of an untrained surgeon, Alastor would lay the victim in the mud of the bayou and begin extracting the organs. He had always been fascinated by anatomy as a child, and perhaps if his family had enough money he would have gone on and become a surgeon. But as it were, he was a radio host and so he would have to make do with the diagrams he learned from in the anatomy books. 

“And what’s that, my love,” His wife would ask, bending down while he worked. The victim’s abdomen had flayed open (with the use of a midline vertical incision from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone). Alastor had gone to work, taking stock of the organs at his disposal. He had learned that he typically had about 2 hours before the body began to stiffen, so he would make work as quickly as he could. 

“That, mon cher, is the liver,” He said, pulling the large organ from the abdominal cavity. “It’s the largest solid organ in the body.”

“Well now, you’re just showing off.” She said, laughing with her mouth open wide enough so that he could see the small chip in her front tooth that he loved so much. She had always been self-conscious of it, and would rarely smile with her teeth out as a result. But he loved that endearing imperfection that added character to her features.

Blood coated his arms, his legs, and his abdomen as he laughed along with his wife. Blood had spattered on his face, drying with the air and beginning to flake. 

He and his wife would continue their morbid trivia, her asking about a particular body part and he answering until the man had been completely gutted and buried beneath the bayou.  

The truth of the matter was that he did not save his wife that night.

No. 

He had found her body splayed out for all of New Orleans to see in an alley when she had been on her way home from the butcher while buying ingredients for dinner. 

Her doe brown eyes looked up at his with no thought, no emotion. Glassy and dead. Her throat held angry purple bruises as he realized she had been choked to death by an unknown bastard who deserved the eternity of hellfire. 

The beautiful white dress she had worn was filthy with blood and dirt. She would have hated being found in such a state. Embarrassed. Full of shame.

And the blood. The warm, copious amount of blood that had poured down her legs told him everything he needed to know about what had transpired. And so he had gathered his beautiful wife in his arms and cradled her close. 

His heart was broken when his mother died. His heart ceased beating as he held his precious wife. His large tears began to coat her face as he sobbed against her body. Blood coated her mouth, trailing down to her chin and dripping on the beautiful white dress. 

He leaned down and kissed her bloodied masterpiece of a mouth, and felt her taste upon his tongue for the last time. The iron and copper taste filled his senses as he tasted the last evidence he had of her being alive at one point in time. 

The last tears fell from his cheeks before he wiped his eyes and cleaned the blood from her mouth. He shrugged off his overcoat and used it to cover her body, gathering her in his arms to take her home. She would want to be at home.

With her covered and his arms, it was as though she were asleep. 

Of course she was asleep. 

He had carried her in such a way many times when she had fallen asleep in front of her beloved fireplace. This was no different. 

He had gotten her home with none the wiser and ran the tub. He knew she hated being dirty and so he would remedy the situation. 

“My day was rather subpar, darlin’. You know Night & Day by Fred Astaire has been one of the most requested songs even this year, and I must confess I tire of it, my darling.” He said as he scrubbed the blood and dirt from her body. Her head had fallen back against the head of the tub, as though she lay in relaxation while being pampered. 

He took great care to clean under her fingernails, scrubbing until the blood was gone. Bruises dotted the inside of her thigh in the shape of handprints. He chose not to see that. He cleaned the dried blood from her wispy blonde hair, already fretting about the styling that would need to be done once she was out of the tub. 

Perhaps she could fix it later. 

He continued to tell her about his day as she gently cleaned her. The water ran a rusty color and the dirt collected at the bottom. He would have to scrub that out once he was done. She despised a dirty tub. 

He pulled her from the tub and dried her off. Her body was already beginning to stiffen and so he had to work fast. He grabbed one of his favorite dresses of hers from the closet, a beautiful red number that paired beautifully with the rouge and red lipstick she wore. 

He set to work covering her body with her undergarments, the brassiere covering her perfect pale breasts, and the bloomers covering her unmentionables. He had even been proud of his attention to detail as he slid the stocking and garter up her legs. He threw the slip over her before finally finishing the outfit with the red dress and red heels to match. 

He tried his best to apply the rouge and lipstick as he had seen her do a thousand times. He was somewhat proud of himself, though he knew she could fix any imperfections.

He sat her in her chair in front of the fireplace in the family room. She loved to relax in front of the fire when he came home from work and ask him about his day. 

She would be happy there. Content. 

Alastor never did know who had broken and murdered his perfect wife. However, the week after finding his wife, he came across his first victim, a piece of shit man harassing a woman on the street. And his wife had appeared for the first time and begun to whisper her sweet nothings in his ear. 

“Maybe this was him, my love,” She said, her words tickling his soul. 

And he would kill every man in New Orleans if it meant he avenged his beautiful wife.  If it meant he could see her one more time. 

On the night Alastor died, he felt more at peace than he had felt in months. 

He stood in the dark of the bayou, shoveling to make a hole deep enough for his next victim. His beautiful wife stood to the side, watching him with a peaceful smile.  He had killed fourteen men since the death of his wife. 

The news outlets had started catching wind of the disappearances, especially when Alastor became particularly sloppy with one fellow and had buried him too shallow.

The Bayou Butcher, they called him. 

The notion caused his wife to tease him in his hallucinations, and laugh at the moniker. He could only grin at the sound of her laughter. Her voice had started to fade, become distorted like the lost signal on a radio broadcast.

His memory of her voice had begun to fade, and he found himself growing more brutal in his kills just to hear that twinkling sound once more. She always talked to him more the bloodier he got. But the sound of her voice still began to fade. 

He had been rather surprised when he was shot in the head. The gunshot rang out through the trees, quickly followed by the sound of hunting dogs. 

Alastor’s eyes widened as blood began to drip into his eyelashes, distorting his vision. But he could still see her. His beloved wife who had driven him to madness.

“Alastor,” She whispered, her voice fading and her small smile turning into a frown.

“My love,” He tried to say but the words wouldn’t come out. His vision grew black and he could no longer see the ghost of his beautiful wife.

“Goodbye, Alastor.” The wind whispered as he fell into the half-dug grave of his last victim. 

The Bayou Butcher had a total of fifteen victims, according to the newspaper. Once the police had found the identity of the despicable man, they raided the house and found the horrible sight of his last victim, his wife. 

The corpse sat in front of the fireplace, the decomposition of her body pooling around her as she rotted into the chair. Her body was dry, almost mummified as she was positioned in such a way that it looked as though she were simply staring towards the fireplace.

Her eye sockets, the eyes long gone, stared forward as though to gaze at the wedding photo of her and her husband, Alastor.  In the photo, Alastor stood brightly at the camera, his grin wider and more genuine than any could ever remember on the man. And to his right stood his beautiful wife whispering sweet nothings into his ear. 

[person-of-varying-obsessions]

In response to the news of Hazbin Hotel having seasons 3 and 4 confirmed, I'm posting an Alastor & Reader/OC snippet I wrote a while ago and was pretty proud of

Inspiration was taken from parts of these Alastor/Reader posts (with some expanding on their dynamic):

https://www.tumblr.com/okay-babe/742550027409522688/imagine-alastor-thinks-his-wife-is-just-the-most?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/altruisticalastor/742081257880584192/%CB%8F%CB%8Balastor-x-reader%CB%8A%CB%8E-summary-the-radio?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/tojirights/742049545787244544/femreader-with-a-size-kink-and-alastor-just?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/altruisticalastor/741794623772622848/%CB%8F%CB%8Balastor-x-reader%CB%8A%CB%8E-summary-alastor?source=share

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what drew him to her. Was it her adorable little laugh? Was it her intelligence and ability to impress with book-smarts most others lacked? Or was it the way she seemed to melt into every bit of attention he gave her? Regardless, he knew she had him wrapped around his finger - just as she was wrapped around his.

It didn’t take long for him to start courting her properly. Dates on the town, trips out to his favorite hunting spots, nights spent cooking at her house… They soon fell into a routine, with the days often spent apart - save for the few days he had free - and the nights spent in each other’s company, whether that was at Mimzy’s club or her house. Mimzy tried to play matchmaker, but she didn’t know that they were essentially already “together-together”.

When he realizes he actually cares about her, he tries to put distance between them. She can’t know. She’ll hate him, shun him, rat him out. Any sane person would. So he pulls away, ignoring every mental protest at the thought.

Of course she notices. Of course she probes him for answers - even goes to Mimzy to see if she knows anything. But she doesn’t get the answers she wants.

That is, until she spots someone sneaking into the swamp behind the church. She follows them closely, making sure to not make a single sound, and finds them throwing a limp body into the mud. Their silhouette is familiar, but she can’t pinpoint why. Maybe if she-

Her foot crunches on a convenient branch from one of the many hunched-over oak trees. The person she’d been following whips their head around, searching for her. She raises her hands into the air and slowly approaches. They watch with wary, squinted eyes, pocket knife held artfully in their dominant hand. As they come eye-to-eye, she gasps softly, recognizing the face she’d been wanting to see for weeks now. 

A flash of recognition crosses his eyes. Before he can ask her what she’s doing out there or tell her to leave or anything of the sort, she comes to stand beside him, hands propped on her hips.

“What next?”

His eyes are as wide as the moon above them. She looks down at the body and huffs. The man at their feet is one known for harassing women at Mimzy’s club. He’d tried a few lines on her, but she’d brushed him off with a curt, “No thank you” and flipped him off when he pushed for more of a reaction. She was glad to know another scumbag had left this world.

The wind blew by them, and he seemed to collect himself, asking her to keep a watch as he finished up. She did, resting against an oak tree large enough to mask the silhouette of her body and vigilantly watching every corner of the swamp she could. 

It wasn’t until they reached his doorstep that he finally stopped to ask the one burning question.

“Why?”

Her only response was an innocent tilt of her head. It sent her hair swaying slightly. Bright eyes stared innocuously into his own. 

“Why did you not scream? Call the police? Run?”

She blinked twice, then laughed. Of all the reactions he expected, that was one he hadn’t accounted for.

“Oh, that? I’ve seen a lot worse than a corpse and a man covered in blood.”

It was his turn to blink at her, confusion evident.

“You- You do understand why-”

“Of course I do. I’m not stupid.”

Puffing her cheeks out, she pouted like a petulant child at the mere implication that he doubted her intelligence. He couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that escaped him. The sound of footsteps against the pavement made him glance over her shoulder. A couple, ignorant of any wrongdoing that night, made their way down the street hand-in-hand. 

She took his hand in one of hers, reaching into his pocket with the other. Pulling out his key, she pushed it into the keyhole and unlocked it, pulling him inside alongside her. Every move she made was calm, as if she was unaware that she was protecting a serial killer. 

They made their way to the bathroom, and she helped him clean off any lingering blood from his body. 

“You’ll probably need to burn your clothes. Unless you have a way to get bloodstains out of cloth without leaving any behind?”

His outfit from that night went up in flames, but that night ignited his interest in her ten-fold. Why had she been so nonchalant? Was she just as corrupt as he was? Was she somehow targeting him like he did with his victims?

She gave her answer the very next night.

After killing another person at Mimzy’s request - this time a loan shark that kept harassing her for sexual favors if she wasn’t going to pay him back - he found her sitting on his front porch. Her eyes were softly shut, and slow, steady breaths escaped her lips as she dozed, knees pulled flush to her chest. A fond chuckle slipped out of him as he tapped her shoulder.

They walked inside and stood in his kitchen, silently staring at one another until someone chose to speak up.

Tonight, it was her.

“I know what you do.”

He felt the urge to tense but shoved it down. Would she still run? Report him to the police? Kill him herself?

“And I don’t care.”

“What?”

That was meant to be an internal question, but the pure shock he felt at her answer made his brain short-circuit for a second. 

“People have done way worse and with a lot less blood involved. I’m not bothered. And I know that your victims aren’t good people. At least, the one I saw wasn’t a good person. So you’re doing this world a favor, I think. If you need, I’m even willing to help out. Not that I doubt your ability to kill and keep quiet.”

One question kept beating around his skull at every word she said.

“Why?”

“Like I said, I’ve seen some things and met some people. What you’re doing is tame in comparison, I promise.”

Then she explained, seeing that he would keep asking until she gave specifics. From her upbringing - or lack thereof - to her childhood and latter adolescent years, he could see that she had been fully disillusioned. A truly logical mind, one that knew more than she let on and understood so much with nothing more than a glance. The world is cruel. It breaks those who learn about the thorns beneath the petals. She walked straight through the bush to reach the lake so she didn’t die of thirst. Pain, lack of guidance, and pure determination to live despite everything had carried her through life and into adulthood.

He rounded the island in his kitchen and pulled her close. She immediately relaxed into his hold, draping her arms over his shoulders as if she’d fall if she didn’t. Their lips met in a feverish, animalistic kiss. He had meant to start slow, honest, but having her pliant in his arms, soft sounds echoing from her throat to his at the sweetest of gestures, unlocked something primal within him.

She had to be his. No matter how, he had to have her. Not a single person could take her from him anymore. 

From her shows of submission, he could tell. She sought his affection, his approval, his guidance. Nobody before him had given her what she needed. He felt it was high time that changed.

After that night, they were inseparable. She moved in with him the next day, bringing what few belongings she had, and joined him on a shopping trip for anything she wanted or needed. He would provide for her like so many others had failed to. He would ensure she was tended to in every way she needed. Anything for his little dove. 

Pure despite the atrocities she’d witnessed. Pure despite how dirty her hands were. Pure despite choosing to stay by his side. 

Marriage came soon after. It was a logical progression, in his eyes. Now they would have no reason to be apart. Their years together were spent in each other’s arms, moments together shared under the guise of darkness. Some nights were spent kneeling in the mud, hiding the remains of his latest victim, while others were spent under a shared blanket by the fireplace. No matter the scene, they were happy.

“My dove, what will you do if I am ever caught?”

“Why do you think I keep a pistol in my bedside drawer?”

But their bliss was short-lived. After no more than a decade together, the news came.

He was dead.

Mauled by dogs after being shot square in the forehead.

The burning anger and suffocating grief overwhelmed her for the rest of the day. It wasn’t until that night, when she finally calmed down enough to speak, that she followed through on her promise.

“I’ll find you. Wait for me.”

Morning followed screams and cries from neighbors and the squeal of police sirens.

~

Hell was so… red. It almost hurt her eyes, but she soon adjusted. A storefront’s glass gave her the means to see her new form. 

Just like the others around her, she had been transformed into an animal-like form. Cute brown tufts adorned her head, twitching every time a new sound echoed in the distance. Freckles littered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and she had no doubt that they spread further down her body. Patches of fur could be felt beneath her clothes, and her feet felt more solid, as if they were more like hooves than human feet. A tail wagged idly at her backside, lightly jostling the fabric surrounding it. 

A dead demon laid a short distance away from her. Their body was contorted, as if they’d died in a struggle, but their jet-black coat was unblemished save for the few specks of dirt from the ground. She wrestled it from their corpse and donned it for herself, gauging the look in the storefront’s glass again. It was a bit too long for her tastes, but it would have to do for now. 

Looking down at her left hand, she was relieved to feel the familiar fit of her wedding band on her ring finger.

“Here I come, Alastor. Wait for me.”

~

It took quite some time for the couple to reunite. Between the work he put into rising the ranks and her own efforts to do the same, they were too busy to actively search for each other.

Rumors spread like wildfire about the two newly-fallen deer demons that were taking Hell by storm. One was killing well-known and established Overlords, while the other was using charisma to wrap useful figures around her finger. With her newfound demon powers and everything she knew when alive, it was child’s play to have everyone she wanted kneeling at her feet.

They were both soon given the title of Overlord. Then came the time for the next Overlord meeting.

Both attended. Everything went as it normally did, though with introductions to get everyone familiar with any new faces. 

He introduced her to a friend of his - Rosie - while she roped a few of her new compatriots into beneficial alliances. She and Rosie hit it off right away, and the three of them fell into an easy rhythm. When it came time for Rosie to return to Cannibal Town, they were left alone.

For the first time since their indirect reunion, they looked each other in the eyes. No surprise was felt. Rather, a warm comfort in the fact they wouldn’t be apart in their afterlife. Finally, it all clicked in their minds.

“I was caught.”

“I kept the pistol.”

All at once, joy overtook them. He pulled her close, closer than he ever had when they were alive, and she melted into his hold as she always had. Nothing had truly changed between them.

“My dove…” She pulled back a touch to look up at him, grinning as she dragged a single finger down his right ear tuft.

“My handsome buck…”

Those words struck a chord with him. Bringing her chest-to-chest with him, he used his shadows to move to the living space he’d made for himself. Their night was spent catching up and returning to their blissful time of marriage that had been so cruelly cut short.

He’d doted on her in life, but in Hell, where he had managed to establish himself as one of the most infamous figures of any other sinner, he outright spoiled her. Despite not being with her as often due to his more frequent hunts and broadcasts, he spent every moment he had free with her at his side. Cooking as they always did, going out on the town to shop or just to chat and sight-see, visiting Rosie in Cannibal Town, and anything else they felt compelled to do.

Another relief was finding that she hadn’t changed a lick despite her time in Hell. Sweet, intelligent, witty, and pure. Just like when she’d first revealed why she was so willing to accept his status as a serial killer in life, he saw that she’d forged herself into a strong individual through her trials and tribulations in Hell. And again, despite any pain she may have faced, she remained his soft, adoring wife.

Despite his confidence that she could take care of any sinner that posed any modicum of a threat to her, he was still protective of her. He’d been possessive in life, always holding her closer when another so much as tried to steal a glance at her, but it was to an even greater extent now that the people around them had no shame in their sinful actions. 

When someone tried to get her while she was alone, he only had time to shadow-transport to her side before they were dead at her feet. The knife in her hand was soaked in blood, but she looked completely calm. Not cold, but relaxed, as if the action had been as natural as breathing. The sight of her in another’s blood, knowing she was unharmed but had inflicted irreparable damage to such a creep, brought forth feelings he hadn’t even felt when he was alive. She had assisted him in covering his tracks at times, but he never wanted to risk her getting caught, so he never allowed her to join him to help with an actual kill. Seeing her coated in blood made him regret making such a decision, though only because of hindsight.

Touch had always been a strange thing for him. Ever since his mother passed, he hadn’t let anyone else close to him. Not even Mimzy, both in life and death. She was the first, and she would likely be the last. Every touch he shared with her was electric and left him burning for more. Nobody else had sparked such a desire in him. 

As if she knew before he said anything, she would always either wait for him to initiate or gesture in an obvious way before moving in for a hug or anything like that. It was a gesture that never failed to endear her to him. 

He also noticed that, just like in life, she was so eager for his touch. Any time his hands made contact with her, even if it was something as simple as him tapping her shoulder to get her attention, she would relax and turn her full attention to him. It was as if she could never get enough of him and thrived on the next taste of affection or touch. Every caress was met with a sigh, a visible relaxing of the shoulders, and a sated, dreamy stare in his direction.

His touch was her aphrodisiac, her remedy for any ailment. But she also knew his stance on any sexual contact. If any form of arousal arose within her - including her newly-discovered period of “heat” due to her deer traits - she handled it on her own. And she knew he had to be going through similar periods of arousal since he was the same as her, but she never pressured him to talk about it. Knowing him, she guessed the topic would either leave them in an uncomfortable silence or be cut off before it could go anywhere. So she kept it to herself and didn’t bother him with it. But she did notice he became more clingy and openly possessive and affectionate when his rut began. 

The first time her heat and his rut lined up was an extremely awkward time. It was the first instance of genuine loss of words for both of them. When one would open their mouth to speak to address the “elephant” in the room, the other would be closing their mouth after trying the same thing. Eventually, she carefully reached for him, chastely stroking his upper arm.

“Tell me how to help you.”

“I… I don’t know how you can.”

“Then, can I try something?”

For a first sexual encounter, it went about as smoothly as two teenagers fooling around. But they used the “trial and error” method and made things work, bringing pleasure to each other in a way they never had before.

When they were alive, sex had essentially been off the table. He never felt the desire, even though he was attracted to her, and she was fine with that. She didn’t need sex to love him; she just needed him and whatever came with that.

But the floodgates were opened after that first rut-heat period. He started initiating more intimate moments between them, and she responded enthusiastically. As she had in life, she accepted whatever he wanted to give her - but not without taking a few small things of her own. Kisses here and there, daring touches to tease, and whispered words of heat meant only for their ears.

Any intimate moment they shared had her grow pliant, willing, desperate under his touch. He could be as gentle or cruel as he wanted, and she would eagerly take it all. Not just because she accepted whatever he gave, but because she wanted to be good for him, to show she was deserving of his version of love and affection both within and outside of the bedroom. Of course, he would never deny her, as he was just as eager to prove he could care for her as she deserved, though he couldn’t deny how much he loved her nigh-instant submission under his ministrations. 

Though not present to witness everything unfold directly, she was privy to the truth of what happened in the seven years he was gone. He trusted her and her alone to keep his secret - not even Rosie was allowed to know. And she never once let slip what happened.

Soon, the Hazbin Hotel was in his sights. She joined him in his pursuit of entertainment. Husker, who she was friendly enough with, was dragged into it, as was Niffty, who was more than happy to be given a chance to do what she did best. The Princess of Hell was as charming as she was naive, but she made for a great conversation partner. The Princess’s partner, on the other hand, would always pin them both with a distrusting glare that was brushed off by both. He couldn’t care less about the fallen angel’s opinion of him, and she had no reason to do anything that would anger the patrons or impede the Princess’ plans for redeeming sinners. 

When it came time to defend the hotel against the Exorcist’s attack, despite her fervent protests, he had her sit out, insisting she stay where they used to live until the fighting died down. She waited until the news started covering the aftermath of the battle to book it to the hotel. Her confidence in her husband had never wavered, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried. What if he had been wounded? Or worse, killed? It had happened before, no matter how much she wanted to forget what she’d felt after hearing the news of his death.

The hotel’s patrons were tending to each other’s wounds and those of their cannibal allies. Despite the gaudy amount of red that bathed their realm, his signature red shape was nowhere to be seen. But she knew where he’d be.

She carefully navigated the wreckage of his radio tower and found him slouched against his broadcast equipment, cradling his chest as it bled.

“What next?”

He looked up at her, eyes scrunched from the pain and smile straining across his face. Just like that first night, when she found him burying that body in the swamp behind the church, he was not expecting to see her. But that shock soon faded into relief.

“Stitch this up, then make our dramatic reappearance.”

She chuckled at his attempted theatrics. Sifting through the rubble, she found the first aid kit she’d forced him to keep and set to work stitching the wound as best she could. Then, when she was sure her handiwork was good enough, she finished her stitching and helped him to his feet.

Hand in hand, they returned to the others. Everyone welcomed them with varying levels of elation - Lucifer and Husker less than keen to have him back. She helped where she could in the rebuilding effort while he started putting in work to rebuild his infamous reputation after the Vees broadcasted his defeat at Adam’s hand. 

With the hotel rebuilt and even bigger and better than before, it wasn’t long before everyone returned to their routines. A few extra events happened within the usual flow, but nothing that caused a major disturbance. Boisterous laughter and chatter from Angel and Husker on later nights, group lunches and dinners, the occasional sinner genuinely seeking redemption, but the most notable was his choice to play the new grand piano after dinner every night.

Still well-versed in the skill, he effortlessly played familiar tunes as the others mingled on the main floor. She sometimes sang with him, but often she could be found sitting on a stool beside his bench, idly swaying her head side-to-side with eyes closed while her legs kicked beneath her. He would, at times, have her join him on his bench, choosing a simpler song to play when she eventually fell asleep on his shoulder. On nights like those, he would wrap up his playing early and carry her to bed, idly dragging his claws across her arm and thigh as he carried her bridal-style to their shared room. With a kiss to her forehead, he would leave her to rest while he worked on finalizing parts for his next broadcast before joining her in slumber.

[theronanlynchshow]

belladonna doodle just bc

(disregard my complete lack of artistic talent)

(character from @lady-hibiscus’ work till death do us part, it’s amazing & you should read it!)

mostly just based on vibes lol

[vroomian]

[roseshewrites]

"Oh, you know, a radio demon's got to have his entertainment. A little boring down here, wouldn't you agree? I delight in other's suffering. Seeing them fail is my success. But seeing them *succeed.* Despite hardship, despite the pain, despite everything that boils them down to nothing. That is rare. That is entertaining. That's the game."

Before his seven year absence, Alastor Hartfelt meets Barbara. He sees something in her that strikes a chord...a similarity to himself. A mask, carefully constructed, that would be so easy to rip away. What sort of darkness is the young woman hiding?

He wants to find out for himself.

Let the mind games begin.

[home-for-wayward-fawns]

༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 6: 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒

‎‎‧₊˚✧[Thank you to my wonderful editor @safety-pin-angel-wings, @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes]✧˚₊‧

Alastor and Carla discuss the nature of their arrangement, and Carla makes a promise.

Carla looked at the massive spread on the dining table with pride.

By the time she had died, the fourth wave of feminism was well underway and women were taking over the world. A young girl could grow up to be anything, and some of her granddaughters had tried to encourage her to branch out and expand on her hobbies. Carla had humoured them of course, and listened to their rants regarding the misogynistic nature of the housewife, but this was simply who Carla was. She had been the perfect daughter, who grew into the perfect wife, before becoming the perfect mother; she was built for this.

They had the same set-up they did for every meal.  

Alastor sat on the other side of the table, Charlie to his right and Husk to his left. Angel sat beside Husk, playfully poking fun at the grumpy drunkard while Vaggie sat beside Charlie. Carla sat at the opposite end of Alastor, with Niffty to her left and an empty seat to her right. 

Carla always started with grace; just as she had in life she did in death. Her prayers to a god that had never listened were ignored by her newfound hellish family, much like her prayers on Earth had been. Carla had made her peace with her kids, new and old, not being capable of sharing her faith. The world was cruel, and their lives were hard. Sometimes they simply didn’t have enough space for God, so Carla would let them take up hers.  

As soon as Carla had finished grace, it was obvious that Charlie was a bundle of nerves. Her eyes darted between those seated at the table while she picked at her food. She’d put her fork down, looking as though she was going to speak, before picking it back up and picking at her plate again. 

“Darling, your food will grow cold. Either excuse yourself from the table to collect yourself, or speak,” Carla said gently, before continuing to cut her food into bite-sized chunks. Charlie opened her mouth, before closing it and then opening it again. Carla couldn’t help the fond smile that fell across her face. The young thing still had so much to learn. “Charlie, you’re going to catch flies.” 

“So, err, I heard that while I was, aha, dealing with the whole, erm, Heaven thing…” She laughed awkwardly. 

Ah yes, Charlie had been rather quiet regarding the meeting with the first man after being so excited beforehand. It would be best to suggest Alastor lead the conversation for that one if it hadn't gone well; Carla had never been the best at dealing with business meetings and the like. 

“Oh yeah, sounds like you really dealt with it, toots,” Angel scoffed. 

Charlie winced and Carla raised an eyebrow, looking suspiciously between the two of them. 

“It seems I have been left out of an important conversation; is there something you’d like to share with me?” Carla asked Charlie; how disappointing it was that the girl felt the need to keep secrets from her. 

“We can totally talk about it later, but err, I think it’s way more important that we talk about Vox!” Charlie announced and Carla dropped her fork onto her plate. 

The loud clang of metal on porcelain rang throughout the dining room. 

“I hardly see what there is to discuss,” Carla said quietly, biting back the urge to run. She smiled harder, tighter, at Charlie as the young girl continued to talk. 

“I heard that erm, Vox showed up?” 

“What?!” Vaggie shouted, glaring at Alastor, “I thought you were supposed to be protecting this place?” 

Carla felt her entire body go cold. She just wanted to have a nice dinner, just go five minutes without thinking about him. Why did he have to wiggle himself into every corner of her family, of her life, of her? 

“Alastor did a wonderful job of defending the hotel,” Carla answered evenly, ensuring to flash her perfect practised smile at the man in question before turning back to Charlie, “Vox arrived, and Alastor ensured he left. As I said, hardly even worth discussing,”

“Right, right, but I heard…”

Carla sighed, placing both her hands flat on the table. 

Be kind. Be gentle. She is scared. She doesn’t know better. She’s just a girl. 

“Charlie, you need to calm down. Ask me what you want to ask me, or drop the conversation.”

“Are you really his wife? Why are you here and not there? What does he want with you? Is he going to attack the hotel? Does he want to fight Alastor? What does he want?” The questions fell from Charlie’s lips as quick as her breath, her face going red as she started to hyperventilate; Vaggie rubbing gentle circles into her back, instructing her to breathe. 

Before Carla could respond, Husk interjected. “Whatever he wants, he’s an idiot,” He said, before shoving a forkful of vegetables in his mouth.

“Oh? And why’s that, dear Husker?” Alastor hummed, carving into the honey-baked ham on his plate. 

Husk waved his fork in Alastor’s direction dismissively. 

“Don’t act thick; you know just as well as I do. He just dropped his heart at Carla’s feet in front of you, he might as well have given you the angelic blade to drive through his heart,” Husk scoffed. 

“Explains why Val is in such a foul mood,” Angel muttered, scrolling down on his phone with one hand while shovelling food into his mouth with another. 

Alastor laughed, ignoring Angel’s comment. “Husker, the only thing running thick here is your disrespect. He came here for one of two things: Carla, which he obviously failed to obtain, or a reaction, which I refused to give.” He continued to eat his meal, but the warning hung heavy in the air. He turned his head to face Charlie. “As for your concerns, I have none in regards to the threat you seem to think Vox possesses. I have made it more than clear that I am capable of protecting this hotel, its inhabitants, and Carla. Now, Carla worked very hard on this lovely meal and I’d like to enjoy it without the subject of the Vees being brought up.”

“Now that’s something I can say Amen to!” Angel agreed. 

A comfortable silence fell over the dining table, the only sound being heard was that of a large family eating. Carla looked over at Charlie and could still see that discomfort was still resting heavily on her shoulders. She was still worried, but it would have to wait till after dinner. 

She would still suggest that Alastor talk with her, and reassure her. She was sure Charlie just needed reassurance, she was safe from Vox and no matter what had happened at the meeting, they would work around it. There was nothing they couldn't resolve as a complete family unit. 

As everyone reached a point of completion with their meals, Carla stood up to begin collecting everyone’s plates, starting with Angel as she made her around the table. She raised an eyebrow at Alastor as he did the same. 

“I’m quite capable of cleaning up, Alastor,”

He grinned at her, all teeth, and she felt the warning emanating from his face. 

Careful. You’re still dancing with a predator. 

“I do not doubt your capabilities, my dear, but I’d hate to see you overexert yourself,” 

She blushed, smiling up at him, as she continued to collect the plates he had left behind for her. She followed him into the kitchen, noticing how everyone had gone quiet at the table as they left the room. 

The moment she stepped foot into the kitchen, he shut the door behind her. He approached her slowly, stalking her like prey, until her back hit the door. She gripped the plates tightly in her fingers, looking up at where he towered above her. He stared down at her before he placed a hand gently against her cheek, his claw swiping underneath her eyes, just a millimetre from her actual eye. She felt her heart in her chest, trying to break out of the cavity there, a mixture of fear and anticipation washing over her. She leaned into his touch, looking at him through hooded eyes. 

He trailed his large hand down her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw and running his clawed thumb over her lip. He looked down at her hungrily, like she was his next meal, before he pulled away, standing up straight. 

“You're under my protection; I don't see why I can't look after you as well,” Alastor said with that playful lilt to his tone, tilting his head before he took the plates from her and deposited them into the sink. 

She followed him, leaning the back of her hands on the counter as she watched him. He pulled off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of a breakfast stool before rolling up his shirt sleeves. His hands descended into the bubbling sink, humming a familiar song to himself as he began to clean the dirty dishes. 

The song they danced to earlier; was the memory on his mind?

“You really don’t have to do that, you know. I like cleaning,” 

“My mother always taught me that the one who cooks shouldn’t clean up.” He informed her. 

“Your father did the cleanup?”

“I never said that,” He said, a coldness to his tone that told her that wasn’t a route she wanted to take right now. 

“I suppose we were raised with different ideals,” She said instead, dropping the conversation. 

He hummed, seemingly pensive, before he asked her something that shocked her. 

“Indeed; tell me, did your husband ever hit you, Carla?” He asked. 

“Of course not!” She recoiled, not able to hide the horror that spread across her face.

What an absurd question; Clarence was many things, but he wasn’t like that. 

“I’m not asking if he beat you, dear; I’m asking if he disciplined you,” he expanded, and she looked down at her feet. 

No, he hadn’t. 

She’d always assumed it was because she was a good, well-behaved wife; he’d never needed to. Not that it was a lack of care, that it was because he couldn’t be bothered with her. She hadn’t exactly been the best wife when Poppy got sick, and he’d never disciplined her then either. Was it possible she had needed it when they were younger, and he simply couldn’t be bothered with the effort?

“No,” She answered, honest but short.

He didn’t turn around, diligently cleaning and putting plates on the rack to dry. 

“It bewilders me why you insist on your little games, my doe.” He sighed, and she bit down on her bottom lip. 

“My games?”

“You asked me to protect this hotel, and I have. Yet I find myself playing house, which is far out of the scope of our arrangement,” he said as he pulled his hands out of the sink, wiping them dry with a towel before throwing it over his shoulder. He walked in front of her, looming over her as he pushed her chin up with two fingers. “Tell me what you want from me. If you want a defender, I’ll continue to my task as our deal stipulates. If you want more, I can give it to you. I’m asking for a little respect, a little control over you, and I think you want to give it to me,”

She felt lightweight as she stared into his eyes like she might keel over into his arms at any moment. 

“You want to hurt me,” She said softly, and he grinned down at her, something dark yet enticing swimming in his eyes. 

“I’ll never do anything you don’t ask me to do first; you will always ask to be disciplined by me, little doe.” He said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, and she wasn’t sure why his words made her knees feel weak.

“You think I need discipline,” She responded, trying to focus on standing her ground against the handsome predator in front of her. 

“I think you want discipline; you want someone to put you in your place, but I’m a man of my word,” He said, releasing her chin and stepping back, “I’ll wait for you to ask,” 

He returned to his task of washing the dishes, leaving her to stand there, pondering his suggestion. The suggestion wasn’t…repulsive. 

She was tired; she was so tired of making mistakes and hating herself, blaming herself for every little one of them. 

It would feel nice to have a man she could trust, a man who had proved himself, to hand that control over to. It would be good to be able to go to him with her concerns, with her mistakes, and let him decide the next course of action, whether it warranted a punishment or not. 

“On the subject of asking, I did want to make a request of you,” She said after a bout of peaceful quiet. 

“Is that so?” 

“Charlie seems quite upset about this Heaven business with Adam, but I don’t think she needs a mother’s touch right now. I think she needs a father’s guidance; you could provide that. If you felt so inclined,” 

He hummed to himself, considering her request. 

“I suppose I could be persuaded to do so, in return for your obedience in a simple matter,” 

“What matter would that be?”

“You are under no circumstances to call Vox.”

“You don’t want me to call my husband?” She asked. 

The sound of radio static pierced her ears; it was a violent crashing wave emanating from him, choking the very air around them, choking her words out of existence. He gripped the edge of the sink so hard that she watched his knuckles go wide, his smile straining hard against his face. 

“Darling, it’s quite inappropriate to refer to me as ‘the father’ of this house and then

refer to him as your husband in the next breath. Work out what you want from me. This isn’t a game I’m interested in playing," He said, voice so low it was almost a growl, "You would do well to listen to me. Do not encourage a territory battle. They can get quite nasty. You don't want to see what I'm capable of, little doe.”

For all his niceties, all his politeness, he was still The Radio Demon. She had heard the stories, the rumours that followed his name: a demon of considerable power and little mercy. He tore down all who stood against him, and he broadcasted their torture for his own amusement. 

He was right; she didn't want to see what he was capable of. In the same way, she had never wanted to see what Harry was capable of, the same way she didn't want to look at the horrors of war when it had reached America. She didn't need to see it to know it was there, and she didn't need to see it to know it was necessary.

It was the price so many men paid, after all; they did terrible things to protect their homes and those who resided inside them. 

Alastor was a necessary evil. She would never encourage a territory battle, but it was nice to know Alastor did not fear one. 

He only feared her witnessing it. 

She pushed through the bubble of static keeping them apart, pressing a gentle hand on her forearm. 

“I trust in your capabilities to protect me, to look after me. I won't call him, I don't even have a phone,” She said softly, hoping her practised smile would bring him some comfort. 

He turned his head to look down at her and she felt his grip on the sink release, the tension in his arms beginning to lessen. He looked down at her necklace and she reached up with her free hand to hold the microphone charm in her fingers. 

“As long as you wear that, you’ll never need one,” 

If you need me, I will always just be a scream away. 

It was a nice moment, a moment of clarity and safety, interrupted by the sound of a knock at the front door and the children screaming. She sighed, lifting her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. He chuckled at her frustration, returning to his task. 

“Thank you for helping me with cleaning up Alastor; I’m going to see what they’ve found that requires being quite so loud,” 

“Of course my dear, you know how to summon me if I’m needed,” He said smoothly, and she turned around to walk away, still holding the microphone charm in her fingers as she toyed with it. 

She deserved to be happy. She deserved to move on, to be allowed a fresh start. She would find out what Alastor wanted, and prove herself as his perfection.  Her thoughts were stalled to a halt as she stepped out into the lounge and saw Charlie with a concerningly familiar-looking snake demon. "Charlie, what is that thing doing in my home?"

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑜𝒾𝓊𝓈 𓆩♡𓆪

𝒩𝑒𝓍𝓉 𓆩♡𓆪

[solesurvivorjen]

Look Mom I made a fanfiction!

This is an Alastor/OC story I've been working on. Please enjoy. ❤️

[notthatmoth]

She will never know peace and neither will I

[staff]

Tumblr Tuesday: Ace Art

Happy Asexual Awareness Week to all aces and your allies. Here is a collection of exuberant ace art for your exuberant ace hearts. Keep on breaking those allo assumptions, one artwork at a time 🖤🩶🤍💜

@sandrune-art:

@evocaitart:

@unwashedace:

@tinyflowerclub:

@vuelode-irbis:

@szczurherbacany:

@wafflenati0n:

@dinxie:

@pokimoko:

@werew0lfprincess:

@plutonicbees:

@cowheist:

@lokithefoolishegg:

@yujateaandpi:

@transcendragon:

@starryaves:

@kyri45:

@squishlamb:

@peppermintbits:

@kateammann:

@soni-dragon:

@kynni-purri:

@theartofmadeline:

@icannotgetoverbirds:

@meoskyan:

[hootersgirlrick]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55598083

I wrote a thing and kind of rushed the end because I'm sleepy but I'll probably maybe fix it one day

[fromduck]

Me with you guys simping over hot men

[shinynewboots]

I don't usually cry when I read but sweet nothings is making me FUCKING SOB I CANNOT HANDLE THOS I AM SO GOD DAMN SAD AT THIS FIC NFKECMTWXMCKFNEMXN

Oh my god thank you so much anon😭😭 that literally means so much!! Crying in my car on my lunch break😭 that literally story is taking up so much of my headspace I just love it so much😭

Sweet Nothings: Tumblr Ao3 (human!Alastor one-shot 18+)

[sunlit-mess]

Style

[theronanlynchshow]

Poison

Belladonna: If you were my husband, I’d put poison in your coffee.

Alastor: I am your husband???????

Belladonna: Drink your coffee dear.

Alastor: *aggressive side eye*

Belladonna: DRINK IT

( characters from the wonderful @lady-hibiscus ‘s Hazbin Hotel fic Till Death Do Us Part) (read it it’s amazing!!!)

[nekophy]

Hopin on the bandwagon a little late bUT HERE'S MY #RadioApple child Liko Morningstar! 💖I think Al's gene mixed with Luci would create the most luscious rose blonde hair eheh ✨

[celtrist]

If sinners don't age but hellborns do, what would happen if a sinner took in a hellborn?

Yeah, okay, I know Alastor would be like the last character to actually take in a child (he was stated to not like children and would make a terrible father). But here in fanon land, we get to choose to pay attention to canon, and Alastor having a soft spot for children makes me happy. so there.

Interesting (and tragic) idea all the same, no matter what character you look at it with.