Chapter Text
Fuck fuck fuck.
There must be a limit to how far he can extend the forest within his hotel room; but Alastor has yet to find one as he paces and paces and paces. He’s like a rabid coyote in a cage of his own making. Infinite land to roam, yet that freedom feels suffocating. There are too many options, and none of them are solutions.
There are no physicians in Hell. There are no experts on demon-deer biology, at least none in the Pride Ring. Perhaps in that of Lust, but that is a resource he would not use even if he had access to it. He is on this side of the pentagram for a reason.
There are also no pregnancy tests in Hell. Why would there be? He cannot recall ever hearing of Sinner spawn; spawn from Hellborn demons or fallen angels, yes, of course. But Sinners? Absolutely not. Is it that they have simply never pursued one? Why would they? Who would want such a thing?
Although, if anything, that would suggest there should be more pregnancies here. Hell is a punishment, after all. Maybe it’s that children are a blessing to most, and it has only ever been an option for those who would find it a curse. Such as himself.
A smile twitches across his face as he runs his hands through his hair, pushing his ears back, his typical tick of stress. It’s not typical anymore, though. A chill is sent down from just behind his ears all the way through his spine and ending between his legs.
That has been, by far, the worst consequence of his heat. If there were one truth he would take to his grave, it is that his sexual awakening has impacted his body more than his mind. Now that he knows what arousal is–a function that is normal for mankind, if not the most prominent instinct of animals–his body has been poisoning him with it.
It is, no doubt, another punishment of Hell. His victory over Vox and the freedom of his soul couldn’t be allowed to him without consequence. This one he knows is not mere instinct–because his arousal is not thoughtless. It is not even simply memories of his heat.
It is about new situations. With Vox. Specifically.
Alastor is no fool. He understands what others would say this implies about his feelings. What the only logical explanation for this phenomenon could be. But it is absolutely, positively, unequivocally, not true. A lie, his mind and body are conspiring against his soul, some form of jealousy, perhaps, now that it is back in Alastor’s hands and, of course, the most valued part of himself. That is the Occam’s Razor. That is veracity, that is truth, that is reality, no matter what Husk or Charlie or Vox himself would say.
Enough of their imagined judgment. I am getting distracted from what is most important.
Do I have Vox’s parasite within me or not?
And what is there to do about it?
“Think, think, think,” He hisses at himself, catching his reflection in a puddle he cannot fathom why he conjured, and, like a petulant child, he kicks at it before filling it with dirt. “If only I hadn’t already rid Vox of his power. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know if he impregnated me–he should be punished for even plaguing me with the consideration.”
But how do you punish a man with nothing? Physical torture? No, that wouldn’t be satisfying for him. What then? What is there left to take from him?
Then, just like with Rosie, an epiphany hits him that has him cackling.
“Oh yes,” Finally, his smile is genuine rather than distressed. “Yes. This is perfect.”
“Come on, now, Angel, no slacking off!” Valentino slaps his hands together in a thinly veiled threat for what lies in Angel’s future if he doesn’t meet impossible standards. “If I say you’re sucking five dicks, you say, 'How about seven? you understand me, Araña?”
There’s cheering from the meatheads whose dicks are in question, only marginally smarter than the foul one Valentino had brought for the first day of Alastor’s heat.
What a nice little treat they will make.
Alastor always thought he’d despise such a film studio, what with the plethora of cameras scattered about, but he’d failed to consider until this moment how many speakers there also are, and they make for an excellent platform as his voice echoes in every corner of the room:
“I’m afraid the only thing Angel will be doing with those rancid phalluses will be watching them be torn apart.”
That’s the only warning they get before Alastor turns the room from a pornography studio to a rancid excuse for a streetfood cart, kebabs of perverts skewered on shadowy spikes spread across the film set like stalactites in a cave.
“Smiles!?” Angel is one of the few–out of three, including himself–who is still capable of moving, and he uses that freedom to bolt up like a scared puppy.
As if he could be in any danger! Alastor almost finds it insulting.
He supposes his behavior is quite startling, though, so he’ll give him a pass this time.
The only reason Valentino does not immediately reach the same fate is so that he can do the predictable–call Velvette for backup.
“Dios, Vel–we’ve got a Code Ciervo!” Valentino’s extra arms come in handy, one holding the phone to his ‘ears’, while two shoot at Alastor, and one does what all cowards do–go for a hostage.
Predictable, predictable, predictable.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Alastor chimes, twirling his staff as that grubby arm is ensnared in tendrils, twisting around it until the limb is ripped straight out of the socket. “Your days of hurting him are finished.”
Velvette isn’t far behind, arrows fueled by the populace’s desire to stop the valiant hero Valentino, who allegedly stopped the destruction of the Pride Ring.
Those arrows, just like Valentino’s bullets, mean absolutely nothing, ricocheting off Alastor’s staff as he twirls it around like a baton in a one-man marching band, the rest of the instruments supplemented by his grating, static-filled laughter.
“This is going to deviate quite far from our previous altercation,” Alastor practically coos at them. “Your victory then was solely because I was…under the weather, you could say.”
His smile darkens as he walks up steps of pure shadow, like climbing up towards a throne.
“This one will end much differently.”
One shadow wraps around Velvette’s entire body like a constrictor boa, topped off with a serpentine mouth and slithering tongue as it hisses at her, just for a bit of theatrics. He can’t help himself. This is too much fun.
“Smiles!”
The same ‘spikes’ used to skewer Valentino’s employees are thrown into Valentino’s wings, pinning him to the wall like entomological mounting, tearing through each of them.
“That one was for hurting my dear Nifty.”
“Smiles! Stop it! What the fuck are you doing?”
“Oh, would you shut up already?” Alastor hisses at the boy, who is now standing in front of him like some sort of Sinner shield between him and Valentino. Such abuse-mentality behavior isn’t what irritates him; but to interrupt his fun? Near unforgivable. “Can you not see that I am doing you a favor? Are your eyes stained with semen?”
“Shut the fuck up. Ya think this is a fuckin’ favor? I never asked for this! I don’t want this!” Angel shakes his head in disbelief, spidery hands gripping his hair in distress.
As if he has something worth having a mental breakdown. This is nothing.
“Fuck, you’re worse than Charlie! She didn’t put you up to this, did you?” Angel thinks about the ridiculous idea for only a second. “No–there’s no way. So why the fuck are ya doin’ this?”
“Perhaps he’s horm–”
That’s all Valentino can say before shadows are suffocating him, twisting so tightly around his neck that Valentino’s head may be avulsed right off.
Oh, well, that confirms it. They know too much and will have to die. What a pity.
“What, can I not do something kind for my friends?” Alastor shrugs his shoulders as if this is the most casual event in Hell, waving a hand dismissively at Angel’s childish concerns. “Now you have nothing to fear about returning to the hotel! And why the astonishment? I am the Radio Demon! Killing Overlords may as well be under my copyright!"
“It was your trademark, but ya ain’t just the Radio Demon anymore. You’re the host of the Hazbin Hotel. Ya think Charlie is gonna like this?”
“Holy fuck, kid–” Velvette would smack her own forehead if she could. “You can’t be this naive. This is not about you.”
“Choose your words carefully,” Alastor warns through the radio, smacking his staff against his palm as Velvette is crushed in concert. “Let’s not overcomplicate things for our poor Angel. You’ve had a long day, my dear friend. Run along back to Charlie. Husker most certainly misses you.”
Angel looks over at Valentino, then back to Velvette, then back to Alastor, guilt written all across his face.
“...What does Velvette have to do with all this? She ain’t in my contract,” Angel rubs both his arms at the same time, as if the evaporating blood isn’t making this room dreadfully humid. “At least let her go. If this really is just about me.”
Those puppy dog eyes, one of Angel’s many claims to fame, look right into Alastor’s blood red ones. He can feel his smile ever-so-slightly.
“Not to mention, y’know…Val has done a lot of fucked up shit to me, but don’t forget that both of them saved our lives. Everyone’s life, but…especially yours.”
The twitch to his smile is much more noticeable this time, as is the twitch of one of his eyelids.
Alastor is a fair man. No matter how callous he is, he is not one to dismiss acts done in his favor, especially not ones that allow his life to continue. In all his anxiety over his supposed weight gain, his mind had forgotten who his collaborators were in defeating Vox. He had done most of the work, sure, but their efforts were not inconsequential.
It’s enough to give him pause. Perhaps there are other options.
But before Alastor can consider them further, their standoff is interrupted yet again.
How convenient. I was going to look for you next.
“Enough, Alastor! This isn’t about them, and you know it. Don’t take it out on them.”
“Ah, Vincent,” Alastor twists his head nearly 360 degrees behind him, tilting it upside down as he stares at him with glee. “Look at you–a body back already! I wonder; how easy will it be to tear apart?”
“You can find out right now. Just let them go.”
Alastor breaks into laughter, so much so that he fears he may cry. Angel is at least astute enough to realize this has spiraled far beyond his own relevance, taking the opportunity to bolt. Likely to tattle on him to Charlie, hoping she might intervene before he does something she’ll hate him for, but oh well. Not his problem at the moment.
“Ha! Oh, how foolish of you. You think you are in any position to bargain? Goodness, you are a real knee-slapper sometimes, Vox. What on all that is unholy could you possibly do?”
Out of love for dramatic irony, Alastor finds a miscellaneous chair in the studio and shoves Vox into it, shadows wrapping around him just like cables once did.
Vox is at a loss for words, defeated morally as much, if not more, than he was physically. Truly, Vox is at his rock bottom. So, of course, he thinks there is nothing he can do.
As always, Alastor will have to do the work for him.
“Hmm, well, actually, now that I think of it,” Alastor makes a point of tapping his chin. “There is something you could give me to spare their lives.”
Alastor holds up a warning finger to both Valentino and Velvette, who realize immediately what Alastor will ask for. They would never listen to a simple finger wag, of course, so Alastor simply gags them more than he already is.
Vox, too, is smart enough to deduce what Alastor is about to ask for, probably before he even opened his lips.
“You’re going to ask for my soul.”
“Ding ding! Caller Number 3 is our lucky winner!” Oh, how Alastor missed such radio announcements. “Now, the question is, what is more valuable to you: their lives, or your soul?”
A long pause. Not as much panic as Alastor would have liked out of Vox, but he’s always been more level-headed than he’s given him credit for. He’s calculating, intelligent, and capable of pulling off impressive manipulative schemes, paling only, of course, when compared with his own.
“And what would you do with my soul? Eternal torture? Humiliation? A mixture of both?”
It’s respectable that Vox is genuinely considering his own wellness over his friends’ lives. That cold-bloodedness is one Alastor relates to. It’s refreshing, really. Any of the hotel patrons would have caved immediately without another thought.
Alastor laughs once more in his face, breaking the proximity between them as he puts on a show, pretending to need fresh air from just how hilarious Vox is being.
“Heavens, no! Why—”
“Alastor, enough!”
Typical.
Charlie has made her way to the studio, her most everpresent supernatural ability in full swing: Showing up at the worst possible time with the best intentions to make the situation spiral out of control. She’s flanked by her girlfriend, Angel, Husk, and–eugh–her petulant father. Notably, no Nifty, a decision likely made deliberately to outnumber him.
“Why, Charlie dear, no need to make such a fuss now!” Alastor twirls on his feet, landing back by Vox and propping up an elbow on his shoulder. “I’m saddened to have you here. It’s going to ruin the surprise that I promise you would love. It’s not too late to give me the time I need. I know you love surprises.”
“You think I’d approve of any of this?” Charlie motions around to the many dead bodies and the two near-dead Overlords, which, in fairness, does not look like something she would enjoy.
“That is not what I was referring to, Princess. Perhaps I let my emotions run wild when considering what those heinous things had done to our dear Angel, and what these two nitwits did to our lovely, notably absent Nifty,” Alastor’s smile illuminates as he speaks through closed teeth, Husk’s ears pinning back in justified caution.
“...Charlie, maybe we should just let him do his thing,” Husk mumbles, “You know this is a…sore spot for–”
Alastor narrows his eyes, smacking his staff into his palm a few times.
“F-for Angel,” Husk barely recovers.
Good boy.
“And we’re supposed to trust you? After all you’ve done?” Lucifer huffs, puffing out his chest and trying to stand between him and Charlie.
“You mean protecting your daughter and her hotel while you remained the very battery for our potential destruction?”
“Listen, you–”
“Enough!” Vaggie provides the newest human shield, and Alastor’s sanity starts to feel like a ticking time bomb. They are ruining his momentum here. “Alastor, we don’t care about how fun surprises are. If you really think we’d approve of it, you'd better start talking.”
Fine.
“Very well. I was just about to trade Vox’s soul for his friends’ safety.”
Charlie sputters.
“Why exactly would I–”
“And with his soul in my control, I would take him to our Hotel, as our newest attempt at redemption?”
Stunned silence falls upon everyone. Even the corpses seem notably silent.
Vox is the first to break it.
“W-what? What the fuck? Quit fucking around!”
“Oh, I promise I am being quite serious, sweetheart,” Alastor smiles as he boops Vox once on the ‘nose’.
His attention is then turned to Charlie and her hooligans.
“Think about it, Princess! The most recent, most vile Sinner in Hell being redeemed? Why, if he could do it, then anyone could! I cannot imagine a better advertisement for the Hotel,” Alastor can see her face, and that of the others, becoming less hostile…to varying degrees.
“You think we’re going to let fucking Vox into our hotel? After everything he’s done?” Vaggie’s grip tightens on her spear, itching to use it.
“Ah-ah, but this is not like your beloved Sir Pentious and his immediate capacity for betrayal. That is where our deal comes in,” Alastor plunges his staff into the ground, both hands resting on it, planted in front of Vox in an almost protective gesture. “I will own his soul. What better protection could there be from any nefarious scheming?”
Vox’s face is incredulous, stunned, and expressionless all at the same time. Despite having a literal computer for his existence, he seems to be the one processing this the slowest.
“Besides, if he agrees, is it not our policy that anyone who seeks redemption is welcome?”
Charlie puts a hand over Vaggie’s chest, gently pushing her back.
“...he’s right.”
The cacophony of agreements and disagreements that subsequently erupts is of no interest to Alastor, fading into the background like monkey chatter. He knows what the conclusion will be, so he turns his attention back to the victim in question, leaning nearly in half so he can peer into his eyes.
“What do you say, Vox? Do we have a deal?”
“You think I’m stupid enough to make another deal with you when the conditions are that broad? Fuck that,” Vox flushes as his attempts to wiggle out of the shadows are pointless, his supreme degree of weakness still difficult for him to comprehend. “You bested me with fucking wordplay. I’m not making that mistake again.
“Mmm, fair enough,” Alastor is almost whimsical in his humming, leaning back. “Why don’t we discuss the details?”
With a twist of his wrist, a bubble of shadow encompasses them both. A little privacy is necessary for this sort of thing.
It allows him the power he needs to convince Vox of whatever he wants him to do. Perhaps driven by instinct, or the bubbling excitement inside of him as the first step of his plan nears completion, or the jittering under his skin like when Vox was electrocuting him, Alastor ends up on his lap, splayed horizontally so that his back rests on one armchair, and his legs fold over the other.
The impact it has on Vox is immediate, sputtering and malfunctioning like he was the one made of archaic technology.
“Here are the terms of our deal: I spare your two buffoons in exchange for your soul, on the condition that they are sworn to secrecy about…my witnessed behavior and everything you told them during my heat. This secrecy includes any form of communication–verbal, written, Morse code, even. Not even between each other, not even with you.”
“T-that’s r-reasonable,” Vox might as well have spirals in his eyes, overwhelmed with disbelief. After everything, having Alastor this close–having Alastor in his lap–is something he never imagined he would have before. It’s not joy overcoming, oh no, not after Alastor took so much from him. He can sense the undercurrent of rage and betrayal in his electronic blood, pumping through the veins of his arms that Alastor can feel against his body even through their clothes.
“You can’t torture my soul when you have it, physically or mentally or whatever other fucked up way you can think of doing it.”
Hmm, that might be an issue.
“Define torture,” Alastor stipulates. The proximity to Vox isn’t as bad as he thought it would be when his arms are bound to his side, unable to touch him in return. “I can make no promises regarding hurting you physically or mentally, if I deem it necessary for the safety of others.”
“Others, as in the patrons of the hotel, only if they are not attacking me first. I reserve the right to act in self-defense, but if it looks like I might kill them, then fine, you can intervene.” A pause. “Your little puppet spawn do not count as 'others'."
“I can concede as much,” Alastor nods. “But, truthfully, my dear, I cannot promise no emotional manipulation. The goal is to lead to your redemption. I believe we can both agree that you are too bull-headed to be trusted with achieving that on your own merits alone.”
Can he hear my heart racing?
This is the most important part of their contract. Alastor must retain this flexibility, otherwise it is all for nothing.
“...Fine.”
The shadows free at least one arm in preparation for their handshake.
“...but only on one other condition.”
Alastor’s smile doesn’t know whether to falter or to spread.
“I’m listening, pal.”
The echoing of that moment between them, the moment that could be pinned as inciting Vox’s entire downfall, is an intentional stab in his heart that Alastor couldn’t resist.
“My redemption includes making up for everything I’ve done wrong,” Vox has far too cocky a smirk on his face as he leans in close. That freed hand does not find its place in Alastor’s awaiting palm, instead resting mid-thigh, dangerously near a zone that would have this entire plan severed. “Including what I did to you.”
Despite himself, the closeness of Vox’s hand to his cunt sends a tingle in that direction. What is wrong with him? It’s as if these titles Vox is accumulating–his technical husband, the possible father of his children–is having some sort of curse on him, an enchantment, manipulating his feelings in ways deeply unpleasant.
That is the only explanation for why he has these new feelings towards Vox. It is absolutely not because of what Vox would claim, if he knew.
“I will repeat: You did not rape me,” Alastor growls, but finds himself too paralyzed to remove Vox’s hand, lest he reveal how his own is shaking. “So the means you are implying you would need to reach ‘redemption’ for what you did to me are more inaccurate than to claim you and I are angels.”
“Part of my redemption is going to be helping you accept what I did to you,” Vox persists, essentially neglecting what Alastor said entirely. “And helping you accept your feelings for me.”
“Part of your redemption will be realizing how delusional you–”
Vox kisses him. The audacity to do such a thing when he is in a position of absolutely no power, making a deal for his soul–that is why Alastor does not move away. It is pure shock. That is the only reason why.
The worst part is how chaste Vox is. He can feel the greedy lust twitching at his fingers, the desire to dominate and control Alastor once more, but he does not pursue it. It is almost like he is curating the kiss for Alastor’s preferences.
As if I would ever enjoy this in any way.
Alastor pulls away much too slowly–shell-shocked, that’s what it is–before a shadow stabs Vox in the hand and abdomen, eliciting compensatory screams that almost make him feel better.
“I will not agree to such vague terms about what constitutes your 'redemption,” Alastor huffs, hopping off of Vox’s lap.
“I think you will…” Vox barely gets the words out from the pain, but he persists. “I don’t know why you want my soul so badly, but I know you have something planned. There’s no fucking chance it’s about the “headlines” to help the PR of the Princess’ stupid fucking hotel. I’m not going to be a sucker again. So if you want me to play along, take the risk of whatever trap you’re setting up, then yeah, you’re gonna need more. Because I know you want this more than you want to kill Velvette and Valentino. Those are empty threats.”
It is infuriating, the notion that he would care so much about Vox as to compromise his integrity. Alastor nearly kills him on the spot, to make a point of how little he needs Vox.
But the worst part is that Vox is right.
Alastor needs this.
It is the only way he can punish Vox as he deserves for cursing him with such a predicament.
In Alastor’s calculating silence, head turned from Vox so he cannot decipher the strained smile Vox almost certainly knows he has on his face anyway, Vox fills the void,
“If you won’t agree to such vague terms, then fine. Here’s my final offer: I give you my soul, in exchange for you not killing Val or Vel, and I let you help me “redeem” myself without you physically or mentally torturing me, with emotional manipulation acceptable if necessary. But only–and I mean only–if you let me do what I think is necessary to make up for raping you. That means kissing you, touching you, fucking you–until you realize your feelings for me, and until I find some fucking way to properly express mine.”
Alastor can’t help but laugh.
“Your solution for redeeming yourself for your supposed 'rape' is to make a deal where you get to engage in sexual conduct with me that I clearly do not want?”
“Yup,” Again, Alastor must applaud the boldness. “You and I are just fucked up like that. We’re Sinners in Hell, in case you forgot.”
Alastor can’t help but find that a bit charming. It’s nice to see Vox hasn’t lost his spark even after losing it all.
But this is just like their last deal. Accept necessary evils, no matter how unpleasant they are, when they will all pay off in the end.
If I am impregnated, then I will need to move fast so he nears redemption before I show. If this is the easiest way to do so, then…
“Fine. We have a deal,” Alastor extends his hand.
Vox shakes it without another thought.