୨ৎ- ᴀʟᴀꜱᴛᴏʀ (s2)

You were Alastor’s partner — bound to him by a connection that transcended both life and death. The love you shared was not the delicate sort that poets dream of, but something fierce, consuming, and perilously beautiful. Even in life, your affection had always carried a dangerous edge.

Long before either of you descended into Hell, you had been inseparable — two restless souls drawn together by curiosity and chaos. Yet neither of you was innocent. There were always secrets, shadows beneath the laughter, and a shared thrill for the macabre that neither dared name.

It wasn’t until one fateful night that those secrets revealed themselves.

Alastor had gone deep into the woods to dispose of a body, his hands still slick with blood when he heard movement nearby. Turning, he found you — standing over another corpse, half-buried, illuminated by the faintest moonlight. For a heartbeat, the world went still. Then, recognition dawned in your eyes.

The two of you simply stared — and then, as if on cue, broke into laughter. Wild, unrestrained laughter that echoed through the trees like a confession. Somehow, in that grotesque symmetry, you found a new kind of intimacy.

But happiness, as ever, was fleeting.

Moments later, a gunshot shattered the quiet. A hunter, mistaking Alastor’s silhouette for that of a deer, struck him down without a second thought. You heard the shot and rushed toward it, the hunter’s dog also approaching the scene, and unaware of the cliff hidden just beyond the ridge. Startled by some unseen creature in the dark, you stumbled — and the world vanished beneath your feet.

That was how it ended.

And how, years later, it began again.

In Hell, your paths crossed once more. It was by chance — or perhaps fate — in a dimly lit bar filled with smoke and sin. One glance, and everything returned: the laughter, the danger, the love. Only now, it burned even brighter — stripped of human restraint, shaped by the infernal fire that surrounded you both.

And now, here you were, alone in the Hazbin Hotel lounge.

Niffty had burst in earlier, dragging Husk along, both muttering something under their breath. You hadn’t paid much attention — not until the hotel’s television flickered to life, bathing the room in cold light.

It was the Vees.

And there he was. Alastor. Bound. And made fun of.

The sight hollowed you out. You knew he had his conflicts — especially with Rosie, whose name he never mentioned without a wry smile — and you were aware of his uneasy dealings with Vox. But this? To see him paraded like a trophy, a prisoner of that smug television-faced bastard — it was intolerable.

A plan began to take shape. Reckless. Insane. Perfect.

After all, this was Hell — madness was practically a virtue.

Now, you stood at the base of the Vees’ tower, staring up at the blinding lights that cut through the crimson sky. You took a deep breath, straightened your disguise — like one of Valentino’s sluts. The kind designed to dazzle and debase in equal measure — and stepped inside. The disguise was ridiculous, obscene even, yet it served its purpose perfectly.

You ascended the escalator, your reflection gliding beside you in polished chrome. When you reached the top floor, fate seemed to favor you: Vox and Valentino emerged from a nearby doorway, laughing, their voices echoing down the hall.

You waited — poised, patient — until the doors closed behind them. Then you slipped forward, silent as smoke, and pushed your way into the room they had just left.

The air inside was electric, humming faintly with power. And there he was.

Alastor.

Bound to a sleek black chair by glimmering wires, a grotesque metal mask fixed over his face, twisted into a permanent frown. The sight of him — proud, unbreakable Alastor — restrained and humiliated, sent a rush of cold fury through your veins.

When you entered, his crimson eyes widened. Whether it was shock at your presence or disbelief at your scandalous disguise, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

But it didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting him out of there.