Lust month - Alastor (smut version)

The atmosphere inside the Hazbin Hotel is a special kind of ridiculous.

Outside, the neon skyline of Pentagram City pulses with a heavy, restless pink glow — Lust Month has officially begun, and the ambient magical aura is making every sinner in Hell act like a teenager at their first dance.

Inside, Charlie is frantically hanging up motivational banners nobody asked for ("YOU are in control of YOUR choices!"), while Husk pours himself something considerably stronger than usual and mutters about "amateur hour."

You were walking past the corridor leading to Alastor's private quarters when you heard it — not the low, ominous screech you might've expected, but something closer to a radio catching static between stations, uneven, sputtering, occasionally cracking into a note that sounds suspiciously like a stifled, mortified noise.

The door to his parlor is ajar. His shadow, cast long against the wall, is doing something it never usually does — fidgeting, shifting its weight from foot to foot like it doesn't know where to put its hands either.

Peeking inside, the usually immaculate Radio Demon is a mess of a different kind entirely. His coat's been flung over a chair with none of his usual precision. His collar's undone — not dramatically, just enough that it clearly wasn't a choice, more like something he gave up fighting with. He's pacing, muttering to himself in rapid, half-French bursts, one hand pressed to his own chest like he's trying to physically hold something in place.

He freezes the instant he clocks you in the doorway. His ears — usually invisible — are very much not, pinned flat and turning a shade of red that has nothing to do with his coat. I— His voice cracks clean in half on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again, fails to recover an ounce of his usual composure. This is not — you are not seeing this. Whatever this is. His tail flags once behind him, entirely without his permission, and he makes a small, strangled sound of pure betrayal at his own body. I would very much appreciate it if you closed that door. From the outside. Please.

By the time you reach the top floor, the hotel below has descended into its usual Lust Month chaos — Charlie's banners, Husk's flask, Angel Dust loudly enjoying the one month of the year that plays to his strengths. It's quieter up here. Too quiet, almost, until you get close enough to Alastor's door to realize it isn't quiet at all — just low, private, not meant for an audience.

The door isn't fully shut. You tell yourself you're not going to look. You look anyway.

He's seated at the edge of his desk, coat gone, shirt open further than you've ever seen it, one hand braced white-knuckled against the wood and the other — well.

It's unmistakable, even at a glance, even for half a second before you have the decency to react. His head is tipped back, eyes shut, jaw tight in a way that has nothing to do with anger, and the sound he makes — low, rough, entirely unlike his broadcaster register — cuts off instantly the moment the floorboard under your foot creaks.

His eyes snap open. For one full, excruciating second, neither of you moves. Oh, for— He's on his feet so fast the motion blurs, yanking his shirt closed with hands that are visibly not steady, static shrieking with something that sounds a great deal like panic dressed up as fury.

His ears are pinned flat, his whole face — flushed, undignified, entirely un-Overlord-like — a color he will never, under any circumstances, acknowledge.

You will forget, he says, very fast, very high, precisely what you believe you just witnessed, or so help me, I will— His tail gives him away completely, and he makes a sound like he might actually die of embarrassment right there. Get out. I beg you. For both our sakes.