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***
The murmur of voices was loud in the enormous, domed courtroom. Goetia, sinners, Sins, and various hellborn filed in and to their seats, all chatting quietly and shooting glances at the empty pulpit where the accused was supposed to be chained. Of course it was empty: it's a bit difficult to chain down just a head and expect it to be able to stand trial like that. Especially since the ‘head’ was more or less an iPad…
Amidst the havoc of preparation, the king of Hell slipped in quietly, the accused tucked under one arm, and brushed away the cobwebs on his throne before sitting down. Snapping his fingers, a second, smaller throne appeared next to his own. This was the first time his daughter would be attending an official function, and as his heir, he felt she deserved a place of honor at his side, rather than amongst the rabble or in the jury box.
“If you can do that, you can conjure me a body. Or at least a mounting stand.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes at the muffled, static-laden voice coming from the device wedged beside him. He picked it up in both hands, looking down at the sharp-toothed grimace and red eyes narrowed in agitation. “Yeah, I could. But ya know what? I don’t want to. You aren’t worth the effort. You’ll probably be dead in an hour anyway, so why don’t you just sh— CHAR-CHAR!!”
Vox was carelessly thrown into the smaller chair as Lucifer’s words were cut off, and he stood to greet his daughter. Staring up at the faraway ceiling, the formerly strongest sinner in Hell couldn’t see the hug or overly enthusiastic expressions shared by the royals, oh but he could hear them. It was all so nauseatingly sweet that Vox was glad he didn’t currently have a stomach to roil and protest. This was the last thing he wanted to witness before he was inevitably smited from existence for his so-called crimes.
In the next moment, Vox realized there was one thing he wanted to endure even less, as a shadow above him suddenly turned into a mouth full of red polyester. He let out a loud shriek of protest accompanied by a synthetic air horn, hoping the weight of princess-ass didn’t crack his screen. Charlie jumped up immediately, stammering out apologies like they were on clearance about using Vox’s head for a seat cushion. Oblivion couldn’t come soon enough.
***
Fuck my life. Afterlife. Whatever.
Vox hadn’t wanted the princess’s altruism. Certainly didn’t ask for it. And yet, he got it anyway. With a horribly peppy musical number, Charlie had advocated for mercy for the would-be god.
‘Do you think I can be redeemed?’
Never had Vox regretted any of his words more than he did those as his sentence was passed. Six months of rehabilitation and removal of his overlord status and abilities.
There was only one rehab center in Hell that admitted sinners.
***
Alastor paced restlessly, his bare hooves tatting along creaking floorboards. He hadn’t attended the trial. Hadn’t wanted to. Vox deserved whatever fate befell him. That’s what he told himself anyway, though the occasional flick of his eyes over to the guest occupying his favorite armchair, told a different story.
Downing another shot of whiskey—was it his 4th? 7th? Who knew. Not that it mattered— Alastor threw himself down into the lap that awaited him, legs splaying up in the air a moment as he pinwheeled, trying not to fall off in an undecorous lump on the floor. His flailing hand gripped onto a dingy, frayed lapel, saving him from his embarrassing fate. Yanking himself upright, he pounded his other fist against the firmly muscled chest. “You had ONE fucking job! You couldn’t even do THAT right!”
His words were meant to be angry. They were meant to be scathing. The half-sob torn from Alastor’s throat just made them pathetic. He curled himself into a ball, folding his long legs up against his chest and hugging them as a familiar, nauseating tug at his core pulled at the thin strings of his humanity. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t what he had planned when he made that deal—or the other. God must have been rolling with laughter as Alastor whimpered and squirmed against the tattered remains of his only hope. Alastor knew it was only a matter of time before he would add yet another sin to his long, long list of damnation.
After all, what was a little necrophilia between old friends, anyway?
***
“I ain't sayin shit with that flat-faced chucklefuck here.” Husk’s gruff voice was even more gravelly and slurred than usual as he swayed in his seat, clasping a half-full bottle of cheap booze in one fist that dangled loosely at his side. Crossing his arms and ears pinned back, he turned his bleary-eyed gaze away from the hotel’s newest resident.
It was clear that Vox was not welcome here, not that he had a choice in the matter. Even if he hadn’t been placed under house(hotel?) arrest, it's not like he could exactly get up and walk out. They had yet to find and recover his body, not even the Vees knew what had become of it. And yet… somehow, Vox knew it wasn’t exactly gone-gone, nor being mutilated and maimed by the multitude of sinners he had betrayed during his manic, suicidal rage-filled—failed—finale. He could occasionally feel vague, ghostly sensations that were more confusing than informative, similar to what amputees called ‘phantom limb syndrome’.
They hadn’t even bothered to get him a proper stand yet, electing to prop up his head in the chair with a flimsy cardboard scrap from one of Charlie’s old propaganda-filled presentations. Vox tuned out the rest of the room, and the voices filled with spite or cheerful optimism, as the others argued the finer points of fuck-all. His eyes settled on the chair directly across from him, expecting to find glaring, hate-filled crimson hues narrowed back at him. Of course, Alastor couldn’t even give him that much.
Fists balled tightly in his lap, feet planted firmly on the floor, back ram-rod straight, and legs pressed together so tightly that Vox worried that the deer’s balls were being crushed mercilessly against the strain, sat Alastor. His ears were nearly flat against his skull, and his flushed face was turned at an angle, staring hard at Greg—or so the carpet stain had been named, apparently. If Vox didn’t know any better, he would say that Alastor had taken a triple dose of Vel’s high-end love potion, and was suffering the effects alone and in relative silence—if erratic pops and buzzing static growing louder by the second could be considered silence.
But Vox did know better—Didn’t he? Surely not…
Before he could continue that concerning train of thought that would inevitably derail into a Chernobyl-level catastrophe, Charlie stepped in front of Vox, breaking his line of sight to the rather distraught-looking deer. She had been talking for some time, it seemed, and they were starting some annoying game involving clapping and rhymes. What? Did she really think clapping was gonna solve world hunger? Or that Vox could even participate?
I got no hands, you dumb cunt!
He really deserved brownie points for keeping his mouth shut. She turned to him expectantly and, with a bright smile, spouted off the most ridiculous bullshit since that cheeto topside told everyone to drink bleach.
“You’ve got a long. long road ahead, 👏👏
To amend for what you did and said.”
Kill me now…
“You may think Redemption is so cheesy 👏👏
But the first step is really, really easy!
Cheesy is asking a girl, "Is your name Wi-Fi? Because I'm really feeling a connection." This was ‘blue mold that smelled like my granddad’s feet after working all day in steel-toed boots in the summer sun’ bad.
“When beginning a journey so far—y? 👏👏
Just remember that it starts with—”
A deafening screech of feedback cut off Charlie—the scratch of a needle dragging across vinyl, contorted and twisted with the bloodcurdling bellow of a wendigo and electronic distortion, echoing in the suddenly darkened room, filling it. She spun around to face the looming creature that had once been her demure hotelier, her eyes widening as she stared into the salivating maw that had swallowed sinners whole. Acting on pure instinct, she took a step back. Then another.
“SSSORRRRY??? SORRY!!!!” Alastor shrieked as he shifted forward, his ragged, hissing growl sounding more animal than man. Charlie tried to retreat another step, but her legs hit the seat of the chair behind her. Still, the nearly hysterical monstrosity advanced on her.
“NO! He doesn’t just get to say sorry!” An oversized, crimson-tipped finger jabbed at Charlie’s chest, toppling her backwards. Clinging to the sides of the chair beneath her, Charlie’s already pale complexion drained to pure alabaster as she swallowed hard, speechless. “Not after what he did!” She could smell the rotting flesh of Alastor’s morning meal on his every heaving breath, his clockwork eyes, not just ticking away the seconds until her demise, but spinning out in a dizzying display of internal turmoil.
“That’s ‘nuff, boss…” Husker’s quiet words could barely be heard, but they were enough to draw the cannibal’s unhinged ire away from the princess—and onto a far easier target. The room exploded in sound as people screamed, wooden chairs smashed against the walls, and a body hit the ground with the sickening crunch of broken bones.
In the blink of an eye, Alastor was gone. Silence fell upon the remaining group of apocalypse survivors, their ears still ringing in the fallout from the blast. In the center of the room was a mess of gore and feathers and glistening white bones. Some cats never learned.
“Gep or oney ass oof m- ‘ace!!”
***
A tempest of dark shadows erupted into Alastor’s suite, swirling and chaotic, ripping bits of morbid decor from the walls and cracking glass as books and other debris were picked up and tossed about in the rancorous typhoon. In the center of it all, the dark, hulking form of an eldritch beast screamed wordlessly.
The world came crashing down, and Alastor along with it. His knees hit the floor, and his hands reached up to cover his face, hiding his stitched grimace and the inky black dripping from his eyes. In the calm after the storm came the rain, pitter-pattering onto the floorboards beneath him.
Despite it all, the fever rose, tearing him apart from the inside out. He could feel it gnawing at his bones, aching behind his eyes, and driving his heartbeat faster and faster towards that perilous cliff. It tugged. It pulled. It hungered.
Alastor turned his tar-streaked crimson gaze to his guest.
It was his fault. All of it. His fault.
“Sorry! Pft! Sorry doesn’t fix broken, old pal!” His voice was choked and bitter, strained as it hissed through clenched teeth. On his hands and knees, Alastor crawled towards the chair, each movement agonizing as the shifting wrenched at the growing heat inside him. He clawed his way up blue slacks and into a lap that had once been a comfort.
It was all too much. Too broken. Too… frantic.
The clink of a belt buckle. The shifting of fabric and bodies and the hiss of hitching breaths. The quiet whimpers of frustration and the soft moans of pleasure. Pride discarded in a puddle on the floor alongside rumpled garments as a frenzied hand and grinding hips reached a fever-pitch. Disjointed keening reverberated off the walls as heat burst into flame, and in the release and the ashes, there was relief—however fleeting it might be.
***
Alastor groaned as the morning sun peeked in through the drawn curtains, spearing its cheerful light across his face. His head pounded, and his nethers ached from his torturously futile attempts throughout the night to soothe his abysmally humiliating… hunger. Pulling a rather oddly sticky pink sweater over his head to block out the blinding light, which felt like divine punishment, he nuzzled his cheek against colorful legwarmers and breathed in the scent from a pair of hot pink opera gloves.
Reaching out, he scooped up more items that were scattered across the mess of blankets and pillows that had been relocated to the floorboards beside his bed, rather than on it. Alastor clutched a handful of foam hair curlers, a bit of dalmatian spotted fluff, and a singed red bow-tie that looked like it had been run through a meat grinder on fire. Turning over, the crinkling of paper from exuberantly childish artwork—best pinned to a refrigerator, rather than used as a power-point demonstration—was a warm welcome to his ears. Slowly blinking open his bleary, crimson hues, Alstor could just make out a bloodstained apron to his right, tangled with a black lace garter that smelled suspiciously of whisky and cigarettes. His nose crinkled as the soft plume of an oversized, vibrant red feather tickled against his face.
Soon Alastor would have to get up, clean up, and show up. He had a job to do—no matter what ailed his mind and body or what time of year it was—and he would be double damned before he let this… irritation keep him from performing his duties to perfection. Perfection was, of course, subjective.
A deep, huffed sigh escaped him as he schlepped off the floor, his joints wailing their protest, popping with each sluggish movement. Abandoning the warmth and solace of his makeshift pallet—he absolutely refused to call it a nest, even in his own mind—Alastor trudged across the room. “Useless idiot…” was the only commentary he made to the sole witness to last night’s depravity, delivering a swift kick to the shin of the inarticulate schmuck as he passed by.
***
“Ow! Stop! That— that fucking hurts!” Another harsh jab at Vox’s screen with a crimson-tipped claw drew a loud, static-laden screech from him. He had tried multiple times to simply bite said finger, but always missed his mark, chomping at thin air futilely.
“Now, now, Vox! You wouldn’t want one thinking you were some indecorous, defective device, now would you? Hmm?” His cruel smirk widened spitefully as Alastor purred arsenic-laced honeyed words to the tablet lodged in the crook of his arm. “I’m simply trying to figure out how to place an order for Vuber Eats!” Another poke punctuated his outlandish explanation.
“GKLJHLKF!!! FUCKING STOP! I’M NOT A MOTHER F—”
“Oh! Well, that’s handy!” Alastor piped up as he had just now found the mute button on the side of Vox’s plastic casing. The idiot box’s newer model wasn’t all that much different than previous ones, so it wasn’t hard at all to figure out the manual settings. “So much better! Why, I think you should stay like this for the duration of your stay here!
The wonderfully colorful and erratic patterns flashing on Vox’s screen as he ranted out a mute tirade—of no doubt scandalous verbiage—were delightfully entertaining! Alastor hummed cheerfully to himself as he deposited his would-be ordering tablet in a nearby chair. In his aimless wandering, he had found himself in a formal meeting room that seemed more appropriate in the media overlord’s colossal, corporate conglomerative castle of overcompensation, than within the carefully curated atmosphere of the homey Hazbin Hotel. Many of the newest expansions and ‘perks’ had yet to persuade Alastor of their utility and necessity, such as this space, with its sterile boardroom ambiance.
Turning to the wall of grandiose floor-to-ceiling windows, Alastor looked out at the city in the distance below. He could just barely make out the scaffolding, wreathing buildings in various states of damage and reconstruction. Soon it would be as if the whole death-ray incident had never happened.
“My, how quickly the world moves on, old pal. How quickly people forget….” There was a hint of wistful melancholy in Alastor’s voice as he spoke. Gazing off—not into a far-off place, but rather, a remote past, that haunted him as surely as any poltergeist—he let his mind drift back to summer nights and autumn afternoons. Back to the music and back to the laughter. To the exhilarating dancing and to the companionable, quiet moments. To a time when—
One ruby tuft swiveled, picking up the faint sound of approaching voices. Before the footsteps reached the doorway, and the small, but distinguished, group pushed through the entrance, Alastor had dissipated into shadows. He fled from having to put on a mask of civility, and from the memory of Charlie’s horror-stricken face, and from the ghosts of a past he could not change. Alastor abandoned his muted captive to curl up in strong, silent arms that would not judge him—and a body that could not refuse him.
***
Tugging nervously at the bottom hem of her dress, Charlie followed her father into the meeting room they had set up for ostentatious occasions such as this. She questioned again why she had let Vaggi talk her into borrowing a miniskirt to meet with the newly formed T.H.O.T. (Transferring Hell’s Overpopulation Team—consisting of prominent overloards, distinguished hellborn, and hand-picked sinner representatives). Taking her chair at the head of the table—which Lucifer had insisted upon—Charlie grimaced at the hard, yet surprisingly warm, seat as her bare cheeks met the unyielding surface. Yup. No more skirts and definitely no more thongs either.
As the others filed into the room, finding their places, Lucifer sat down to her left. He took her hand, squeezing it lightly for support. “You got this, kiddo. I believe in you.”
Her own warm smile in response instantly became a forced grimace, her eyes widening as she felt a small stinging zap of electricity from underneath her. No... not again… not here… not now!
“Thanks, DAD.” She iterated a bit louder than necessary, her awkward grin growing bigger. Before she could remove the cause of her humiliation, Lucifer stood calling the meeting to order. His hand on her shoulder kept her firmly in place as he droned on about the importance of cooperating with Heaven’s representatives. Another, harsher, shock jolted through her system, causing Charlie to gasp softly.
Oh, that fucker!
He had to realize she was trapped. She shuffled the stack of papers in front of her and spitefully wiggled her rear end against her unwilling seat cushion. Obviously getting the message completely wrong, her subtle hint was countered with something warm and wet running along her lacy undergarment. Heat pooled on the princess’s cheeks and, rather unwillingly, straight down to her core.
Biting back a moan, she tried scooting forward, hoping that softly buzzing appendage wasn’t as long as it was thick. Immediately, she regretted that course of action as she was proven wrong.
Oh fuck… he is good at this…
Charlie’s eyelids fluttered closed as her now-soaked panties were pushed aside. She spread her legs slightly under the table and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm and gripping the solid wooden edge tightly with her other hand.
When in Rome..?
***