━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel.
Pairing: human!married!Reader x Alastor's brother husband x human!Alastor.
Rating: explicit.
Summary: you've been married to your husband, Alastor's brother, for many years. You want only one thing: to have a child. Despite repeated attempts, you've yet to succeed. The alternatives are too expensive. So, one night, wallowing in desperation, you ask Alastor for help...
🔞 Warnings: cheating, infidelity, brother-in-law relationship, secret sexual encounter, breeding/impregnation themes, creampie/insemination, moral conflict & betrayal, angst-heavy romance, domestic drama.
│ you’re here │ next (cumming soon...)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
It was a night like any other. Your husband was at work, working the night shift. Just before going out, you took a pregnancy test together and, once again, the result was negative. That night was raining and you couldn’t sleep. It seemed as though the bad weather mirrored your emotions... you were so sad, so depressed. Life had lost its color and meaning. All because... you wanted a child. You and your husband, too. You longed for one. Yet it never came...
You were tired. Worse still, you felt bad, you felt guilty.
What kind of woman were you, unable to give your husband a child—the man you loved and had married to spend your life with?
Guilt was poisoning your mind and body. The more you wore yourself down, the more your body rebelled against you.
You felt frustrated.
Nights with your husband had become a source of torture and unhappiness, nothing more than a mechanical, routine act, without love, without passion.
“Do what you have to do,” in the hope that a child would grow in your womb. But that desire withered inside you, with you. But you loved your husband, so you pulled yourself together, trying to move on, trying not to think about it...
You married him because you loved him. You grew up together. You spent your childhood together. You matured together, faced many challenges together. You loved him and he loved you. There was no doubt about it. Everyone saw, on the surface, your happy love story. Everyone congratulated you and saw how much you were in love. Everyone, except one: your husband’s brother.
You felt empty, broken, devastated. Your husband, however, stayed by your side. He comforted you. He worried about you. He stroked your hair and held your face close to his shoulder, whispering words of comfort every time you took the test and the result was negative.
This only increased your self-hatred.
Despair was a vice around your bleeding heart, shattered into a thousand pieces for what you had always dreamed of as a child.
And in fact... the hum of the dishwasher working was the only sound in the kitchen that night. The words had lost meaning, they no longer interested you. You stood at the sink, staring at the soapy water circling in the drain, feeling the emptiness swirl inside you too.
“You said you’d be okay, that you wouldn’t made an obsession of it,” your brother-in-law’s voice came from behind you, soft and careful.
You turned. He was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His dark, curly hair was neat, his usual button-down shirt crisp, but his eyes held a gentle worry you’d seen too often lately.
“I’m…” you started, the words cracking like weak breadsticks.
“I told your brother… I told him the test results. Negative... again.”
“He just hugged me. Said it was okay. Said we’d keep trying,” you wiped your hands on a towel.
“It’s not okay. My body… it doesn’t work. I will never be… mother…” your throat burned; tears choked in your windpipe, not wanting to show them to your brother-in-law. You walked past him into the living room, without even giving him a glance. Your gaze was empty, just like your body, which was walking by inertia. The whole house felt silent, empty.
A cemetery of your dreams...
You’d often imagined your children’s laughter filling the house, imagining the warmth, the parties, holding them in your arms… with their little feet and their little hands. Years had passed. And that dream seemed like a nightmare now, slowly fading you away, day after day...
Time ticked by. You were approaching 35… what would become of you? Would this sadness ever go away? Or would it follow you throughout your life, driving you to madness? Would you ever really get used to it? Would you ever be yourself again? The smiling girl, enthusiastic about life, dreamer. You missed that you, that versione of yourself.
Alastor followed you into the antechamber and into the corridor, shadowing you into the living room. He sat on the armchair opposite you, his hands resting on his knees. You slumped onto the hard, floral-patterned two-seater sofa, pulling a throw pillow against your stomach, a pathetic mimicry of the fullness you craved.
“He’s devastated,” you whispered, not looking at Alastor.
“He doesn’t show it, but he is. He wants a family so much. And I… and I can’t make his 10-year-old dream come true.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice firm but quiet.
“It is!” The words burst out. “Every month, it’s just… the same story! And disappointment! And this gaping hole where a child should be!!! I can’t… I can’t give him what he wants! What we want...”
You pressed the pillow harder against your belly, hoping that wishing for it badly would make it real; hoping that that pillow, deceptively, could be something else.
Alastor watched you, his expression unreadable.
His eyes were fixed on your face as he gestured with his hands, though his movements betrayed no emotion. Then, his gaze fell on the pillow you were clutching in your lap.
You looked up, staring back at him. He was very different from his brother. His brother had light colors, light eyes, Alastor was darker despite sharing the same parents. But, in many ways, he was the more composed. Calmer. More observant.
He’d been living with you both for some years now, after his own apartment lease fell through. He was part of the family you couldn’t build and you all agreed on that.
The silence stretched. The dishwasher finished its cycle, leaving a deeper quiet.
“There are… options,” Alastor offered, hesitantly. He didn’t mean to make you angry, just to give you hope. “Donors. Procedures,” his eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. His intense gaze pinned you to the couch.
“We looked into it,” you sighed, the exhaustion bone-deep.
“The cost… it’s astronomical. Our salaries don’t cover expenses. Not now. Maybe not ever...” you looked at him. His eyes were dark, earnest.
Another pause. You could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
And then… the idea made its way, insidious and brutal, into your mind.
“What if…” you began, then stopped. The idea had been gnawing at you for weeks, a desperate, ugly thought. You’d shoved it down, buried it in a hidden corner of your darkest thoughts. But tonight, with your husband at work for his late shift, with the quiet house pressing in, it had raisen up in your thoughts, burning on the tip of your tongue.
You had clung to everything, and that hope refused to die...
“What if... we are not made to conceive together?”
Alastor leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve done all the tests, neither of us is infertile,” you swallowed, your throat tight. “Maybe is just… incompatibility?”
Alastor’s gaze didn’t waver, it only got more intense.
“Maybe the problem is… something between us. Something that just… doesn’t work.”
You let the pillow drop. Your hands clenched in your lap.
“What if… what if with someone else… it would work?”
Your eyes rested on his, serious, questioning.
Alastor’s face went still. Very still. The understanding dawned in his eyes, slow and dreadful. He didn’t speak, but he got your hint.
Oh, shit, he got it. You were asking him to get you pregnant.
He raised a hand, frowning and adjusting his glasses on his nose. You forced yourself to continue, the shame heating your cheeks.
“You… you’re his brother. You’re… our family. The genes would be close. It would still be… his family’s blood. It would still be… his child, in a way.”
“Do you understand the gravity of what you’re asking me?” His expression changed to disgust, not at you, but at the idea. His tone was sour.
“I’m not asking,” you answered, tears stinging like shards of glass in your eyes and throat, “I’m begging you,” you corrected, your voice trembling. “I’m falling apart, Alastor. Even your brother is falling apart, and he’s hiding it for me. I see it in his eyes. The hope is dying. I need… I’m slowly dying. Please, give me a chance. It’s better than doing it with a stranger or a sperm donor who looks nothing like your brother. I want a child of my own. Please...”
He stood up abruptly, walking to the window behind him. He looked out into the dark backyard, looking at the rain, his back to you.
“It’s cheatig,” he spat in disgust, accusatory, without turning.
“Do you really want to cheat on my brother with me?”
He was looking at you from the reflection in the glass, without you noticing.
“I know, but... I have to try,” you admitted, playing nervously with your fingers in your lap, looking at them. “He won’t know. It would be… just… just for… for the baby. Nothing else. It’s just… a desperate attempt.”
He turned then, his face a mask of conflicted pain. “You think I could do that? To my brother? To... you? How will you sleep in his bed? How will you look him in the face? How will you look ME in the face? Hm? Have you thought about that? You’d condemn a family to discord!”
“You love him!” You answered raising your voice, standing now too, facing him. “You’re the only one left in the family, you’re everything to him. Put an end to our suffering! Just... a child. A family. With me. It would still be our child. Just… conceived differently.”
The logic was twisted, selfish. You knew it. But desperation had reshaped your morality into something wrong and absurd. Even for you, even for him.
Alastor’s jaw tightened. He looked at you, at your pleading expression, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. He saw the depth of your despair, the cracking foundation of your marriage.
“My brother is at work until midnight,” he said, his voice low; as if saying it quietly made it less real, less of a betrayal.
He looked up at the wall in the entrance room, checking the clock. The muscles in his neck were pronounced, tense. “It’s nine now.”
Another nod. Your heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Was he really accepting?
He exhaled, a long, heavy breath. Then he ran a hand through his curls, huffing in disbelief. “If we… do this, it’s only for that... for your happiness.”
“Yes,” you whispered, “just for the baby, our miracle. Nothing will change. He won’t know.”
Alastor repeated the phrase, his tone hollow. “He won’t know.”
Then, he walked past you, toward the hallway.
“Join me in my room,” he said, not looking back.
Your legs felt weak, but you followed him. The walk down the hall to his bedroom was the longest distance you’d ever traveled. Each step was a treason. Your rib cage ached. You even felt a little nauseous. Having sex with your husband’s brother… you were simply disgusted by yourself. But for that baby you so desired, it was worth a try.
The door to your own bedroom, shared with your husband, was ajar. You looked away, you couldn’t feel worse now… not now that you were so close to getting what you most desired.
Alastor opened the mahogany door of his room, moving his head inviting you to come in, following you shortly after and leaving the door wide open. His room was neat, basic: a bed, a desk, a bookshelf. Nothing more, nothing less.
The bedspread was a simple dark gray. He didn’t turn on the main light, just the small lamp on his desk, casting a soft, intimate glow that felt natural and… less intimidating.
He stood by the bed, looking at you as you moved around the room.
His room.
“Are you sure?” He asked, both aware and conscious that from there, there would be no turning back, staining yourselves with a profane secret.
Your mouth was dry. “Yes.”
He didn’t move to undress you. He didn’t move to undress himself.
He simply gestured to the bed, to take a stand, to do what you had to do and be done with it.
“Lay down,” he said, raising his hands to his temples to remove his glasses and placing them on his bedside table.
You obeyed, your movements stiff. You were nervous, your stomach churning with anxiety. Your heart was pounding obscenely.
You sat on the edge of the mattress, then swung your legs up, lying your head back against the pillows and your rigid body to his mattress. You were still fully clothed with your nightgown, your skirt slightly raised by the force of gravity, which you quickly adjusted out of shame, hiding your bare thighs.
He, instead, was still dressed in his shirt and trousers.
After watching you lie down, he arranged your long hair on the pillow so that it wouldn’t get crushed under your shoulders. After, he approached the bed, kneeling on the bed between your legs. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. His hands, gentle and careful, went just to your hips. His hands glided lightly under your nightgown, finding the waistband of your panties, rolling it down, and letting them slide down your thighs. Then he slid them down your legs, past your ankles, pulled them off your feet, and let them fall to the floor.
His hands were smooth, and they were also warm, pleasant to the touch. Even though it was supposed to be a quick, clinical act, Alastor went slowly. His hands caressed your legs very slowly, savoring the sensation of having you under his touch for the first time ever in your entire life, while his eyes ran over your body, following the movements of his veined hands. Then, he pulled the cover from the bed and draped it over both of you. It covered him from the waist up, and you from the chest down.
His hands returned to you. One hand rested on your inner thigh, a warm, steady pressure. The other hand… moved on you.
You felt his fingers, initially timid, brushing over the bare skin of your thighs, going up your lower belly, under your nightgown. Then they trailed lower, tracing a path you hadn’t felt from anyone but your husband for years. His touch was very gentle, not rougher. It was a brother’s touch. A forbidden touch…
His fingertips found your slit. You were dry, tense, clenched tight with anxiety and guilt. He didn’t comment. After all, it wasn’t his right, and he shouldn’t have had any claims either. He just applied a gentle pressure, stroking it.
He was preparing you, of course. Helping you. His touch was patient, not rushed. His fingers dipped shallowly, testing. You gasped, your breath coming in short, labored gasps. But it wasn’t pleasure, it was shock.
Your husband’s brother was really touching you.
Alastor was really touching, with his slender fingers, the inside of your intimacy, your pussy.
Nervousness filled you, burning your cheeks red. You covered your lips with your hands, forming fists, and tried everything you could not to look at him and holding back the moans that welled up from your lungs, filled with air.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice muffled by the blanket over his head, brushing against the burning skin of your face. “It won’t work if you’re too nervous.”
You looked at him with wide eyes, his eyes fixed on you as his fingers worked lower. But you couldn’t look at him… otherwise you would have kept wondering and thinking about what he was thinking. And what he was thinking... about you.
You had him cornered, forced him to fuck you for a selfish desire: to have a child, because you couldn’t have one with your husband, his brother. Your heart was pounding. You tried to relax. You tilted your head to the side, focusing on the floor. You thought of your husband’s smile when he talked about kids. You thought of the empty room ready for them. You forced your muscles to loosen, to yield.
His fingers pushed deeper. One, then two. A slow, stretching intrusion. The wet, yielding sound of your body accepting him.
And Alastor... he kept watching your face, your reactions to his fingers pushing inside you and touching spots that should have been forbidden to him. It felt wrong. It was, actually. But you also felt… pleasure, now. A tiny, traitorous flicker of physical response. Your body, starved for hope, reacting to the simple mechanics of stimulation. He moved his fingers inside you, again and again, a gentle in-and-out motion. The sounds were obscene as you get wetter from it, because of him. You bit your lip, refusing to make a sound. It was so hard… and so enjoyable…
After a few minutes, he withdrew his fingers. The wet, empty sensation lingered. He shifted his position on the bed, his knees adjusting on the mattress.
“I’m going to put it in now,” he said, his tone calm, instructional, waiting for you to look him in the face.
You turned your head slowly towards him.
“Don’t you need… stimulation? You know, for…” you asked timidly and embarrassed. Alastor pressed his crotch between your thighs, pressing his fully erect cock against your pussy. He didn’t say a word. It was superfluous and clear what he was proving to be saying and it was enough to let you know he was already hard simply because of you, simply because he had been inside you with his tapered fingers.
You nodded, shocked, and suddenly you turned your head back toward the floor, jerking it around. Alastor shifted his weight onto one arm, supporting himself while his palm rested on the pillow beside your face. You felt his other hand moving, below, guiding himself. His pants were already unzipped from before, partly because they were too tight for his hard cock, which needed more space. You could feel his trousers rubbing against your thighs, making you shudder. Then, suddenly, the pressure, turgid and firm, at your entrance of his cockhead.
Alastor penetrated you slowly. His hips slowly pressed inside your pussy. Without hurting you. Giving you time to accept his tip, first.
The head of his cock, unfamiliar to you in its shape and feel, pushed deeper, stretching as it passed your tight ring of muscle. You stifled a moan, turning it into a choked gasp. He pushed further, inch by inch, filling you completely with it; with him. A long, sliding wet pressure as he seated himself fully inside you.
He was bigger than your husband, his brother. Different. The sensation was overwhelming, a total occupation of a space that belonged to someone else and not to him. You trembled beneath him. When he was all the way in up to his balls, he stopped. He didn’t move for a moment, letting you adjust. His body was still under the blanket. You could feel his heat, the solid, muscular presence of him above you. You could smell him, and it was so good. It was distinct from your husband’s smell. Your husband’s scent was familiar, comforting. This was… new. Unknown. Intriguing.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” He asked, his voice close to your face with a little hint of concern.
“Yes, we should… do it quickly,” you breathed out.
He nodded. Then he placed his other hand on the pillow to balance his weight. His face pinned yours between his arms on the pillow. Alastor began to move his hips again. His thrusts were gentle. Each withdrawal was slow, a dragging slurp as your wetness clung to him. Each re-entry was a deep, filling thump that jolted your body. The blanket rustled with his movements, the bed creaked as it banged against the wall it was pressing against. The embarrassment of what was happening was eating you alive, so you closed your eyes. You tried to think of your lover. You tried to picture his face. But your mind, treacherous, began to focus on the sensations. At the fullness. On how deep Alastor was. On the careful pace. To his attention for you. Alastor was being sweet, considerate, even in this perverse act. Even if he didn’t want to do it, even if it went against everything he felt for his brother. He wasn’t rough, nor did he act as if he hated you for having almost forced him to commit this betrayal. He was… taking care of you, of your desire. Like a gardener planting a seed. The infidelity burned in your gut, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. But beneath that burn, a physical warmth began to spread. Your muscles relaxed further. Your inner walls, initially resistant, began to cling to him, to pull him deeper on each stroke, making you wetter. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips. He heard it but he pretended nothing had happened, continuing to look at you as you narrowed your eyes even more. His rhythm didn’t change, but his next thrust was a little deeper, more harder. A plap of his body meeting yours.
The guilt twisted tighter. You were enjoying this. Your body was responding, warming, wetting. Your pussy was soaking his cock, not from love or passion, but from stimulation and a desperate, deep-seated hope. Hope that this would work. Hope that this forbidden joining would create your baby: your husband’s and yours.
The sounds grew wetter, louder. The blanket rustled with every push he made. Your breathing became shorter, more labored. You could hear his breathing too, deepening, gasping on your face. You couldn’t stop it. The orgasm was happening, a coil tightening low in your belly. It was shameful. It was wrong. You were cumming on your husband’s brother’s cock. The thought made you want to scream, to cry, but it also made the coil tighten more, a cruel paradox. Your thighs trembled. Your hands gripped the blanket at your sides. A high, thin moan escaped from your throat. He felt it. His thrusts became more forceful.
The bedframe creaked against the wall.
“I… feel something,” you started, but couldn’t finish, hiding your face by pulling up the covers in shame.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he tried to reassure you, keeping himself detached, his eyes still on you. “You can cum,” he murmured, his voice strained now. “It’s better if…”
You couldn’t hold back. His warm, deep, gasping voice close to your face, made you explode. Your back arched off the bed, a silent cry locked in your throat. You didn’t want to show him how much you were enjoying it, how much you were enjoying it because of him. Your pussy clenched around him, a series of intense, gripping spasms. The internal contractions milking his length. He gasped, unable to hold back at the feeling of your pussy squeezing him. Your climax had pulled him closer to his own edge. His thrusts lost their gentle rhythm, becoming faster, harder.
The impacts were drier, the wet sounds louder.
He was close. You could feel it in the tension of his body above you, in the frantic pace, in his breathing. He slowed suddenly, stopping deep inside you, ready to cum. He held himself there, pulsing, throbbing against your convulsing inner walls. You poked your head out from under the blanket, leaving only your eyes visible, and looked at him.
“Are you sure,” he gasped, the words heavy with effort, “you want me to… cum inside you?” His gaze was merciless. Not aggressive, but dark… penetrating. He wanted you to be sure even if he was the one against it, right from the start.
“And you?” You panted, the question desperate. He didn’t answer with words. He answered with action. He gave you other strong, deep thrusts, burying himself as far as he could go deep inside your womb, and then he released, painting your uterus white.
You felt the first surge, a hot, liquid jet deep inside you. A gush, followed by a series of powerful, pumping pulses. He moaned again, longer. His hips pressed firmly against yours, holding you in place, ensuring every drop was deposited as deeply as possible. The sensation of being filled, over-filled, made your head spin. The damage was done. His warmth spread through your core, an enveloping heat that felt both invasive and… hopeful. You lay there, panting, feeling the last few weak throb-throb-throbs of his cock inside you as he finished.
Alastor stayed above you, still joined to you, his body heavy atop yours under the blanket. His eyes where on yours, oscillating between them, looking for disgust and repentance. But there was nothing but a burning, glowing flame in them. Then, slowly and carefully, he pulled it out and withdrew from your pussy. The withdrawal was long. His cum slipping and dripping from your outer lips. You felt empty, but filled. Contaminated by another touch, but maybe… fertilized. He shifted off the bed, removing the blanket from you gently and carefully so as not to make any air. You lay still, hearing him move around the room, then shifting on the mattress; then, his hands, gentle again, grasped your ankles. He lifted your legs, pulling them up, bending your knees toward your chest. He held you in that position, your hips elevated.
“To aid fertilization,” he explained quietly, his voice back to its calm tone, while with both hands he brought your ankles together so that he could hold them both with one hand, while with the other free hand, gently, he used two fingers to push his seed inside your pussy, deep, before it was too late. You understood. He was tilting you, keeping the seed pooled deep, aiding conception. He held your legs in place for a few minutes. Then he lowered them gently on the warm mattress, fixing your nightgown and handing you the panties that he had already picked up from the floor earlier. You looked at him. His shirt was slightly rumpled, his face flushed, his beautiful curly hair a bit disordered. But his expression was composed, neutral. You sat up, swinging your legs off the bed. Your body felt used. Heavy. But your mind kept wondering… about what you’d dared to do. You hadn’t thought about the consequences of Alastor’s relationship with his brother. How Alastor would feel looking at his brother? Would he feel dirty? Uncomfortable? Would their relationship have been ruined? You hadn’t given any thought to that…
He stood, watching you, his hands now at his sides. “You should… clean up. Before he gets home.”
You nodded, standing. Your legs were shaky. You were too quiet. It scared him a little, too, not knowing what you were thinking…
Alastor called your name.
“Y/N,” he called out to you as you stood at the door, before you left his room. “Do you… regret it?” His gaze had a strange light and intensity, but you thought that, like you, he just felt guilty deep down.
“No… I just… I hadn’t thought about how you would feel in the presence of your brother. I’m sorry...”
You walked past him as he reached up to grab your shoulder, opening his mouth to, presumably, say something. But he did neither. You walked out of his room, down the hall to the bathroom you shared with your husband. In the bathroom, under the bright, accusatory light as if you were under interrogation at the police station hiding a crime, you looked at yourself in the mirror: your clothes were intact. No evidence of what had happened on the outside, but inside… everything was upside down. Inside, another man’s sperm was reaching your ovaries, perhaps planting a baby. From a man who wasn’t yours. Who didn’t belong to you. Your face was pale. You felt the wetness inside you. Then, slowly and with a heavy body, you opened the tap, letting the hot water flow out. You cleaned up as best you could, wiping away the evidence from your skin. You couldn’t wipe it away from inside. You kept rubbing your hands under the water, but the feeling of dirt and inadequacy didn’t go away. Tired and exhausted, you turned off the tap, dried yourself with the towel and left the bathroom. When you returned to the living room, Alastor was there, sitting in his armchair again, a book open in his hands as if nothing had happened. He didn’t look at you.
You returned to the kitchen, sitting at the round table, thinking about what had happened and how rotten you felt inside. You placed a hand on your belly, with the hope that made you a little more alive and hopeful, waiting for your husband’s car to pull into the driveway, to welcome him and go to sleep together ready for your married life that was about to change.
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡ Next chapter already in works because I love these kind of tropes.
