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𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 🌿 ／ ⋆ ۪ Hi, I'm Dolia — she ͏ ⑅͏ ͏ her + 𝟤𝟣

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notes. mature themes only blog + not spoiler free requests. closed current obsessions. Hotel Hazbin

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𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

The lobby was unusually quiet that afternoon. Dust floated lazily through the red light spilling from the tall windows, turning the whole room dim and hazy. Alastor sat where he always did—back perfectly straight, legs crossed, that familiar smile resting on his face like it had always belonged there. His cane leaned against the arm of the chair beside him.

The quiet didn’t last long. The floorboards creaked under your steps, and his head tilted slightly at the sound. He didn’t look at you first. His gaze dropped straight to the bouquet in your hands.

It wasn’t anything impressive. Just a small bundle of flowers—some wild things tied together with a ribbon. Cheap, maybe. But someone had clearly tried.

For a moment the air around him crackled faintly. A quick burst of radio static, sharp and brief, like interference cutting through a signal. His red eyes flicked over the petals with careful interest.

“Well, well… and what have we here?”

His voice carried that familiar old-radio rasp. You held the flowers out toward him. Probably a mistake. With Alastor, gestures like that rarely stayed simple.

He didn’t reach for them right away. Instead he watched, fingers tapping idly against his knee as if he were waiting for the trick to reveal itself. A curse, perhaps. A spell. Something hidden.

Nothing.

Just flowers.

Eventually he leaned forward and took them. His long fingers closed around the stems with surprising care.

“A charming little gesture,” he said lightly, a faint chuckle slipping into his voice. “Though I must confess, I’m hardly the usual recipient of such… sentimentality.”

He looked down at them for a moment, and the room seemed to fade into the background.

── 🦌 ・⸝⸝

The tavern was loud that night, but their corner felt oddly quiet. The pale blue glow from Vincent’s screen-face lit the table between them, brighter than the candles, turning the glass bottles into flickering shards of light.

Vincent had tossed a small bunch of flowers onto the table without much thought.

“My,” Alastor had said, lifting an eyebrow. “Since when did the world of television grow a heart?”

Vincent shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“Relax, Al. I just saw them and figured they’d brighten up your booth or something. Don’t make it weird.”

Alastor had picked them up, examining them briefly. His smile had been smaller then, but genuine enough.

“How very considerate of you, Vincent.”

── 🦌 ・⸝⸝

Alastor still held your bouquet. His smile hadn’t disappeared, but it had settled into something calmer, more restrained. He adjusted the ribbon between his claws, careful not to crush the petals.

With a small snap of his fingers, a strip of black silk appeared out of curling shadow. He tied the flowers neatly to the head of his cane. A faint ripple of red static ran through the stems, preserving them in place so they wouldn’t wilt.

They looked a little strange there—soft flowers against polished wood—but they stayed exactly where he put them.

“Regardless,” he said, his tone returning to its usual bright cadence, “the gesture is… sincerely appreciated.”

After that he fell quiet again. The flowers rested against the cane while the faint hum of his radio drifted through the lobby.

He never said thank you—he’s Alastor, after all.

Alastor—the prideful Overlord who bowed to no one—was on his knees before you. His grip on your thighs was bruising, a desperate firmness that anchored you to the chair while his head moved between your legs with a technical, starving precision. This wasn't just about pleasure; it was a ritual of branding.

He could feel the vibration of Charlie’s voice through the wood, but to him, the Princess was nothing more than an insect buzzing on the other side of a glass display. His eyes were locked on the way your fingers spasmed against the fabric of his suit, relishing the crackle of your own static as it hissed in response to the work of his mouth. Every flick of his tongue was a sentence declared: you were his.

You ground your teeth, choking back a moan that would have given him away, caught in the clash between the chill of his radio static and the searing heat of his tongue. Alastor paused for a heartbeat, only to look up at you with a manic, wide-eyed grin, his pupils blown into thin slits. He didn't care who was on the other side of that door. In that moment, if the entire world had come crashing down, he would have only asked that the ceiling bury you both—so that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Human! Alastor: Y/N, please, give me a chance... I would kill for you. Y/N: ... Human! Alastor: Please, ask me to kill for you. =) Y/N: 😨

Alastor: Do you remember that little thing you did with your mouth a moment ago? Y/N: You mean voicing my opinion? Alastor: Yes, that. Let's have no more of that.

Y/N: Alastor… I neglected to wear my unmentionables beneath my skirt. Human! Alastor: Do not distress yourself, my dear. We shall attend to that small oversight on the morrow. Y/N: ... Y/N: Good Heavens, Alastor, are you being deliberately obtuse?

𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝖯𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

His initial reaction is a laugh, not of amusement, but of pure, stark tension. It is a brief, brittle, and unnaturally sharp sound—utterly out of place. He is genuinely shocked: nothing he knows—not even his own infernal pacts—accounts for the existence of such a demonic pregnancy.

His smile tightens, becoming almost razor-thin. This is not a sign of joy, but of a profound discomfort that courses through him. Children were never "his thing"; he barely tolerates them, viewing them as loud, invasive, and "lacking all semblance of discipline." The mere prospect of having one of his own renders him involuntarily, rigidly silent.

His first genuine reaction is fear. Not for the baby, but for you. A pregnancy in Hell is an extreme risk, one capable of attracting the attention of Angels, Overlords, and other entities eager to intervene. And while he would never admit it, you matter to him more than he allows to be noticed.

He immediately questions if the child can truly be his. This is not due to a lack of trust, but because the very rules of Hell should prohibit such a conception. This transcends biology: it is a supernatural anomaly, something neither he—nor anyone—should possess the capacity to engender.

He adopts a protective stance, but one utterly devoid of warmth. His form of protection does not stem from affection, but from calculation: it is territorial, methodical, almost clinical. He does not think "this is my family," but rather, "this occurred within my purview, and I will not allow anyone to alter it before I understand it."

Alastor possesses and expresses no paternal emotion whatsoever. He never had an affinity for children, neither in life nor in Hell. In the past, he advocated for severe discipline, and now his indifference borders on cruelty. Caring for a baby is, for him, an idea as alien as profaning the purity of his own jazz.

He observes you with an attention that oscillates between fascination and silent unease. He analyzes every change in you with precision but refuses to entertain the idea of fatherhood. That concept provokes an immediate revulsion, an instinctive coldness, as if it implied an emotional opening he is neither willing nor prepared to grant.

Even so, he protects you without hesitation. Your security is what truly matters to him. Should anyone even hint at the intention of using you, harming you, or subjecting you to any experiment, Alastor would not hesitate to eliminate them without contemplation. Not for the baby, but for you.

And he never fails to remind you that he would not be a good father. He says this not with guilt, but with an unwavering objectivity. He even allows a slight curve to cross his lips before adding: "My dear... I was never suited to deal with children, much less one of my own. But I can keep you safe for as long as I exist."

His reaction would not differ greatly even if he were human. His first response is silence. He, who always has something to say, is momentarily immobile. Children never inspired tenderness in him; he always saw them as noisy creatures who only responded to firm discipline.

The news pierces him with the coldness of an unexpected blow. Not because he rejects the idea, but because he never envisioned himself playing such a role. "Father" is a term that does not fit the identity he has constructed, his future projections, or the life he currently leads.

He strives to maintain his composure. He offers you a faint smile, takes your hand, and asks if you are alright, but internally, he is tense. He weighs responsibilities, assesses risks, and assimilates how this news forces him to reconsider everything.

He fears he will not be adequate. He would never confess it, but he acknowledges it in silence. He knows he lacks patience, warmth, and the necessary empathy. With children, he tends to be too blunt, even rigid, and the possibility of reproducing that same behavior without realizing it deeply unsettles him.

Nevertheless, he assures you he will remain by your side. He cannot promise he will be a good father—he doesn't know if he possesses that capacity—but he can commit to something he knows he can fulfill: "I will do everything in my power to ensure you lack nothing. I will not leave you alone. I promise you, ma chérie."