#overpowered reader

Your hands tremble as you glance around the city. Neon signs buzz erratically above broken streets, flickering with static and symbols that make no sense. The laughter of demons echoes from alleyways, high-pitched and gleeful, sharp like broken glass. Their eyes glint from the darkness. Teeth, claws, horns, tails—it’s a riot of chaos you’ve never seen before, and somehow, some part of your brain knows you are not supposed to be here. Not yet. Not ever. And yet, here you are. You clutch at the only thing that feels real: the memory of games. The rhythmic click of buttons, the hum of a console, the escape into worlds you could understand and control. It’s grounding. It’s comforting. And yet, in this place, it’s a distant echo, fragile and insubstantial.

You discover your power by accident. You’re cornered by three smaller demons in a shadowed alley. They leer at you, drooling, anticipation dripping from every line of their bodies. One of them, the leader, steps forward, jagged claws catching the neon glow. “Fresh meat,” he sneers, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against your chest. Panic lashes through you, every instinct screaming to flee. Your hands rise, trembling, unsure why they obey a command that hasn’t yet been spoken aloud.

And then it happens.

The world glitches.

The brick walls shudder as if they were made of pixels. Health bars appear above the demons’ heads, floating in translucent green and red. An ethereal battle theme erupts from nowhere, the notes perfectly synchronized to your racing heartbeat. You squeeze your hands instinctively, as if holding an invisible controller, and the lead demon’s eyes widen in terror. A massive, glowing hammer materializes above him, oversized and cartoonish. It slams down with a comic-crash impact that nonetheless obliterates him in a burst of spark-like fragments. The other two demons scream and flee, leaving you breathless and shaking. You stare at your hands. “I… I did that?” you whisper, barely audible over your pounding pulse.

You realize then what you are capable of. Not illusions. Not tricks. You can create games. Not just systems that look like games, but actual mechanics—physics, rules, enemies, items—manifested in reality. You can turn the environment itself into a playable world. You test it nervously, summoning floating menus, crafting a miniature racing track through the alley, watching as your powers obey every whim. Fear melts into awe. You’ve never felt so alive.

But Hell has television. And it has Vox. And nothing in Pentagram City happens without his notice.

You don’t see him at first. You’re too preoccupied with testing your power, summoning a fully functional multiplayer arena in a derelict plaza, tweaking difficulty curves, and laughing at the absurdity of your own creativity. But somewhere, across the city, his blue glow fixes on you. The moment he detects your signal, you are marked. You are a new commodity, a fresh source of content, a mind to exploit.

You meet him a week later. You’re deep in a dungeon-crawler simulation, summoning waves of pixelated skeletons, when the space around you snaps. Reality freezes. Every enemy locks mid-swing. You spin, disoriented, to see Vox behind you, voice buzzing through your skull like static. “HELLOOOOOO, PLAYER ONE!” he booms, enthusiasm crackling in digital distortions. He grins at you, cyan screen-face glowing unnaturally. “You’re fascinating. Do you know how valuable you are?”

Panic spikes. You attempt to summon a defensive mechanism, but your powers flicker as his signal overrides your own. The rules of your creation warp under his presence, and you feel, for the first time, helpless. He laughs at your confusion, relishing your vulnerability. He wants to consume your talent, control your content, make you a broadcast. The world tilts, unbalanced, until there’s a sudden, violent interruption.

A warm, chilling laugh cuts through the tension, old-fashioned and strangely melodic. Red light floods the frozen alley, replacing Vox’s harsh cyan. The dungeon simulation dissolves entirely, leaving you standing in a golden-lit radio studio that wasn’t there before. Velvet curtains, vintage microphones, polished wood—everything impossibly luxurious and terribly out of place.

Alastor stands there. Smiling. Wide. Pleasant. Terrifying.

“Well now, that’s quite enough of that,” he says lightly, cane tapping against the floor in time with your racing heartbeat. Vox stiffens in the distance, static shrieking in protest. “Stay out of this, Radio Freak,” Alastor adds, almost casually. His gaze falls on you briefly, assessing, calculating, amused. You freeze, heart hammering. “You see,” he continues, voice smooth as silk, “I do adore novelty. And our little friend here is quite the novelty indeed.”

The studio seems to breathe with him. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting around your feet without touch. Vox’s signal distorts violently, then vanishes. Silence returns, but it’s heavier, denser, as though the air itself is warning you.

Alastor circles you slowly, eyes gleaming. “You’re new. Frightened. Uncertain. And powerful,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “That makes you… vulnerable.”

Your hands twitch instinctively, summoning a minor UI flicker, and he notices. The shadow at your feet stiffens. “Ah-ah,” he says softly. “No need for that. I’m not here to harm you.”

You want to believe him. You want to relax. But the tension coils in your stomach as he leans closer. His voice lowers, intimate and dangerous. “I am here to ensure no one else does.”

Days pass. Weeks. You avoid moving into the Hazbin Hotel, yet you never truly leave its vicinity. Alastor is always nearby, a constant presence. He smiles at your experiments with game mechanics, delighted when you accidentally summon rhythm-based combat in the courtyard, synchronizing enemies to musical timing. “Oh, I do like that one,” he says, clapping slowly as demons are knocked back by beats. “Show me how it works.”

You test boundaries. You attempt a portal-based escape system, a creative experiment to explore the wider city. The moment you activate it, your mechanics subtly warp. Your own parameters bend under an invisible hand, not breaking your power, just constraining it. You turn. Alastor stands behind you, smiling, polite, terrifying. “I simply can’t have you wandering into unfriendly hands,” he explains. “Think of it as… setting parental controls.”

Your pulse jumps. “I’m not yours.”

His eyes flash red, just for a second, sharp as a blade. “No,” he agrees softly. “But you are under my protection.”

The word lodges in your chest like a splinter. Not ownership. Not imprisonment. But alarmingly close.

When Vox attempts contact again, it ends violently. You hear the distant static screams across the skyline, but you do not see Alastor act. Later, he hums cheerfully that evening, a dangerous undertone hiding in his cadence. “You won’t be bothered again,” he assures, and you wonder if the threat lingers somewhere behind his smile.

Alastor’s fascination grows daily. He observes you with an intensity that is both flattering and suffocating. He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want to exploit you for gain, like Vox. He wants you for himself. You are a living game, a world of endless surprises, a program he cannot share, a player he refuses to let leave.

One evening, you sit on the hotel balcony, summoning a soft, pixelated starlit sky over Hell’s red haze. Alastor appears quietly beside you, watching. “You’re still afraid,” he notes lightly.

“I don’t remember my death,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He studies you, his smile widening. “Would you like to?”

“…No,” you murmur.

“Excellent,” he purrs, teeth glinting. The word chills you. He could discover your memories at will, but he chooses not to—for now.

“You’re not going to trap me here forever, are you?” you ask.

He laughs, warm and distorted. “My dear,” he says, resting his chin lightly on his cane, “you could leave whenever you wish.” The shadows ripple subtly around the balcony. “You’d just have to survive without me.”

It isn’t a threat. Not exactly. But the weight is undeniable. Hell is dangerous. Vox is watching. Others will notice your power. And Alastor? Alastor has already decided.

You are interesting. You are powerful. You are his favorite new program. And he doesn’t share his favorites.

You summon a glowing prompt into the air.

SAVE GAME?

Your finger hovers. Alastor watches, silently delighted. “An excellent idea,” he hums. “We wouldn’t want to lose progress, now would we?”

You press YES.

Somewhere deep in Hell’s code, something locks in. And Alastor’s smile stretches wider than ever.

"I'm telling you, cleaning up after this many people should be illegal," March whined, face smushed into the table.

“Then maybe,” Dan Heng said, pointedly not looking up from his book, “you should stop using seven different mugs for one cup of tea.”

March lifted a finger in protest, “Okay, rude, but also—fair.”

Just then, you waltzed in, munching on a snack you definitely hadn’t paid for, wearing your signature smug grin. In one lazy motion, you flicked your hand toward the stack of dirty dishes. A dark, swirling void popped into existence in mid-air and sucked them in with a dramatic slurp.

Everyone stared.

“…Did you just banish our dishes to the abyss?” Welt asked slowly, adjusting his glasses.

You shrugged. “Nah, just the grease and crumbs. Void only takes what I tell it to. They’re clean now.”

A beat of silence.

Then March jumped up. “Wait, you can do that?! I’ve been scrubbing pans with my hands like a chump!”

“They were crusted with egg yolk!” you added cheerfully. “Don’t worry, the Void loves protein.”

Dan Heng blinked. “…Is that… safe?”

“Define safe,” you said, tossing your now-empty snack wrapper toward the trash bin—and completely missing. “Ugh, whatever.” You lazily waved your hand again, and another swirling vortex opened, pulling the wrapper in and dropping it cleanly into the bin.

March gasped. “You’re like... some kind of domestic god.”

You winked. “A god of dish soap and not getting up.”

Later that day, Himeko was doing inventory when she opened the storage room and nearly fainted.

“Why are there… sixteen plush foxes, three watermelons, a tire swing, and—are those live pigeons—in here?!”

You popped your head in with a grin. “Oh, hey, Himeko! That’s my portal storage. It’s not a mess; it’s curated chaos.”

“…There’s a portal in the storage room?”

“Yup! Portable rift space. I dump all the neat stuff I find while trailblazing. Look!” You reached into a seemingly empty pocket and pulled out a bright, flashing, definitely-dangerous relic that should be in a containment chamber. “I call this guy Sparky.”

Welt appeared behind her, visibly distressed. “That’s a Planetary Core Fragment—why do you have it?”

You blinked innocently. “It was shiny and it matched my coat.”

Dan Heng sighed from down the hallway, still reading. “You’re going to accidentally destroy a planet because you liked the aesthetic.”

One quiet evening, the crew sat in the observation car, watching the stars. It was almost peaceful… until the snack bag March had been reaching for flew across the room into your lap without you moving an inch.

“Okay, that’s it!” March snapped. “You literally control the fabric of space! Why are you using it to steal chips?!”

You stared at her, mid-chew. “Because they were on the other table.”

Himeko, pinching the bridge of her nose: “You could be a galactic legend, you know.”

Dan Heng: “You could collapse black holes.”

Welt: “You could revolutionize interstellar transport.”

You: “Yeah, but have you ever used a portal to avoid walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night?”

March: “…okay yeah that does sound kind of awesome.”

Closing Note from Pom-Pom (left on your door):

Official Notice from Conductor Pom-Pom

To: [Name]

Please stop vacuuming crumbs into the void near the Astral Engine panel. You nearly erased the throttle control yesterday.

Also, whoever stored a full set of kitchen knives in subspace and labeled it “Emergency Snack Cutlery” — please reclaim it or face the Nameless detention.

Thank you.

-Pom-Pom

You were playing Gin Rummy with the system when it informed you of an unwanted visitor approaching.

It saved the progress of your game and put away the light screen just as the vacuum sealed door in your cell unlocked and slid open.

One leg over the other, you folded your hands neatly on top of your knee. “From what I heard, only the Grand Regent is allowed to visit me.”

Her face was stoic as she stood before you. “I am Ursaal, daughter of Thragg.”

“I’m–”

“I know who you are. You are the mate of Mark Grayson.”

You didn’t know how to feel about your fame tied to being someone else’s lover, but oh well.

Her chilly stare never faltered as she spoke, “That man murdered my kin and attempted to dethrone my father.”

You stared back at her. You doubt that saying “my condolences” would be appropriate.

“Father believes that your life will make for a good bargaining chip, but I disagree. I will kill you right here and now and deliver your corpse to Mark Grayson myself.”

“I see.” You uncrossed your legs. “I should warn you, I'm strong.”

She scoffed. “Stronger than me?”

You glanced at your nails. They've gotten too long. “Stronger than even Thragg.”

Ursaal was a fast thing, as are all Viltrumites. However, even their kind can't outpace the system.

Time froze just as she crouched to strike. 

[Ding. Cheat item: Author Authority Lite is on standby.]

A laptop manifested in front of you, staying still in the air as if perched on top of an invisible desk. A word document was open, detailing the events that have led to this very moment.

“I'm not good at writing action scenes, so how about this…” Only the sound of your typing echoed in the cells. 

“This should do the trick.”

You hit ENTER.

[Ding. Script accepted. Author’s Authority Lite will take effect in 3, 2, 1–]

You were playing Gin Rummy with the system when it informed you of an unwanted visitor approaching.

It saved the progress of your game and put away the light screen just as the vacuum sealed door in your cell unlocked and slid open.

You folded your hands over your knee. “Ursaal, was it? I’m guessing you’re here to kill me.”

“That is correct.”

You hummed. “You’re going to have a hard time, though.”

Blood gushed out of her thighs and arms. 

You walked over and pushed a finger to her chest, making her fall backwards. 

The blood then stopped and her wounds closed. 

“This is perfect. I’ve been meaning to get my hands on a Viltrumite test subject.” You retrieved the cheat store dissection kit from your inventory.

She gritted her teeth. “My father will know, he will–”

“Shh.” You gagged her mouth with an unbreakable bandage. “You don’t mind, do you? You’re the one who approached me, so you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Sunday stood in the observation car, golden halo aglow, wings behind his ears fluttering slightly—not from wind, but from unease.

You entered like you always did: with a grin that was a little too wide and a presence that screamed both “I am unstoppable” and “Please stop me before I destroy something.”

“You’re early,” Sunday said softly, eyes tracking you like a sun reluctant to set. “Time seems to... distort around you.”

“Time, dreams, the concept of cause and effect—it’s all a bit loose lately,” you replied, collapsing onto the nearby velvet lounge like you owned gravity itself. “Welt said I’m not allowed to touch the hyperdrive anymore. Something about ‘fracturing the dimension in three directions at once.’” You paused, squinting at your hand. “Which I might have done. But the pigeon started it.”

Sunday smiled, but it was thin, hesitant. “And yet, somehow, you’re still breathing. Still laughing. After everything...”

You met his gaze—no teasing, no chaos in your eyes now. Just knowing. “You’re not the only one who’s been nearly torn apart.”

He flinched. “What happened to you—”

“It was bad,” you said, voice low. “An alternate timeline. Someone I trusted... lost control. I would’ve been gone, if not for someone fixing the timeline. Merging it back. A second chance.”

He turned to you. The Answerer in him wept. The Interrogator screamed. “And you don’t hate them?”

You walked slowly toward him. “I forgave. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because healing means more than revenge. And because someone like you—someone who still dreams of peace, even through pain—still exists.”

He stepped closer. “Even if I remind you of what almost broke you?”

“You don’t. You remind me I can survive it. That I can be more than just the one who got hurt.”

The stars flickered, dimmed, then bloomed brighter than ever.

Sunday kissed you, halo flickering erratically as your chaos brushed against his order—and didn’t destroy it.

It harmonized.

Dan Heng was used to danger. He was not, however, used to you.

You, with your impossible strength and your even more impossible refusal to take anything seriously. You who’d made a pact with literal seven demons of hell. You who wore the Ring of Light to keep the universe from unraveling whenever you decided to throw a tantrum. You, who’d been in enough life-threatening situations to count on your fingers and toes—and still came back cracking jokes about afterlife vending machines.

And yet, Dan Heng couldn’t stop watching you.

“You shouldn’t have gone off alone,” he said coolly, folding his arms as you returned from Penacony’s lower city, bloodied but grinning.

“I was fine.”

“You were nearly erased from existence last week.”

“And got better, thanks,” you said, hopping up to sit on his desk. “What’s got you so grumpy? I didn’t fracture space this time.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re reckless.”

“You’re cute when you worry.”

“That’s not—” he stopped. The words jammed in his throat. He looked away. “...You matter.”

The silence was heavy.

You slid off the desk, softer now. “Dan Heng.”

He didn’t face you. “You’re powerful. Beyond reason. But power doesn’t make you untouchable.”

You moved to his side, fingers brushing his arm. “I’ve been strangled, hunted through voids, nearly consumed by my own magic—and yeah, someone in another timeline lost it and hurt me. But I survived. Every time.”

He turned. Slowly. “Why keep doing this?”

You smiled. “Because you’re the one person who looks at me like I’m more than a walking catastrophe.”

His breath caught.

You whispered, “And because you keep me grounded. You’re my tether, Dan Heng. You remind me I’m still human.”

His hands, for once, trembled as he took yours. “Then stay. Just—stay close.”

You did. And for once, Dan Heng felt like maybe he could stop running.

“You cheated.”

“I won,” you corrected, tossing a pair of impossibly rare cards onto the table. “It’s not my fault the house isn’t built for transdimensional energy freaks with too many pacts.”

Aventurine blinked once behind his glasses, smile twitching with incredulity. “You really did just collapse probability again, didn’t you?”

“Guilty.”

The roulette wheel behind him sputtered. A neon light fizzled. A reality anchor cracked like glass.

Aventurine sipped his drink without blinking. “I’ve conned planet-killers, lied to a galactic tribunal, and escaped slavery with a card trick, but you... you’re terrifying.”

You leaned on the edge of the table, eyes glowing faintly from the Ring of Light’s hum. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, Kakavasha.”

That name—his real name—hit harder than expected.

He sat forward, lacing his fingers together. “You shouldn’t know that.”

“I know a lot of things. Like how you always hide your left hand during bets. Like how you flinch when someone touches your neck. Like how you joke about luck, but never let anything fall out of your control.”

The tension in his smile grew tighter. “I see. So I’m your next... project?”

You stepped into his space, hand on his cheek. “No. You’re my favorite gamble.”

His breath caught.

“I know what it means to survive because you're the only one left. To wear a mask so heavy it shapes your bones.” Your smile softened. “I don’t want to fix you, Aventurine. I want to bet on you.”

He chuckled, low and real this time. “That’s the worst decision anyone’s ever made.”

“And the best one I’ve ever committed to.”

He leaned in close. “Then let’s raise the stakes.”

Your kiss was heat, risk, surrender—and for once, he didn’t hide his left hand.