I hope you're all prepared for a wild ride. The next installment of Alastor's and Grace's story is a total rollercoaster. At one point during her read-through of it, my beta reader told me I could subtitle Fifty Shades Crazier as "What the fuck, Alastor?!"

Let's not lose sight of the fact that Alastor is a sadistic, cannibalistic serial killer. I try very hard to stay as true to his character as possible (what we know of him, anyway, from season 1 of Hazbin Hotel) throughout the development of his relationship with Grace. That means there are places I took some creative liberties (such as in the second thousand words of this opening chapter) and other places where -- if you're a decent human being -- you're going to be thoroughly disgusted by him. (That's the point.)

Anyway, be forewarned (or tempted?) by this: this chapter goes from zero to smut in ... 1,500 words.

You lovely fiends were so patient for the filth in Fifty Shades of Grace that I thought I'd reward you with it ... almost right out the gate. Enjoy!

Grace woke from a dead sleep to find her Scary Dog Privilege absent from her bed and a crumpled note on her bedside table.

Grace had no clue what cunctative meant and upon first glance, read it as an insult. Regardless of the unfamiliar word,  the choice of ink on the note left no doubt that she needed to move. 

Now. 

She whipped the blanket off herself and fled her room without changing from her nightgown or bothering to put on shoes. 

Judging by the dimmed sconces throwing soft shadows across the Hazbin Hotel’s hallways, it had to be sometime before sunrise. The building was quiet and peaceful, save for the little lilac dik dik demon fleeing for her afterlife through its corridors.

The only place Grace thought to hide was probably the last place she should have gone: Alastor’s room. More specifically, the fairytale fen that comprised the bulk of his personal space. 

Anyone who knew her well enough to hunt her would think to check there first. She prayed Alastor’s bayou was magically expansive enough to keep her hidden from whatever violent intent that note forewarned.

I knew it was a matter of time before Vox retaliated. This is gonna be bad!

It might have been nice had the Radio Demon not jumped ship—that is, her bed—as he typically did before she woke. What good was his end of their bargain if he disappeared when she needed him most? Dapper-fucking-con-artist! Alastor was so easy to get mad at; less easy to stay mad at.

Grace tripped to a stop in front of Alastor’s bedroom door, grabbing the knob to maintain her balance. It rotated within her grasp and the door swung open, taking her inside his room with it. At least she had that going in her favor this morning: she hadn’t been locked out of her intended hiding place. Counting her blessings silently, she sprinted for safety within the swampy, misty moor.

It was strangely foggy that morning, the bald cypress trees carving stately silhouettes through the haze and curling vapor. Grace had no clue where she was going, doing her damndest to keep her bare hooves on the driest land this bayou had to offer—which was obnoxiously sparse.

Time didn’t seem to exist here but that made a certain amount of sense considering this place didn’t really exist either. Grace had left behind her phone and watch. She had no concept of how long she’d been running, nor how far she’d gone. Unfortunately, the sheer volume of mosquitos made up for her lacking concepts of time and space, and swamp looked like swamp no matter which direction she turned.

Her sprint slowed to a run, which in turn lagged to a jog, which before long became an exhausted walk during which she could scarcely lift her hooves from the soggy, unstable ground.

Grace feared she wouldn’t be able to shower enough to clear the algae from between her cloven toes. That was, of course, making the grand assumption that she would survive to see a shower again.

As she stole a moment of respite against a tree to try catching her breath, something brushed against her ankle in the shallow water. Grace squinted. Is that—is that a motherfucking cottonmouth? Why would Al put that here?! 

She jumped a few feet back to get out of striking distance; magic or not, she didn’t want to find out if its venom worked in very real ways. 

The cottonmouth took offense to this action and coiled upon itself, baring the white lining inside its mouth. Then it shook its tail at her in threat.

“Nice snek, goooood little snek,” Grace cooed at it on a trembling breath, putting her hands up and backing away further. “There’s no need for the theatrics.”

Its mouth was still open wide but at least the wagging tail mellowed as she distanced herself. 

This curse, Grace considered, could well be a blessing should that cottonmouth decide it was an ally and attack whoever was hunting her. Yeah, because snakes totally form alliances. 

She shook her head in disdain at herself, continuing to back away from the pissy water moccasin until her dewclaws hit something hard and scaly. She twirled around to identify it.

Fucking hell! There’s alligators here, too? Grace was on the run again. What kind of asshole would voluntarily include alligators in a fantasy world?!

Oh, right.

Alastor. There were numerous reasons such decisions were in perfect keeping with his character.

Truth be told, real fairytales had nightmarish qualities to them, so it suited Alastor’s bayou to include the venomous and predatory. 

Annoyingly enough.

After what felt like hours to her weary body, Grace had fled deeply enough into Hell’s version of a marshy holodeck that her only options were to backtrack or traverse a particularly Salvinia-choked portion of the swamp.

Stop. Think. Acting on a rash decision could be nothing short of disastrous here. Grace’s gaze fell upon a cluster of tupelo gum trees with their unmistakably characteristic swollen, buttressed bases.

By now, she was sure she could just hunker down. Eventually Alastor would wonder where she went and snap her into his immediate presence. Until then … yes, this will be a perfect hiding place! 

Grace took only a handful of steps along the edge of this portion of bog toward the gum trees when her hoof caught on something fully submerged beneath a blanket of watermoss—a log or tree stump she hoped, rather than something that could bite clean through her leg or envenomate her. 

No matter how much she flailed, Grace inevitably fell prey to gravity’s allures.

But rather than landing face-first in the murky waters, the bayou cartwheeled around her, ghostly fingers of mist and night appearing out of nowhere and snapping around her ankles, dangling her upside-down.

She shrieked, fumbling with her sheer nightgown to keep it from revealing her barely-there undies, not to mention her stomach and breasts.

Relief flooded Grace as blood rushed to her cheeks. Even if her initial fear proved true about who left that note for her, the black, ethereal tentacles suspending her in mid-air indicated that at least her Scary Dog Privilege had found her before Vox had.

Alastor was nearby; the tingles that flooded her veins in his proximity reached fever pitch.

These shadowy, amorphous appendages belonged to him.

Funny how time could change a girl; not so long ago, having Alastor nearby would have struck terror in her soul like nothing and no one else could.

Time, and a damn good fuck changed this girl.

Nonetheless, she didn’t relish this feeling of vulnerability.

“Alastor,” she yelled, despite being unable to see him, “put me down!” For good measure, she tried pulling her ankles from the ethereal tentacles grasping them.

After a few moments more, black clouds gathered from the ground and took the shape of a slim man. The Radio Demon popped from those shadows a few yards away from her, his face matching the hue of his jacket and twisted into a smiling scowl, the darkness clinging to his body as if even his magical shadows wished to grope him a few moments longer.

She wouldn’t blame them.

“Forty-five minutes,” he snapped. “Forty. Five. Minutes. Grace.” 

Oh, he’s pissed. That note was his and he’s seriously pissed. Was this a game?! Shit shit shit!

“In my defense—”

“It took me forty-five minutes to find and catch you!” Still shrouded in darkness,  Alastor bent over in front of her to meet her gaze, his slitted eyes aglow menacingly.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell him, then, who I thought left me that note. 

Grace tried to laugh but couldn’t hide her nervous quiver. She bluffed, “I thought … that was … the point of this exercise? You wouldn’t have been happy if I’d made it too easy for you!” Right? Oh, please be right!

“I want to reward your valiant effort but punish you for challenging me like that.” He paused, studying her silently. “Do you really think after all you put me through this morning that I’m about to let you protect yourself?”

In a spectacular display of verbal prowess, Grace replied, “Huh?” Choking on her phlegm as it pooled in the back of her throat, she followed that with, “What do you mean?”

Answering with actions rather than words, his magical fingers of darkness snaked around her wrists, yanking them away from the bottom hem of her nightgown and over her head so hard they practically dislocated her shoulders.

Her heart pounded; now for reasons more than the chase, alone. “Okay … Al, you’re legit scaring me here.”

“Good,” he growled, circling her with wide, lazy strides. “I enjoy it so to see you squirm like this.” 

Alastor stopped his circumnavigation in front of Grace, encroaching on her with a smirk that didn’t leave her the least bit comforted. He wrapped his hands around her ankles just below where his inky tentacles held her, then dragged his palms down along the outside of her legs before sneaking them between her thighs and wrenching them apart.

She tried clamping her legs closed, jerking against the tentacles, but they overpowered her.

After a hesitation, Alastor drew the top of a single claw delicately over her underwear, along her pussy from front to back.

Grace became keenly aware of her own ragged breathing. “Please—” She shook her head fervently. “Don’t hurt me. Not there, not again!”

“No?” Yet he gazed at her pussy with a feral hunger in his eyes that made her increasingly anxious.

“Alastor?” she stammered. “What are you doing?”

“I wish to feast.”

He can’t possibly mean what I want him to mean. Testing her theory, she said, “I thought you didn't wanna lick me there.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Aight, ouch. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t be quite so honest with me.”

He drew in a deep breath and continued, “But ... I favored your flavor over that of the ghost pepper’s.” 

The disbelieving ‘what?’ gagged her.

Alastor traded his claw for the pad of a finger, continuing to stroke her through her underwear, tracing her shape with agonizing precision.

Her heart now raced in her throat beside that ‘what’ she couldn’t articulate, her underwear saturating quickly with her excitement. “I insist you set me down right now!” she snapped between heavy breaths.

“Ha!” He grinned down at her. “You’re in no position to be making such demands, now, are you, Grace? Besides: why should I do that when I can so easily take what I want from you while you're like this? You're deliciously helpless and that pleases me.” Before she could protest further, he brushed the crotch of her underwear aside—for what they were worth, especially now—and continued the slow tracing with his fingertip. “This is pretty.”

Grace’s brain went all to fuzz and interrobangs.

Although the statement had been complimentary, he’d had such a peculiar way of saying it. Not like it aroused him but more like it was objective, factual observation. Her gaze flicked to his pants. 

404

Arousal not found.

The requested erection was not found on this ace.

Augh! Why do you have to be so damn complicated, Alastor?!

He’d called her privates pretty the same way someone might admire a perfectly-formed flower on a butterfly pea vine. Even if it was nothing more than a statement of reality, at least he wasn't put off by it. 

Thank goodness for small favors, I guess? she thought wryly.

Whatever. He was willingly touching her between her thighs and his methodical caress was nothing short of divine. “Al—Alastor,” Grace barely managed between heaving breaths. “You’re making me dizzy!”

He bit his lower lip through a salacious little chuckle. “You say that as if I didn’t already know it.”

“Wh—”

Alastor interrupted her by leaning in and pressing his lips to hers.

Her eyes flew open with a loud gasp.

He stepped a little closer, rubbing his palms down the backs of her thighs, gradually sinking in his claws. 

She was vaguely aware they’d drawn blood, but before she could feel any sort of way about that, he did with that wickedly prehensile tongue what he’d been doing with his fingertips. 

He swept it up and down her pussy, tracing the shape of it with that same slow, methodical precision, as if to ensure he lapped up every last drop of her excitement.

Alastor’s tongue gently parted her flesh before delving deeper.

Grace was certain she’d double-died at the hands of one of Hell’s most powerful Overlords and gone to Heaven.

She gave up on trying to free herself, upright herself, or do anything, really, beyond moaning and panting. From that angle and with the tentacles wound so securely around her ankles, she couldn’t even really move herself against his mouth. To say she was completely at his mercy was an understatement of biblical proportions.

This was torture unlike any previous experience swathed amid pleasures, unparalleled. “You—you’re—so—cruel,” Grace moaned before succumbing to the most intense climax she’d ever experienced. She cried out loudly enough that she wouldn’t have been surprised if demons in other rings of Hell heard it.

Nonetheless, he continued as if she hadn’t come or perhaps as if he didn’t realize she had, as if he wasn’t doing this for her benefit, at all.

“S-stop,” she breathed. “Please stop! I’ve come. It’s—”

Alastor shifted his angle a little bit, changing the rhythm of how he drove his tongue deep into her, as if seeking her very core with the tip of it. Like he sought an end to her gushing excitement that he was definitely not going to find by plunging his tongue into her like that.

Grace’s head spun, her back arching even though that did her no good. “It’s too sen—” Gasp! “Sensitive! Pl—please!”

Alastor persisted like the horror he was, as though he didn’t hear her plea, as if he didn’t care how this made her feel, or maybe—god forbid—because of those things.

Several more waves of ecstasy crashed through her. It was nothing short of miraculous that Alastor didn’t aspirate or drown with his face nestled where it was.

“Stop, oh stop!” she sobbed.

Or at least Grace thought she’d yelped that; she couldn’t hear anything, not even the sound of her own voice over her hyperventilation.

He paused his feast on forbidden flesh long enough to reply, “But my dear little fawn: for all that exertion you caused me, I’m still famished.” Somehow, his voice had cut through her gasps and moans. Or maybe she’d imagined he’d said that.

He made her come again and again, louder each time, through a rollercoaster of oversensitive agony and blinding bliss, until she wondered how she had any vocal cords left, before at last, he sated his appetite.

“Now that's a good girl.” Alastor stepped back from her, wiping his chin and then licking his fingertips clean, clearly savoring the flavor. “You know …” He glanced at her with a prideful smile. “I think I’m coming to love those noises you make.”

She’d lost count of the orgasms.

It was probably more in this single encounter than she’d had, cumulative, in her entire lifetime. 

Sweat snaked down her stomach, pooling in the crease of her breasts. Her stomach pitched and tumbled, her heart beating so fast she could no longer feel it.

“It sounds pained,” he continued thoughtfully, as if entirely oblivious to her distress, “but I suspect it—” 

The ringing in Grace’s ears completely drowned out the rest of Alastor’s musings.

She attempted a warning to him between shuddering gasps: “I think

I’m gonna faint

Yep. That's it. That's how this chapter ends. (Don't kill me!)

Until next Sunday, deer friends!