I celebrated my birthday on Friday. This smutty storyteller is 46! I have been writing smut for over three and a half decades. (Yes, you read that right. Yes, the math maths.)
Every year I make it to this day, it is not just a celebration of my arrival Earthside, but a celebration of my continued victory over my mental disorder. As Lucifer famously once said, "Take that, depression!"
IF YOU DON'T WANT THE SMUT, PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER AND COME BACK NEXT WEEK.
I have no intent of making anyone uncomfortable and if you're here more for the Hazbin Hotel content and less for the spice, I don't wanna lose you on account of what I enjoy writing most (and best, btw).
Next week, I'll have a small, smutless summary of anything important you missed. :)
So if you're a filthy little freak like me, carry on and (as Valentino once said), "enjoy the show."
🌶️🌶️ You've been so good and patient. For the (*checks roster*) ones of you still reading, here's a token of my appreciation for sticking with me these past 3ish months. 🌶️🌶️
Here it is: Chapter 13. Lucky 13. 😈
Recommended Listening
Grace was uncertain what roused her from fitful sleep but when she opened her eyes, it seemed unusually dark. Swaths of hotel carpet typically illuminated by the ambient light of wall sconces were blotted in gloom.
It wasn’t so much that there was an absence of light but rather, an abundance of shadows.
Shadows that weren’t stationary. She shivered; this brought to mind the things she’d seen when she stood outside the Hazbin Hotel on the night she fled her apartment.
Her skin prickled. Grace sat upright, adjusting the spaghetti strap that had slipped out of place while she tossed and turned on the hotel sofa. Taking a steadying breath, she shifted in her spot.
At the base of the staircase was an Alastor-shaped shadow.
It beckoned to her.
She shook her head slightly, having no intent of complying with the wordless directive. This was creepy, even by Alastor’s abnormally creepy standards. Perhaps it was the beginning of a vivid nightmare—even if she’d been fairly certain she had awakened.
The Alastor-shaped darkness approached her, gaining stature and somehow throwing a towering shadow across the floor despite there being no light to cast it. The laws of physics had, apparently, taken a vacation from Hell.
It stood behind the couch, offering its hand in a way that made Grace think she had little choice but to accept it. Despite the fear inundating her, she reached out. She wasn’t certain what she expected that to feel like, but an actual corporeal hand was not it. “What are you?” she whispered.
It guided her up from her spot without a reply, then led her back to her room. Questions bombarded her but she didn’t ask any of them; the shadow didn’t seem inclined to speak. Maybe it couldn’t. Of course, if it had substance enough that her hand was met with what felt suspiciously like skin, then it should also have had vocal cords.
Or this was Alastor just being Alastor, who preferred to keep his secrets.
Grace stepped into her room. Alastor was not where she’d left him. She pivoted on her heel in time to see the shadow closing and locking the door behind itself and finally taking his familiar red form. There she went, having heart palpitations again as she regarded him, trying to pick which question to ask first.
Why bring her back to her room?
Why close and lock the door with himself on the same side of it with her?
She choked on her phlegm. “What is this?”
“I thought—” he began, then paused, glancing at his feet. “When I offered to let you massage my ears, that it was something nice for you.”
Grace wasn’t sure what the point of that statement was but it tugged at her heart. She pouted. “It was. Actually.” She laughed wryly. “I quite enjoyed it.”
“S—so did I.”
Her eyes went wide but she remained silent.
“Thank you. That was the most restful sleep I think I’ve ever gotten.”
Well yeah, I mean you were unconscious. Couldn’t get any deeper sleep unless you went comatose or double-died.
“And …” He hesitantly continued as if he hadn’t heard her thoughts interjecting, “I wanted to apologize.”
Grace took a small step back. “Say what?”
“I’m sorry for hurting you.”
She wanted to reply, ‘which time?’ but suspected dream Alastor would have no good answer for that—not any more than real Alastor would. She then wanted to say her typical reply of ‘it’s okay,’ but it wasn’t.
“I know it’s part of your nature.”
“You deserve better than me,” said Alastor, his right hand going up to the bowtie at his neck, tugging it slowly. Grace assumed the act was simply to loosen it up until he pulled the whole thing off.
Grace’s breath hitched. “I assure you, that’s not true.” She paused. “And also, what?”
Whatever she’d had to eat earlier that day—she couldn’t remember at the moment, but if she ever did—she vowed to never eat it again. She was losing her damn mind.
The implication of that statement meant he knew how she felt about him. Knew it, and understood it. Neither of which could be possible.
He shrugged off his jacket, draping it neatly over the armchair near the door.
“I wouldn’t wish myself upon anyone.”
Alastor is undressing.
Correction: Dream Alastor is undressing.
Grace stared at his face, her eyes threatening to water from lack of blinking.
She didn’t want to dignify his awful statement with any sort of reply so she asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes. I want to feel your skin against mine.”
Grace’s legs wobbled beneath her. She backed farther away from him and sat heavily on the edge of her bed with a quiet, exhaled, “Oh.”
No matter how much willpower Grace had, the curiosity to check on his Angelic Steel scar was too great. Her gaze dipped down.
In dreams, the scar was a mere shadow of its former self, the jagged-edged wound diagonally bisecting his chest was now nothing more than a pale mark when compared to the skin around it.
She breathed heavily, studying him as he stood before her in nothing but his shoes and slacks.
Oh. No. Oh, no. He’s beautiful. He was God’s most divinely wicked creature.
Nope. No, he’s not. He’s not beautiful. He’s not divine. And this isn’t real. To test her theory, she told him, “You’re so handsome, my dear Murder Muffin.”
His smile changed. It looks … genuine? Whatever the case, he didn’t take objection to it.
This is so a dream. Wellp. I should make the best of it, since this’ll be the closest thing I’ll ever get to fucking the Radio Demon.
Her gaze raked his body as he took his remaining garments off and she couldn’t resist observing: “You are much larger than I would have expected for someone with your physique.”
Alastor glanced at her, a single eyebrow cocked in question.
Well, at least there was some sense of reality in her subconscious. He wasn’t aroused.
Maybe he meant that bit about feeling her skin against his more literally than how she’d interpreted it.
He approached Grace where she’d plopped herself on the bed and leaned forward as if to kiss her.
She put a hand to his chest with the intent to stop him. Alastor didn’t wince at the contact.
“I can’t trust you, Smiles.”
His smile widened. “Yes, you can.”
Despite herself, Grace laughed. “That’s exactly what someone I shouldn’t trust would say!” She quickly sobered. “If you think I’m stupid enough to let you do that to me again—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Alastor said, caressing her face, lifting it slightly with the tip of a claw perched perilously beneath her chin, “I know you’re not.”
“I don’t understand this,” she whispered as he encroached on her.
“Nor do I … but … I liked looming over you on the bed earlier. I liked how you reacted to my touch.” He pressed his lips to hers briefly.
It was another incredibly platonic-feeling gesture. Grace whimpered, on the verge of tears. “I hate you for how you make me feel.”
“Believe me,” he replied, his gaze dipping downward fleetingly, “that feeling is mutual.” To punctuate his statement, he kissed her hard.
He may have been undressed but it was Grace left feeling like the vulnerable one. Her hands trembled as she placed them on his cheeks and guided him into a slower, deeper kiss. She shouldn’t have trusted him but desire overwhelmed all reason.
To her surprise and relief, he reciprocated—and learned quickly.
Grace found herself beneath him on the bed for the second time that day. This time, rather than caressing her horns, Alastor’s hand settled on her waist. She thought he’d put it there to pin her in one place up until he moved it.
She peered down. His hand inching up her waist and creeping beneath her satin pajama top was the most mesmerizing sight. Grace could scarcely breathe.
“You are … so …” He swallowed audibly. “Soft.”
“And you are—” Grace dropped his gaze in favor of his cock, her eyes flying open with a gasp of revelation. “—not!”
Alastor moved closer, his hand now enveloping her breast beneath her top. He nuzzled against her neck, dropping brief kisses at fist, then drawing his tongue from her collarbone up to her jaw.
“Are you tasting me?” she gasped.
He chuckled. “Do you like that?”
She didn’t miss that he didn’t deny the accusation. Grace trembled with excitement. “So much—”
Licks and kisses led to nibbles and even when his nips drew blood, the feeling of his teeth in her skin was euphoric.
Claws raked her torso. She moaned and arched her back. “Harder!”
Alastor paused, his nails tugging against the elastic waistband of her pajama shorts, taunting her with it. “‘Harder,’ what?”
She gave him a devious, challenging grin. “Scratch me harder, Radio Demon.”
His eyes flashed. “That’s not a very polite request, Grace.” A single fingernail grazed her hip bone, the shorts tugging downward along with it. “Ask nicely.”
“Please!” Grace rasped. “My demon Overlord, scratch me harder!” She growled, “Draw blood.”
Alastor obliged, his claw sinking in deeply, catching and severing the inguinal ligament. He salivated over her as she cried out and writhed in pain beneath him.
That was going to be the most raging bitch to heal. Thankfully it was all just a dream but damn, that agony was vivid.
This wasn’t at all what she would have imagined she’d want from him—nor the kind of thing she’d ever dreamed about—but it was the most deliriously delicious experience of her afterlife.
The blinding pain distracted Grace briefly before she realized the satin pajama shorts were now hanging off her left hoof.
Alastor clamped a hand over her windpipe and mounted her in silence, entering her with one long, swift thrust.
The feeling of him inside her was nothing short of exquisite; she chalked it up to a combination of how long she’d abstained from sex and how desperately she’d wanted him.
With each plunge of the full length of him, Alastor drilled Grace closer and closer to the fabric headboard until her horns pierced it. Numerous sets of holes were made there before she had the presence of mind to put her hands over her head and brace herself against it. Her eyes fluttered closed, every sensation big and small amplified in her now sightless world.
For someone who in all likelihood enjoyed the sound of his own voice—based upon his choice in career—Alastor was shockingly silent. Further, for someone who couldn’t have been very experienced given his predilections, he was also far from a Two-Pump-Chump. More reasons reinforcing that this was a dream.
But what a glorious dream it was.
As his movements gained momentum, she reached out blindly to pull him close. He wanted to feel her skin against his, and she was going to give that to him.
“Ah, ahh—”
Except with her arms outstretched, she found nothing. She opened her eyes. “Ah!”
Alastor towered over her so large he blotted out the room light above him, his cute little crescent horns traded for a yard of antlers, his eyes black. He was halfway into his full demon form.
She was too stunned to find her voice initially, gasping and trying to put some distance between them to get him out of herself. Finally, she cried, “Ah—Al—Al! Stop! S-stop! You’re too big!”
Were he to grow any larger, he could feasibly split Grace in two from the inside, out. The pain from her hip was bad enough but his size now compared to hers was just adding to the agony.
Finally he stopped moving within her, although from the looks of things, it wasn’t because he’d come yet.
Alastor pressed his fingertip to her lips with a wicked glint in his eyes. He curled forward and whispered in her ear, “Shhhhh, Little Fawn. Or else they'll know what we're doing.”
“No more,” she implored, tears filling her wide eyes. “Please—”
“Ohh, come now, sweetheart, I know you can take it. And after I'm done with you, I’ll soothe you.”
Grace could barely take a deep enough breath to squeak out, “You won’t—I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“Alastor, I beg you—”
“I promise. And you should know by now that I’m nothing if not a demon of my word.” He dragged his fingernail from her lips down her chin and continued along the center of her throat until he reached her jugular notch. He didn’t press hard enough to draw blood but she knew if he’d wished to, he could. “So, my dear: will you take it?” Alastor’s grin turned wicked. “Can you handle me at my worst?”
She swallowed hard and whispered despite herself, “Yes, Alastor.”
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, resuming his thrusting.
If it meant expiring by his hands, Grace knew then she’d die a thousand times more just to hear him say those words to her again.
Stay sane, deer friends!
🥵🥵🥵