This is a wonderful time in which to be a Hazbin fan. Full Season 2 trailer dropped, half of season 1 sing-along in theaters (I attended the one in Phoenix). First song of Season 2 was released.

I'm sincerely considering making a countdown chain to October 29th.

Oh. Yeah. Also, I've got a plot in mind for a 3rd story with Alastor and Grace. 😭 Gotta see how certain things play out in the show next season...

If you have any triggers, I strongly recommend you expand the below trigger warning list and check it before you proceed on this chapter. We are dipping our toes into the turbulent waters of my headcanons for Alastor's backstory. I think we can all assume his past isn't pretty based on what we know of him from the series; my take on his history might have some darker corners than some fans can stomach.

Chapter 3: One Helluva Demonic Library

Grace hadn’t seen the Radio Demon since their interaction at Husk’s bar, which left her with very mixed feelings as she prepared for bed that evening. Very mixed feelings led to musings about what Alastor would be like if he actually cared enough about her satisfaction and emotional well-being to learn how to please her for her benefit rather than—

Why does he touch me?

She shimmied out of her skimpy pink sundress, dropping it in the hamper in her closet. And here comes Alastor to interrupt me while I’m partly naked.

Grace turned around; to her surprise, she was still alone in her bedroom.

Oh. Maybe he doesn’t even know why he touches me.

She slipped out of her bra. Still no inopportune Alastor.

Okay.

When she pissed him off, she must have really pissed him off.

Shit. How do I even apologize to someone like him?!

Grace stepped out of her underwear, adding it to the hamper along with her sundress and bra.

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back with a long groan. He doesn’t seem like the type who forgives-and-forg—

“Why do you have those bandages on your ankles?”

Grace opened her eyes to find herself in Alastor’s bedroom. He’d developed an especially annoying habit lately of summoning her into his room at random. Seldom for reasons she wished he would. Actually, the more she considered it, the more convinced she became that it had never once been for reasons she wanted.

This was by far the most awkward situation in which he found himself with her.

“Alastor!” she yelped, trying to conceal her nudity with one arm across her chest and a hand over her crotch. “Do you mind?!”

“Mind what?”

Good lord is he really so oblivious to my body?! That thought proved exceptionally painful. “I was in the middle of my nighttime routine when you … made me … barge into your room unannounced?” 

Alastor laughed, she assumed, at her confusion.

“You’re not about to make me walk through the hotel undressed now, are you? The walk of shame this morning was embarrassing enough!”

“Oh of course not.” He snapped his fingers and a nightgown appeared on her. “Will that suffice?”

Grace glanced down, moving her arm and hand. He’d put her into a surprisingly low cut, curve-clinging silk spaghetti-strapped princess slip. In red. She suspected it was similar in design to what women might have worn in the 1920s or 30s. Despite that, it was pretty. It undeniably flattered her. She slowly met his gaze, knowing her cheeks had to match the color of the nightgown. “I’m not walking through the hotel in this, either.”

“Who’s asking you to?”

“Oh, nobody’s asking. But probably someone,” she leveled a pointed glower at him, “will tell me to.”

He strode over to her, pinching her face between his fingers. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied wickedly. “So tell me: why do you have bandages on your ankles?”

“Because your fucking stupid disgusting leeches, Alastor!”

“Leech—leeches?—oh!” He chuckled. “I forgot I put those there.”

Grace replied through clenched teeth, “You forgot you put those there.”

He dropped his voice an octave. “I suppose I can’t blame them for wanting to nibble on you.”

Her blush darkened. Shit don’t derail my anger that’s not fair you manipulative wedge of fuck! She swallowed hard. “Why did you summon me, Alastor?”

“You are delightfully nibble-able.” He bowed his head, pressing his lips to her neck before sinking his teeth in just above her collarbone.

It took every ounce of willpower not to collapse against him, not to make a noise—of pain or pleasure. She didn’t want to give him either at the moment. So she spoke through her teeth: “You didn’t answer me.”

Alastor leaned away, swiping her blood from his lips with the top of his hand and licking it clean while maintaining her gaze. 

It was his right eye that was lazy. Probably he wore the monocle to help with it. All this time, Grace was certain it was an aesthetic choice to make him look more charming and dapper. 

Not that he needed a tiny oval of red glass to accomplish either of those things.

Without a word, he retreated to the set of accent chairs in front of the hearth.

Wubby appeared then from behind said chair, winding herself around Alastor’s ankles a few times before hopping onto his lap and curling up into a tight ball.

Traitorous little bitch. You’re supposed to be my cat!

Once Wubby finally tolerated Alastor’s presence, she’d warmed up to him quickly. Grace assumed it was because she picked up on Grace's affections for him.

Of course, it took the Radio Demon a few weeks to reciprocate the Hellborn feline’s fondness but that seemed the norm for him. It had taken him longer to have any measurable fondness for Grace. 

He snapped a book into existence in his left hand and opened it about three quarters of the way through. He balanced it on the arm rest and read while absentmindedly petting Wubby, who purred away so loudly that Grace could hear her over the fire in the hearth.

You’d make me purr if you stroked my pussy that way. I should totally tell him that.

Instead, Grace turned her attention to the decor around the mantelpiece. Every painting was askew to some degree. She’d noticed that previously but only now did it irritate her.

Tremendously.

So since Alastor was preoccupied with the pet formerly known as belonging-to-Grace, she distracted herself with neatening up his space.

He didn’t pull his attention away from the book and yet by the third picture Grace straightened, Alastor asked, “Did you ever stop to think that I liked them that way?”

Why would he— Grace bristled. “Because it drives me crazy?”

Alastor snickered and turned a page in his book, confirming her suspicion: “Because it drives you crazy.”

“You are such a dick!” she snapped before she thought better of it.

Entirely unbothered, he replied, “Oh, you love it.”

She turned her back to him and straightened the next nearest painting while mumbling, “You have no idea what I love.”

“Sure I do. I know you love me.”

Grace froze with her hands white-knuckling a picture frame.

Her blood froze.

Her heart froze.

Time stopped.

The universe unraveled and imploded.

And all that was left in the entire history of existence was Grace’s internal voice shrieking:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Grace scoffed. “You wish.”

“I don’t have to wish. I know it.”

She whipped around to face him. “You are without a doubt the most egotistical soul I’ve ever met!”

He kept reading, turning another page. “And you love it.”

“Insufferable cannibal!” Grace snapped.

Alastor replied placidly, “Unfathomable vegetarian.”

“Detestable, disagreeable Overlord!”

“Beguiling little consort.”

“Charm—” It took that long for the last three words Alastor had said to make any sort of sense to Grace, and even then, they seemed to be a foreign language with no cognates. “Wait, what?!”

His wide eyes snapped to her and brows shot upward. “What?”

“Alastor,” she whispered, dropping his gaze. Her voice trembling uncontrollably, Grace asked, “Seriously. Please tell me: what is it you want from me?”

He gazed at her in silence for several moments, a stunningly tender look in his eyes. And then he had to say, “Why … your unceasing loyalty, my dear.”

Grace exhaled heavily in defeat. What the fuck else did I expect from him?

Wubby mewed from somewhere within her tight little ball of Hellborn cat.

“Tell me again why you don't have a bed in your room,” said Grace.

An impatient edge to his voice, Alastor replied, “If it’s all the same to you, I’m trying to read?”

“And I was trying to change and go to sleep but it wasn’t all the same to you to bring me here, now, was it?”

“Your presence is infuriating, Grace. But your absence is intolerable.”

Her lips momentarily went numb. Unable to unpack that admission, she continued on her topic, undeterred: “It’s getting pretty obvious to the other residents that we’re …” Her tongue dried up. Together? Dating? A couple? 

?????????????????

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Alastor regarded her in expectant silence.

“You know—” Grace fidgeted with her hands, clasping them tightly in front of her. Tucking them behind her back and wringing an invisible washcloth. Clenching them into fists and sinking her nails into her palms. “So—with—you know—the whole fake sex noise thing we did that one time, and … and the very real way you make me moan and scream … nobody would be surprised to see us going to or leaving a room together.”

This is it. This is how I die again.

Alastor was stunningly unbothered by any of what she’d pointed out. “I don’t need my own bed,” he said simply. “I have yours. As I’ve already told you.”

“But I don't like my room." In the months following her arrival at the hotel, she'd attempted to decorate it to her tastes but had only, somehow, made it even less palatable for herself. "I prefer yours.” Oh. Holy shit. That’s true.

“But mine doesn't have a bed. Yours does. And your bed has you in it.”

Grace leaned against the mantel of the fireplace as casually as she could to hide her suddenly weak legs. This was going as poorly as expected but in a very unexpected way. “But … what if your room had a bed that I could be in?”

“Well then there would be a superfluous bed in the hotel.”

Is he being obtuse deliberately or is this just an extension of the whole picture-straightening fiasco? “So what if there’s a superfluous bed in the hotel? What’s the harm in that?”

“Oh, there’s no harm, per se … it’s just …”

“Superfluous?”

“Yes.”

She took a long, deep, steadying breath. “Alastor. I want to move into your room.” aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaa

Well, there was no turning back now. She couldn’t possibly dig herself into a deeper grave.

“I love it in here.” I love you in here. “Would you please get a bed in here so I have a place to sleep where I’m happiest and most comfortable? And then you can join me in that bed? In a room I love?” With a woman who loves you?

He closed his book. “I guess that presents a small problem, then.”

Do not strangle the Radio Demon. No matter what he does or says next. “What problem could there possibly be with this?”

Alastor stood, Wubby leaping off his lap from a dead sleep, and he snapped his fingers. “The problem is that the hotel has a redundant bed.”

Grace glanced around. His bedroom remained unchanged from what she could see of it. This felt suspiciously like the equivalent of a severed mummified monkey's paw granting a wish with some horrible twist. “Did … did you do something?”

Taking her by the hand, Alastor silently led her into his fantasy marsh where, nestled on a small island of dry ground, was a king-sized bed that matched the decor in the furnished portion of his room.

“You put your bed … in the middle of the bayou.” 

“It’s your bed, Little Fawn.”

Grace flailed in frustration. “What do you have against having your own bed?”

“I told you,” he replied, every bit as simply as every prior time he’d said so, “I don’t need one.”

“Why here?” In the middle of the water moccasins and alligators and mosquitos and leeches and lord only knows what else I’m deliberately suppressing?

“This location ensures nobody is going to interrupt us quite so easily.”

She blinked.

His smile soured.

“Has someone seriously invaded your privacy?”

“I’m not the only one with a key to this room.”

Grace’s eyebrows shot up. 

Alastor sat on the bed, patting the spot beside himself. “Let’s test it out.”

She should have known better than to think he was suggesting they have sex. Instead, he climbed under the covers with her and snuggled her tightly.

“Hey Murder Muffin?” Grace asked, covering his hands with hers where they rested over her belly. “What’s cunctative mean?”

Alastor laughed but didn’t answer.

“Congratulations! You have just been upgraded from ‘such a dick’ to ‘raging dick!’”

He pressed his lips to the back of her neck; she could feel him grinning. Undoubtedly, wickedly.

“I don’t have my phone with me. The least you could’ve done is summoned my phone, too.”

“You don’t need your phone. You’re much better off without it.”

“Do you remember I told you once that you won’t like me when I’m bored?”

Alastor answered an ambiguous, “Mmmhmmm.”

Grace took a lengthy inhalation. “How much sawdust do you suppose you could bake into a rice cake before people would start to notice?”

“I don’t know but I imagine it would be entertaining to find out.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

“Convicted?” he replied. “No.”

“What’s your favorite felony?”

He snorted. “You really need to ask?”

“Okay, then. What's something you have bragging rights for but never get to brag about?”

Alastor was silent for a few beats before chuckling deeply. “Committing felonies but being too good at them to ever be convicted, let alone caught.”

“Weird flex, but okay.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I wouldn’t brag about that.”

“You would if you had an improved mindset, my dear.”

Grace glanced at him over her shoulder; as best she could tell, he was being serious. We are very different people. Shit. How it still surprised her, she’d never know.

“If you’re trying to get to know me, these are some stunningly shallow questions you’re asking.”

She scoffed. “Like you’d answer anything significant.”

“You never know.” His grip on her tightened enough to make her nervous that he was considering hurting her. “I just might.”

“How on Earth did you move your victims’ bodies to the woods with that physique?” Grace was certain he wouldn’t answer. She was amazed he hadn’t evaded the previous questions, softball or otherwise.

She felt him shrug against her. “With a little necromancy here and there, they’ll sort themselves out.”

Oh now he’s definitely joking around. “That seems like the ultimate addition of insult to injury.”

“Well …” Alastor replied thoughtfully, “I suppose I could have dismembered or burned the ones I didn't snack on. But those options, in retrospect, seem somehow less respectful.”

“I … guess?” I don’t think we could possibly be any different even if we tried. Jesus Christ! “What's something that keeps you up at night?”

“You and your incessant questions making me doubt my decision to invite you into my bed.”

Grace’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. “I thought you said this was my bed in your room.”

“Not to mention your infuriating softness.”

Embarrassed hot cheeks turned to aroused hot cheeks.

She stuttered her way through her next question. “So—would it be sweet or kinky if I offered you one of my toes?”

“It’d make you a tease to offer and then not permit me one.”

I hope he’s not being serious. She swallowed hard and rolled over within his embrace to face him. “Gimme antlers?”

“Say again?”

“Gimme antlers,” Grace repeated, as if her request was obvious.

“I don’t understand.”

She playfully smacked his chest with the back of her hand. “Make with the antlers!”

He blinked, his gaze turning downward to where she’d smacked him. “Did you just hit me?”

“Antlers me! I wanna touch them.”

“Ha! No.”

Grace pouted. “Please?”

“Why?”

“Because I think they feel nice. I just wanna stroke them. I know, I know: they’re sensitive. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

Alastor scowled.

“Afraid you might like it too much? Big bad Radio Demon scared he might lose a little control of himself?”

He shifted in his spot, propping himself up on his elbow as his eyes flashed and the cute little black crescent horns on his head began growing into a small rack of antlers. Alastor replied haltingly through a clench-toothed smile, “I don’t lose control, Grace. I am always in control of everything.”

So either he was lying or giving Grace the antlers she’d demanded. She wanted to believe it was the latter.

Grace sat up with a quiet squeak of elation. She repositioned herself with a pillow on her lap and then manipulated him so that his head rested on the pillow. “You keep on being a furious scary demon,” she cooed, amazed he wasn’t making all sorts of threats he’d likely never follow through with. It brought her comfort and confidence knowing that keeping her around to heal any potential wounds made her far too valuable an asset to do away with.

She began stroking his antlers with the lightest touch and he couldn’t repress a full-body shiver. No moan, though.

Never any noises of pleasure from this demon.

Grace swallowed a sigh of disappointment. 

“I’ll bet you were the sweetest little boy once upon a time.” Lately, she’d taken to envisioning him as a slim-framed eight-year-old paperboy with a wide grin missing a front tooth or maybe an incisor, wearing mud-spattered knee socks and knickers, a faded flat cap perched at an angle atop a messy mop of ginger hair. Big eyes full of wonder and hope for a bright future. A boisterous, mischievous personality that at its worst was full of snips and snails and puppy-dog tails.

Before whatever had actually happened that damaged him.

Alastor kept his eyes closed, his smile unchanged as he replied, “When I was nine, I stole a meat-grinder from the corner grocer and spent the better part of my days that summer putting live frogs through it.”

She swallowed hard, bile rising rapidly in her throat. “Why, though?”

“Power?” He opened one eye to look at her, his smile going wicked. “Control? Boredom?”

Grace just couldn’t bring herself to laugh or even smile like she had the first time he’d answered one of her questions that way.

He closed his eye again. “No. It was actually because salting slugs and frying ants with a magnifying glass had lost their novelty.”

“Oh.” Because what else could she even say to any of that?

“I started with what tadpoles I was able to catch along the Mississippi. Graduated to southern cricket frogs, eastern cricket frogs, Cajun chorus frogs.”

Grace put all her effort and focus into not revealing how repulsed by him she was at the moment. “What made you stop—” that abhorrent behavior?

“Jammed the meat grinder with an especially juicy Fowler’s toad. Did you know those frogs make a sound like a wailing scream or a baby crying?”

Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke. Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke!! She took a quiet, steadying breath and ignored that question, instead asking him, “What did your parents think of what you were doing?”

“Goodnight, Grace,” he replied firmly.

Undeterred, she prodded, “Alastor?”

“Mmm.”

“Were you the Axeman of New Orleans?”

He chuckled, then after a long silence, told her more firmly than his prior goodnight, “Okay, Grace, shut up now. Go to sleep.”

Feeling defeated, she moved him back onto his side of the bed, pillow and all, and weaseled her way back into his mostly-asleep embrace. 

I’ll figure you out yet, Radio Demon. You can’t keep me locked out forever. 

While he fell asleep comparably quickly, Grace found doing the same a bit challenging; her thoughts raced.

And the faster her thoughts raced, swirling and dwelling on the conversation she’d had with Angel Dust about Alastor, the more frustrated she got. She noticed a green glow behind Alastor growing steadily brighter. When she cocked her head to look by him, she saw her fingertips alight with his magic. 

She yelped and jerked her hand as if extinguishing a lit match.

Alastor’s left eye popped open. “What was that?”

She broke out into a cold sweat. The green glow was gone but terror had taken root. “Ah—uh—um—I thought a firefly landed on my hand.”

“They’re lightning bugs.” His barely-awake smile grew as he added with that deliciously dour tone, “And you’re lying.” 

Before Grace could defend herself or fabricate a feasible fable, he fell right back asleep.

Lucifer’s left nut, what the fuck is happening to me?!

Chapter Five: Radio Play

Until next Sunday, deer friends!