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celestine_fics) wrote2024-09-05 10:18 am
celestine_fics) wrote2024-09-05 10:18 am
Hazbin Hotel fic: Entertainment (Can a Psychopath Learn to Love?) (R)
Author: celestinenox
Title: Entertainment
Series: Can a Psychopath Learn to Love?
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,364
Pairing(s): Gen, leading up to RadioDust
Warnings:
Disclaimer: All Hazbin Hotel characters herein are the property of Vivienne Medrano, Spindlehorse, A24, and Amazon Prime. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Angel Dust returns after a bad night and Alastor is looking for a new source of entertainment.
Author's Notes: None.
Entertainment
It used to be fun. The stage, the lights, all eyes on him. Knowing he looked fuckin' good and good enough to fuck but none of them could touch him unless he decided to let them. He absolutely lived for teasin' all those thirsty shits in the audience only to kick 'em in the fuckin' face if they got too close and even then they just came crawlin' back with their tongues on the floor. If someone tied him down, it was because he told them to, if he screamed it was in pleasure.
It used to be fun.
Angel Dust stumbled through the door of the hotel, then turned and caught the door as one hand tried to slam it. Why the fuck did he have six arms, anyway? Dead for decades and he still sometimes lost track of one or more of his arms. Demon forms in Hell were fuckin' bonkers.
Once the door had closed quietly, he turned, middle arms pulling his ripped blazer tight around his waist, and looked around the lobby. Of course Princess Perfect and her bitch of a girlfriend were dead asleep. Hah! Dead asleep. Eh, so what if Charlie wasn't dead like the rest of them. Husk wasn't at the front desk, either, probably gone to the casino or, less likely, to bed. And who knew where Niffty went when the hotel shut down for the night. Angel usually found the empty lobby--not just at night, either, but all the time--amusing in a vaguely sad way. Right now, it just seemed… empty.
With a sigh, he hauled himself away from the door and up the stairs toward his room. What he really needed was a hot bath and cuddles with Fat Nuggets. Other than Cherri, that adorable little demon pig was the only one Angel could count on. At least Princess Perfect had been able to deliver on one of her promises; no one ever bothered him in his room at the hotel. 'Course, there was nothing she could do about the literal Hell outside the doors. For bein' born in Hell and oh so dedicated to its people, she knew very little about the reality for most sinners. Just thinking about telling her about Valentino made him laugh until he wanted to cry. If he didn't give a shit about his reputation, he might just tell her just to see the horror wash over that stupid, stupid little face of hers. But then Bitch Girlfriend would bust his chops over it. Might be worth it, some other day. A day when he didn't feel ready to crack right down the middle.
The "Happy" Hotel was a goddamn armpit, but when he heard the click of his room's door behind him, it always filled Angel with a relief provided no where else in Hell. Sanctuary. Finally. For now.
That feeling of security didn't extend inside his mind. Having learned the hard way he'd never be able to look at his own reflection without flashbacks, he often avoided looking in the mirror, but tonight he needed to gauge the damage done to his face. Shaking, he pushed past the memory that threatened and confirmed that yes, he did indeed look like warmed over horse shit. Thank fuck injuries didn't really stick on the dead, or he'd have some explaining to do tomorrow. Angel turned away from the mirror and from the raw feeling of every emotion he hated grinding rough against his thoughts like sandpaper.
Unfortunately, damage to clothing didn't miraculously mend itself, which was shit and meant another blazer lost to Valentino's furious impatience. There were replacements in his closet for now, but these things were expensive and difficult to repair. Angel slid the blazer off and held it out. Hmm. Nifty would probably sew it up for him. She seemed unlikely to ask too many questions about what happened to it, though she'd ask a million questions about everything else. She still thought he was a broad. Most of the time it grated on his nerves but right now he couldn't be bothered to give two shits.
Fat Nuggets came to sit by his feet. As Angel bent over to pick him up, pain shot through him, reminding him of the internal injuries that wouldn't show in a mirror. A hot bath sounded better than ever.
"Sorry, Fats. Cuddles later."
Instead of trotting off to his bed, Fat Nuggets bristled and turned, all of his eyes glowing. Angel frowned and looked up.
Right into the terrifying grinning visage of Alastor.
"SHIT." Angel's ass hit the vanity table behind him as his instinct to jerk away met with hard wood. "What the fuck are ya doin'?"
Dead air crackled in the silence as Alastor leaned slowly closer to him, blood red eyes blurred, face momentarily resembling a radio panel more than a person. Angel didn't like to admit how much this particular demon terrified him. It wasn't quite more than Valentino, though the race was stupidly close. At least Alastor didn't try to touch him; right now, any unsolicited touch might shatter Angel's careful but fragile exterior. Always show the world confidence, including everyone who hurt him, including now as he pretended the crash into his vanity had been purposeful and relaxed against it, four visible arms crossed.
"Why," Alastor began, "it looks like you've had something of a rough night my friend!"
"We ain't friends," Angel shot back. He couldn't help it, popping off at the mouth was just how he dealt with a lot of things he couldn't otherwise. Half the time, that was why he came back to the hotel with torn clothes and bruises. Once or twice, he pissed Valentino off so much the fucker almost tore him apart.
Alastor's smile never wavered. "I beg to differ! As the only current subject in this misguided experiment, I am quite interested in your progress! Or lack thereof!" A pause to chuckle. "Thus, I consider you a very good friend indeed!"
Angel didn't particularly care for being called a subject , but it was true enough. "Right. Sure." Suppressing a shiver, he turned and opened one of the drawers to pull out a cig and a box of matches. Having a conversation with the Radio Demon in his hotel room certainly seemed like the kind of situation that called for a smoke. If he thought he could sneak in any of the good stuff… ah well. At least Princess Perfect and Bitch Girlfriend didn't push too hard about the cigs.
"Would you believe I have an interest in you as an investment, then?" Alastor hadn't actually moved in the past minute. Looked like he'd forgotten to move his mouth to talk, too. What a fuckin' creep.
"That makes a helluva lot more sense than tryin' to convince me you're a friend." Angel slipped sideways, trying to move past the demon staring at him. More pain, his gait hitched, and he caught Alastor's gaze sharpen. Fuck. Fuck. Weakness in front of the Radio Demon only drew him closer to prey and no way in Hell was Angel gonna be prey more than one of the Overlords.
The problem being, Alastor was patient. "An investment! Let's call it that, then!"
"Just so ya know, friends don't normally invade each others' spaces without askin'." Take the goddamn hint, you tiny-antlered freak.
A kaleidoscope of symbols scrawled across Alastor's eyes and his grin, if possible, widened. Angel couldn't stop himself from taking a step back. When Alastor spoke next, his voice deepened and slowed as reality in his immediate vicinity warped. "I see. You've had quite enough of those who invade your space, haven't you?" Static overlaid the Radio Demon's chuckle, then was gone as Alastor snapped back to his usual forced hilarity. "Then I shall leave you to your business, frie--" He stopped, one eyebrow cocked. "Employee?"
"Fuck no."
"Hah hah! Fair enough! Either way, I shall leave you here!" Alastor bowed with a flourish, lifting his microphone high--then vanished in a haze of red.
Angel thought he heard Alastor's voice as the demon faded.
"tHis iS gOiNg to be eNteRtaiNinG."
END.
For now.
celestinenoxTitle: Entertainment
Series: Can a Psychopath Learn to Love?
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,364
Pairing(s): Gen, leading up to RadioDust
Warnings:
Disclaimer: All Hazbin Hotel characters herein are the property of Vivienne Medrano, Spindlehorse, A24, and Amazon Prime. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Angel Dust returns after a bad night and Alastor is looking for a new source of entertainment.
Author's Notes: None.
It used to be fun. The stage, the lights, all eyes on him. Knowing he looked fuckin' good and good enough to fuck but none of them could touch him unless he decided to let them. He absolutely lived for teasin' all those thirsty shits in the audience only to kick 'em in the fuckin' face if they got too close and even then they just came crawlin' back with their tongues on the floor. If someone tied him down, it was because he told them to, if he screamed it was in pleasure.
It used to be fun.
Angel Dust stumbled through the door of the hotel, then turned and caught the door as one hand tried to slam it. Why the fuck did he have six arms, anyway? Dead for decades and he still sometimes lost track of one or more of his arms. Demon forms in Hell were fuckin' bonkers.
Once the door had closed quietly, he turned, middle arms pulling his ripped blazer tight around his waist, and looked around the lobby. Of course Princess Perfect and her bitch of a girlfriend were dead asleep. Hah! Dead asleep. Eh, so what if Charlie wasn't dead like the rest of them. Husk wasn't at the front desk, either, probably gone to the casino or, less likely, to bed. And who knew where Niffty went when the hotel shut down for the night. Angel usually found the empty lobby--not just at night, either, but all the time--amusing in a vaguely sad way. Right now, it just seemed… empty.
With a sigh, he hauled himself away from the door and up the stairs toward his room. What he really needed was a hot bath and cuddles with Fat Nuggets. Other than Cherri, that adorable little demon pig was the only one Angel could count on. At least Princess Perfect had been able to deliver on one of her promises; no one ever bothered him in his room at the hotel. 'Course, there was nothing she could do about the literal Hell outside the doors. For bein' born in Hell and oh so dedicated to its people, she knew very little about the reality for most sinners. Just thinking about telling her about Valentino made him laugh until he wanted to cry. If he didn't give a shit about his reputation, he might just tell her just to see the horror wash over that stupid, stupid little face of hers. But then Bitch Girlfriend would bust his chops over it. Might be worth it, some other day. A day when he didn't feel ready to crack right down the middle.
The "Happy" Hotel was a goddamn armpit, but when he heard the click of his room's door behind him, it always filled Angel with a relief provided no where else in Hell. Sanctuary. Finally. For now.
That feeling of security didn't extend inside his mind. Having learned the hard way he'd never be able to look at his own reflection without flashbacks, he often avoided looking in the mirror, but tonight he needed to gauge the damage done to his face. Shaking, he pushed past the memory that threatened and confirmed that yes, he did indeed look like warmed over horse shit. Thank fuck injuries didn't really stick on the dead, or he'd have some explaining to do tomorrow. Angel turned away from the mirror and from the raw feeling of every emotion he hated grinding rough against his thoughts like sandpaper.
Unfortunately, damage to clothing didn't miraculously mend itself, which was shit and meant another blazer lost to Valentino's furious impatience. There were replacements in his closet for now, but these things were expensive and difficult to repair. Angel slid the blazer off and held it out. Hmm. Nifty would probably sew it up for him. She seemed unlikely to ask too many questions about what happened to it, though she'd ask a million questions about everything else. She still thought he was a broad. Most of the time it grated on his nerves but right now he couldn't be bothered to give two shits.
Fat Nuggets came to sit by his feet. As Angel bent over to pick him up, pain shot through him, reminding him of the internal injuries that wouldn't show in a mirror. A hot bath sounded better than ever.
"Sorry, Fats. Cuddles later."
Instead of trotting off to his bed, Fat Nuggets bristled and turned, all of his eyes glowing. Angel frowned and looked up.
Right into the terrifying grinning visage of Alastor.
"SHIT." Angel's ass hit the vanity table behind him as his instinct to jerk away met with hard wood. "What the fuck are ya doin'?"
Dead air crackled in the silence as Alastor leaned slowly closer to him, blood red eyes blurred, face momentarily resembling a radio panel more than a person. Angel didn't like to admit how much this particular demon terrified him. It wasn't quite more than Valentino, though the race was stupidly close. At least Alastor didn't try to touch him; right now, any unsolicited touch might shatter Angel's careful but fragile exterior. Always show the world confidence, including everyone who hurt him, including now as he pretended the crash into his vanity had been purposeful and relaxed against it, four visible arms crossed.
"Why," Alastor began, "it looks like you've had something of a rough night my friend!"
"We ain't friends," Angel shot back. He couldn't help it, popping off at the mouth was just how he dealt with a lot of things he couldn't otherwise. Half the time, that was why he came back to the hotel with torn clothes and bruises. Once or twice, he pissed Valentino off so much the fucker almost tore him apart.
Alastor's smile never wavered. "I beg to differ! As the only current subject in this misguided experiment, I am quite interested in your progress! Or lack thereof!" A pause to chuckle. "Thus, I consider you a very good friend indeed!"
Angel didn't particularly care for being called a subject , but it was true enough. "Right. Sure." Suppressing a shiver, he turned and opened one of the drawers to pull out a cig and a box of matches. Having a conversation with the Radio Demon in his hotel room certainly seemed like the kind of situation that called for a smoke. If he thought he could sneak in any of the good stuff… ah well. At least Princess Perfect and Bitch Girlfriend didn't push too hard about the cigs.
"Would you believe I have an interest in you as an investment, then?" Alastor hadn't actually moved in the past minute. Looked like he'd forgotten to move his mouth to talk, too. What a fuckin' creep.
"That makes a helluva lot more sense than tryin' to convince me you're a friend." Angel slipped sideways, trying to move past the demon staring at him. More pain, his gait hitched, and he caught Alastor's gaze sharpen. Fuck. Fuck. Weakness in front of the Radio Demon only drew him closer to prey and no way in Hell was Angel gonna be prey more than one of the Overlords.
The problem being, Alastor was patient. "An investment! Let's call it that, then!"
"Just so ya know, friends don't normally invade each others' spaces without askin'." Take the goddamn hint, you tiny-antlered freak.
A kaleidoscope of symbols scrawled across Alastor's eyes and his grin, if possible, widened. Angel couldn't stop himself from taking a step back. When Alastor spoke next, his voice deepened and slowed as reality in his immediate vicinity warped. "I see. You've had quite enough of those who invade your space, haven't you?" Static overlaid the Radio Demon's chuckle, then was gone as Alastor snapped back to his usual forced hilarity. "Then I shall leave you to your business, frie--" He stopped, one eyebrow cocked. "Employee?"
"Fuck no."
"Hah hah! Fair enough! Either way, I shall leave you here!" Alastor bowed with a flourish, lifting his microphone high--then vanished in a haze of red.
Angel thought he heard Alastor's voice as the demon faded.
"tHis iS gOiNg to be eNteRtaiNinG."
END.
For now.