Masochism Tango | Alastor & Lucifer & Vox

chapter 3

Alastor exhaled softly as he ran a hand across his ragged grey skin, feeling his scars scaling up and down his arms and torso. His maroon button down had been discarded to the side, and he ensured to lock the door to his room.

His room was a strange one indeed, for it was partially shrouded in misty green forestry, while the forefront of the room was like any other in the Hazbin Hotel. He heard birds tweeting softly in the distance, and the sound of a large animal scurrying. He perked up. Alastor would be sure to kill them later.

Vagatha had insisted on Alastor helping her create a commercial for Charlie while she was away in a meeting with the First Man Adam. He complied, eventually, after striking a deal with the moth-woman, and, thankfully, after that he would never have to meddle with that ridiculous modern technology ever again if he so wished.

As he ran his forefinger over his largest scar, his face tightened. He was still smiling, as he always was, but it wasn't always easy to maintain. He liked his scars, every single one of them, except for one in particular.

The brand on his collarbone.

It was why he was sure to cover his body head to toe with clothing. He didn't like anyone to see his scars, even the ones he appreciated, for it was a private part to him that only those worthy should be graced to witness. But the brand on his shoulder — he didn't even like to look at it. It made him angry.

Alastor stood, sauntering to the full-body mirror on the left wall of his room. His brows tightened as he beheld his thin body. He was lean and tall, scarred from head to toe with broad shoulders and sickly pale skin. He had two-toned burgundy and ebony tresses that fell messily over his forehead. He currently had the excess pulled into a small ponytail on the back of his head.

The back of his head was shaved into an undercut, which was the more intelligent hairstyle option for him considering he had trichotillomania — he pulled out his hair when he was stressed or angry. It grew back, but when he was overwhelmed he usually began pulling at the back of his head, so the less he had there the better.

His eyes scanned down to his mid-region, where his deep v-line showed just before the top of his black trousers. Nobody knew this, but he even had a small tuff of red and black fur extending from his tailbone in the form of a deer tail. The animalistic form he took on when he arrived in Hell was one he was a little embarrassed of.

He sneered as his slender bare hand graces his collarbone. The brand. The brand he could never be rid of. The brand that marked his soul for eternity.

It was the first initial of your name and the last initial — [Y].P, with a small heart at the end. It has been burned into his skin the moment he sold his soul.

It was simple. He had sold his soul for power. And who else is better to sell it to than a fallen angel with loads of power to distribute?

And it worked. He was the most powerful Overlord in Hell at the moment. But he knew he could be more if he owned himself again.

Alastor remembered it clearly — he had just arrived in Hell, with his new red-and-black deer-like appearance. People dismissed him, thought he was strange... But he knew he could prove them wrong. He had voodoo on his side. He could kill them all easily.

And he did. But it still wasn't enough.

He had rented an old-fashioned apartment temporarily at the edge of the Pride ring, a dingy, dusty one that was practically falling apart. He had no furniture, nothing to his name. He wasn't petty enough to steal.