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fandomweekly2025-12-20 08:59 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2025-12-20 08:59 pm
Entry tags:
[#284] baby it's cold outside (Hazbin Hotel)
Theme Prompt: 284 - home for the holidays
Title: baby it's cold outside
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 903
Summary: Vox winds up on Alastor's front step while it's snowing. It's an opportunity that Alastor can't pass up.
There's a man on Alastor's front step. Alastor pauses, a sharp crackle of his mother's insistence of his own brief time as a gentleman caller and the even briefer time of receiving them playing behind his eyes, and he assess at the man with that same flat stare.
The man on his doorstep holds no flowers, no pretty token that Alastor can wage warfare on his next door neighbour with. He's barely holding his briefcase with cherry-red fingertips peeking out beneath a damp sleeve, the blazer over top similarly soaked in marbled snow melt. The man is half-hunched, shoulders curved and legs turned inward in thin smart trousers to stop them from shaking, his shoes spattered with rock salt to crust the shine from them.
"Well, now," Alastor calls, not modifying his stride in the slightest. It's slow progress with a brown paper bag balanced against his hip and his cane dug into the ground before he takes a step, cautious to the point of cruelty as Vox twitches, flicks his gaze up to Alastor like he's the second coming in a thick winter coat and scarf. "Isn't this a surprise?"
It's not.
Vox couldn't hold his tongue about his fabled Christmas holiday home out in the country and the expenses he had incurred for it, dropping them in Alastor's lap like the warm corpses a cat might bring in, except he kept doing it, closer to a dog and it's favourite bone, the end splintering between it's teeth. Alastor didn't react, didn't let his tone waver as he croons his words into existence between the melodic jazz on his radio show as Vox paraded about in the staff room just beyond his windows, every gesture sparkling with the rings threaded onto Vox's fingers.
And then, it was the final days before the holiday break at the station. Vox's groupies — a short fashion designer with an acidic tongue and a taller Madam in a crisp fur coat and too many jewels — had travelled on ahead, Vox ignoring their insistence that he join them before the weather worsened because he wanted to try and grind Alastor's nose a little further into his self-proclaimed superior whetstone.
"A-alastor," Vox manages through his gritted teeth. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, snow squelching beneath him. "I see no-one else is home."
Alastor smiles. "No."
He's reached the front step and drops the paper bag into Vox's arms without ceremony. The other man grabs for it with a curse that would get him kicked off primetime in a heartbeat, the bottles inside clinking together. Alastor braces himself as he moves up the front steps and draws his keys from his pocket. He flicks through them, studying Vox beneath his lashes.
Vox shatters first, clutching Alastor's bag to his chest with both hands, his briefcase dangling from one finger. "I missed my flight and the roads are too bad to drive. My apartment is rented out for the holiday, and the hotels are full."
"Hmmm?" Alastor continues flipping through his three keys.
He's still smiling.
"Can I," Vox shifts closer, looks up at Alastor despite Vox's height. "Can I spend the night here?"
Alastor's grin widens, his cheeks aching beneath the heady delight of it.
There's precious little else that can compare to this moment; his prey's lifeblood spilling out over his fingers and staining the starched embroidery on his cuffs as he plucks the choicest cuts from their belly, their thighs, spools their innards around his fingers as he draws them free, all of it pale and sepia-toned in the face of Vox's exposed desperation, his begging.
Alastor had scraps before, tiny victories snatched here and there at the station between their warring mediums of radio and the screen, but this is a feast he can glut himself upon, and Vox will even thank him for it at the end.
Opening his front door, Alastor steps inside, dropping his keys into the waiting hands of the metal statue balanced on the drawers immediately on his right. His cane taps against the hardwood floor, the sound softening as he moves onto one of the woven rugs. "You're letting the heat out," he calls over his shoulder, not bothering to fully turn around as he moves into the kitchen and flicks the radio on.
A clear voice spills out ("—what hard luck stories they hand me") and Alastor's front door clicks gently closed. Vox's steps squelch as he follows in Alastor's footsteps, hovering in the doorway with the bag still clutched to his chest.
"You're dripping on my floor," Alastor says, letting his lip curl into a practiced line that he knows will have Vox whimpering into his sofa cushions later.
Vox blinks, eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. "Y-yeah, sorry, uh, where do you—"
"On the counter." A slight purr, Alastor's eyes narrowing a fraction, and it really is too easy to have Vox stumbling over his feet as he moves under Alastor's directions.
"I'm glad you here," the radio announces and Alastor's grin twitches into something sharper as Vox's back is turned. It's a long game, one that Alastor has been playing since Vox first swaggered into Alastor's station with his big city bravado and shiny shoes and meat on his bones, but this is nearing a killing blow, one that Alastor will delight in making.
This will be a holiday evening to remember.
Title: baby it's cold outside
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 903
Summary: Vox winds up on Alastor's front step while it's snowing. It's an opportunity that Alastor can't pass up.
There's a man on Alastor's front step. Alastor pauses, a sharp crackle of his mother's insistence of his own brief time as a gentleman caller and the even briefer time of receiving them playing behind his eyes, and he assess at the man with that same flat stare.
The man on his doorstep holds no flowers, no pretty token that Alastor can wage warfare on his next door neighbour with. He's barely holding his briefcase with cherry-red fingertips peeking out beneath a damp sleeve, the blazer over top similarly soaked in marbled snow melt. The man is half-hunched, shoulders curved and legs turned inward in thin smart trousers to stop them from shaking, his shoes spattered with rock salt to crust the shine from them.
"Well, now," Alastor calls, not modifying his stride in the slightest. It's slow progress with a brown paper bag balanced against his hip and his cane dug into the ground before he takes a step, cautious to the point of cruelty as Vox twitches, flicks his gaze up to Alastor like he's the second coming in a thick winter coat and scarf. "Isn't this a surprise?"
It's not.
Vox couldn't hold his tongue about his fabled Christmas holiday home out in the country and the expenses he had incurred for it, dropping them in Alastor's lap like the warm corpses a cat might bring in, except he kept doing it, closer to a dog and it's favourite bone, the end splintering between it's teeth. Alastor didn't react, didn't let his tone waver as he croons his words into existence between the melodic jazz on his radio show as Vox paraded about in the staff room just beyond his windows, every gesture sparkling with the rings threaded onto Vox's fingers.
And then, it was the final days before the holiday break at the station. Vox's groupies — a short fashion designer with an acidic tongue and a taller Madam in a crisp fur coat and too many jewels — had travelled on ahead, Vox ignoring their insistence that he join them before the weather worsened because he wanted to try and grind Alastor's nose a little further into his self-proclaimed superior whetstone.
"A-alastor," Vox manages through his gritted teeth. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, snow squelching beneath him. "I see no-one else is home."
Alastor smiles. "No."
He's reached the front step and drops the paper bag into Vox's arms without ceremony. The other man grabs for it with a curse that would get him kicked off primetime in a heartbeat, the bottles inside clinking together. Alastor braces himself as he moves up the front steps and draws his keys from his pocket. He flicks through them, studying Vox beneath his lashes.
Vox shatters first, clutching Alastor's bag to his chest with both hands, his briefcase dangling from one finger. "I missed my flight and the roads are too bad to drive. My apartment is rented out for the holiday, and the hotels are full."
"Hmmm?" Alastor continues flipping through his three keys.
He's still smiling.
"Can I," Vox shifts closer, looks up at Alastor despite Vox's height. "Can I spend the night here?"
Alastor's grin widens, his cheeks aching beneath the heady delight of it.
There's precious little else that can compare to this moment; his prey's lifeblood spilling out over his fingers and staining the starched embroidery on his cuffs as he plucks the choicest cuts from their belly, their thighs, spools their innards around his fingers as he draws them free, all of it pale and sepia-toned in the face of Vox's exposed desperation, his begging.
Alastor had scraps before, tiny victories snatched here and there at the station between their warring mediums of radio and the screen, but this is a feast he can glut himself upon, and Vox will even thank him for it at the end.
Opening his front door, Alastor steps inside, dropping his keys into the waiting hands of the metal statue balanced on the drawers immediately on his right. His cane taps against the hardwood floor, the sound softening as he moves onto one of the woven rugs. "You're letting the heat out," he calls over his shoulder, not bothering to fully turn around as he moves into the kitchen and flicks the radio on.
A clear voice spills out ("—what hard luck stories they hand me") and Alastor's front door clicks gently closed. Vox's steps squelch as he follows in Alastor's footsteps, hovering in the doorway with the bag still clutched to his chest.
"You're dripping on my floor," Alastor says, letting his lip curl into a practiced line that he knows will have Vox whimpering into his sofa cushions later.
Vox blinks, eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. "Y-yeah, sorry, uh, where do you—"
"On the counter." A slight purr, Alastor's eyes narrowing a fraction, and it really is too easy to have Vox stumbling over his feet as he moves under Alastor's directions.
"I'm glad you here," the radio announces and Alastor's grin twitches into something sharper as Vox's back is turned. It's a long game, one that Alastor has been playing since Vox first swaggered into Alastor's station with his big city bravado and shiny shoes and meat on his bones, but this is nearing a killing blow, one that Alastor will delight in making.
This will be a holiday evening to remember.
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