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fandomweekly2026-02-09 09:26 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2026-02-09 09:26 pm
Entry tags:
[#290] new royalty (Hazbin Hotel)
Theme Prompt: #290 - Princess
Title: new royalty
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 895
Summary: Human AU! Alastor has a plan to get under Vox's skin.
The break room at the station isn't large; it's two tables ringed with chairs that back into the low slouch of a couch against the back wall, a set of counters that span one side and hold their own concertina of coffee rings on the peeling surface, a microwave, kettle, sink, and a fridge both in mismatched shades of grey and off-white respectively to complete the fluorescent hell.
Alastor normally wouldn't bother emerging from his studio, but today, he has the occasion to. The walk isn't so long that he'll need to heat his leg because of it, but he takes his cane all the same. It clicks against the floor as he walks, a secondary heartbeat to the radio static humming in his ears, and the floor carefully empties ahead of him, slow like he wouldn't notice the drip, drip of the lifeblood of a business scurrying into meeting rooms or the closest bathroom or ducking behind the partitions and praying.
One man doesn't shrink away, sensing Alastor's approach and adjusting his course accordingly, drawn closer by what he thinks is his own design.
Alastor plucks a mug from the side cabinet and sets it next to the kettle, bracing his hip against the counter as he picks up the kettle and tips the water into the sink and filling it up anew. It's all set dressing, pieces for his upcoming performance, but Alastor would be thrice-damned if he drinks someone else's stale offerings. His final opening flourish is to rest his cane against the counter, a careful slide beginning to happen as he swings the kettle back and clicks it to boil as the door to the breakroom swings open.
It's loud, dramatic, everything Alastor despises about Vox.
"Alastor, baby," Vox announces with his full chest, an operatic declaration that echoes uselessly against the appliances, the narrow clutch of the walls. "Fancy seeing you here out of your—" Vox pauses, doesn't bother hiding his snicker behind his hand, "—little radio studio."
Alastor considers just killing him outright, instead of this intricate waltz he's constructing against a man who only knows a clumsy fumble in the backseat of his parent's car. It would be easy enough for the act, fake a stumble and when Vox fluttered closer, unable to stay at a safe distance when he thought Alastor wouldn't want him nearer, Alastor could cut his throat with the blade strapped to his thigh. The cleanup would be impossible, the body disposal a pipe-dream with so many watchful faces pressed against the glass in the aftermath, but it would be satisfying.
Vox is still speaking, one arm extended out in a flourish meant to show off the flashy gold watch on his wrist. "—just a little gift to celebrate my many, many accomplishments recently. You know, a recent article named me as royalty in this city."
He pauses, cuts his gaze sideways at Alastor in drooling anticipation of his response.
Alastor turns his head to the side slowly, tips his chin into his shoulder so his breath catches against the edges of his curls. Vox is brash, standing beneath the cheap yellow-tinted lights in his blue brocade suit, the lines jagged and meant to be noticed along with the extra button opened at the neck of his shirt, the gold embossed pattern on the heels of his shoes.
If he's royalty, then Alastor will make him kneel for the guillotine before he draws back the curtain himself.
"Oh, did they?" Alastor drawls, leaning further to the head tilt as he grins up at Vox. "Did they name you prettiest princess at the party, a badge for you to wear for your special day?"
Vox deflates, his shoulders curling in on himself before he straightens, notches them back into place. "And what did they say about you, huh? Some washed-up has-been clinging to a defunct media."
Alastor laughs, turns his gaze away from Vox as he busies himself with his coffee. The familiar notes of chicory fill his nose as he breathes in deeply, letting his eyes drift partially closed. Waiting.
Vox dives for the bait Alastor's crooked towards him in a tumble of blue and gold in a paper crown. "You think that shit's good, you should've seen what the station head got me for all the publicity I'm bringing in." He steps forwards, a swagger as he moves.
Alastor's cane, slipping since he first set it off-centre, falls to the ground and Alastor flinches, exaggerated, meant to be noticed by the eyes peeking around workspace partitions or over the top of files. Coffee splashes against his fingers, the pain bright behind his eyes as he gasps, lets his voice strangle in his throat and twist into static.
"Al, fuck, I didn't—"
"You've done quite enough, your Highness," Alastor grits out through bared teeth, blinking wide against the reflexive prick of tears.
Vox drops to his knees, a supplicant in his panic as he grabs for Alastor's cane and holds it up to him. Alastor takes it with his reddening fingers, skims the unnatural warmth against Vox's palm, and he leaves the break room with his smile folded away into something sympathetic and put-upon.
There would be a knock at his studio door later, carefully, when his light is off. Alastor just needs to wait and see what this new royalty will do next.
Title: new royalty
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 895
Summary: Human AU! Alastor has a plan to get under Vox's skin.
The break room at the station isn't large; it's two tables ringed with chairs that back into the low slouch of a couch against the back wall, a set of counters that span one side and hold their own concertina of coffee rings on the peeling surface, a microwave, kettle, sink, and a fridge both in mismatched shades of grey and off-white respectively to complete the fluorescent hell.
Alastor normally wouldn't bother emerging from his studio, but today, he has the occasion to. The walk isn't so long that he'll need to heat his leg because of it, but he takes his cane all the same. It clicks against the floor as he walks, a secondary heartbeat to the radio static humming in his ears, and the floor carefully empties ahead of him, slow like he wouldn't notice the drip, drip of the lifeblood of a business scurrying into meeting rooms or the closest bathroom or ducking behind the partitions and praying.
One man doesn't shrink away, sensing Alastor's approach and adjusting his course accordingly, drawn closer by what he thinks is his own design.
Alastor plucks a mug from the side cabinet and sets it next to the kettle, bracing his hip against the counter as he picks up the kettle and tips the water into the sink and filling it up anew. It's all set dressing, pieces for his upcoming performance, but Alastor would be thrice-damned if he drinks someone else's stale offerings. His final opening flourish is to rest his cane against the counter, a careful slide beginning to happen as he swings the kettle back and clicks it to boil as the door to the breakroom swings open.
It's loud, dramatic, everything Alastor despises about Vox.
"Alastor, baby," Vox announces with his full chest, an operatic declaration that echoes uselessly against the appliances, the narrow clutch of the walls. "Fancy seeing you here out of your—" Vox pauses, doesn't bother hiding his snicker behind his hand, "—little radio studio."
Alastor considers just killing him outright, instead of this intricate waltz he's constructing against a man who only knows a clumsy fumble in the backseat of his parent's car. It would be easy enough for the act, fake a stumble and when Vox fluttered closer, unable to stay at a safe distance when he thought Alastor wouldn't want him nearer, Alastor could cut his throat with the blade strapped to his thigh. The cleanup would be impossible, the body disposal a pipe-dream with so many watchful faces pressed against the glass in the aftermath, but it would be satisfying.
Vox is still speaking, one arm extended out in a flourish meant to show off the flashy gold watch on his wrist. "—just a little gift to celebrate my many, many accomplishments recently. You know, a recent article named me as royalty in this city."
He pauses, cuts his gaze sideways at Alastor in drooling anticipation of his response.
Alastor turns his head to the side slowly, tips his chin into his shoulder so his breath catches against the edges of his curls. Vox is brash, standing beneath the cheap yellow-tinted lights in his blue brocade suit, the lines jagged and meant to be noticed along with the extra button opened at the neck of his shirt, the gold embossed pattern on the heels of his shoes.
If he's royalty, then Alastor will make him kneel for the guillotine before he draws back the curtain himself.
"Oh, did they?" Alastor drawls, leaning further to the head tilt as he grins up at Vox. "Did they name you prettiest princess at the party, a badge for you to wear for your special day?"
Vox deflates, his shoulders curling in on himself before he straightens, notches them back into place. "And what did they say about you, huh? Some washed-up has-been clinging to a defunct media."
Alastor laughs, turns his gaze away from Vox as he busies himself with his coffee. The familiar notes of chicory fill his nose as he breathes in deeply, letting his eyes drift partially closed. Waiting.
Vox dives for the bait Alastor's crooked towards him in a tumble of blue and gold in a paper crown. "You think that shit's good, you should've seen what the station head got me for all the publicity I'm bringing in." He steps forwards, a swagger as he moves.
Alastor's cane, slipping since he first set it off-centre, falls to the ground and Alastor flinches, exaggerated, meant to be noticed by the eyes peeking around workspace partitions or over the top of files. Coffee splashes against his fingers, the pain bright behind his eyes as he gasps, lets his voice strangle in his throat and twist into static.
"Al, fuck, I didn't—"
"You've done quite enough, your Highness," Alastor grits out through bared teeth, blinking wide against the reflexive prick of tears.
Vox drops to his knees, a supplicant in his panic as he grabs for Alastor's cane and holds it up to him. Alastor takes it with his reddening fingers, skims the unnatural warmth against Vox's palm, and he leaves the break room with his smile folded away into something sympathetic and put-upon.
There would be a knock at his studio door later, carefully, when his light is off. Alastor just needs to wait and see what this new royalty will do next.