𝓑𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓜𝓮 {Hazbin Hotel Various x GN!Reader

Bambi?

"You're an Overlord and yet you don't own a mansion? Colour me disappointed," you tut, shaking your head at the pitiful sight before you.

Shortly after your little scuffles (yes, plural, not even two hours and you were already causing trouble), Alastor had led you to his apartment, where he currently resided. And you were rather miffed. Imagine this: a super powerful Overlord who has most of Hell terrified of his very presence and he lives in a one bedroom apartment where everything is falling apart or mouldy.

Yeah, you have every right to be displeased.

To be fair, Alastor insists that it isn't his fault, but rather because of some 'Extermination' that had recently occurred. You should probably ask him what that is...

"What kind of place is this?" you groan, slamming the pantry door shut. "There's literally one container of some foul smelling food. It's probably rotten!" One look at Alastor's expression and you have a hunch that he takes his food very seriously. To hear you complain about what he has in the pantry must be insulting to him.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asks, his twitching eye betraying his grin. He walks over to you, leaning his cane against the kitchen counter. "I stocked up on enough ingredients to make jambalaya tonight–" his sentence stops short as he opens the pantry door, revealing nothing but the single container of unidentified sludge rotten food you pointed out earlier.

"See? You have nothin'! Nada!" you exclaim, a pout on your lips. "Gah, I'm hungry and this is what I come back to..." Technically you were thirsty, thirsty for blood, that is. Human (demon, in this case) food would put off your bloodthirst a little longer, though. Some of the flavours you tasted back on Earth were just delightful and the edge was enough to trick your stomach into thinking you weren't hungry, per se.

Alastor's smile becomes strained and his voice distorted as he grits out through his teeth, "̰͟W̨̛̺̪̱̼̝̙̲̰͚̗͓͝h̢̛̛̟̲͠ͅo͈̙̦ ̧͈͇̘͎̫͙̰̗̩s̵͇͈̤̩̝̣ṱ̛̛͓̕ͅó͈̙̦̜͔̘̰͇͠l͏̛̘̜̭̤̱͇̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢͞ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡... ̧̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̧̛̯͖̺̥͕͚̝̘̞y̕҉͙̝̟̞͈̪̼... ҉̠̦͍͓͖ͅj̷̩͕̲̖a͏́͏̧͖͍̞̥̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̴̧̯͖̺̥͝͏̬͙͕ͅb͎͚̤̩̪͎͕̖͚a͏́͏͖͍̞̥̜͔̘̰͇́͠l͏̘̜̭̤̱͇͞a͏́͏̛͖͍̞̥͕͚̝̘̞y̕҉͙̝̟̞͈̪̼a͏́͏͖͍̞̥ ҉͏̫̼̜͉̭i̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̫̘͈͈͈̳̩̳̞͔̭̤̩͍͢g̨̡̪̣̤͎̟̺̘͍͚̻̤͟͠ŗ̸̛̲͙͉͓͚̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎̹̖̘͡ḑ̱̥̜́҉͏̫̼̜͉̭i̛̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎̖̹̦̙͡͝͞n̴̵̫̘͈͈͈̳̩͈̤̩̝̣͢ţ̭͓͈͇̘͎̫͙̰̗̩̕s͇?" 

 Odd symbols danced around his head as his deer antlers elongated and his neck cracked to the side.

You pause, holding back every single whiny complaint you were about to spew out, instead opting to smirk at Alastor's obvious frustration. "You alright there, deer?"

"̨̣͕͉̫̜ͅI̴̞̦̦̗̥'̧̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̧̯͖̺̥ ̳̞͔̭̤̩͍g̨̛̛̪̣̤͎̟͟͠ͅo͈̙̦҉͏̫̼̜͉̭i̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̫̘͈͈͈̳̩̳̞͔̭̤̩͍͢g̨̪̣̤͎̟͟͠ ̵͈̤̩̝̣ṱ̛̛͓̕ͅo͈̙̦ ̝̺̠̖̭́͟͝f̷̩̲͈҉͏̫̼̜͉̭i̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̫̘͈͈͈̳̩̹̖̘͢ḑ̱̥̜́ a͏́͏͖͍̞̥̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̫̘͈͈͈̳̩̹̖̘͢ḑ̱̥̜́ ̸̰̤̱͚͙ͅk̫̰͇̲̼̪͚̤҉͏̫̼̜͉̭í̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̜͔̘̰͇͠l͏̘̜̭̤̱͇̜͔̘̰͇́͞͠l͏̘̜̭̤̱͇͞ ̛̗͖̜́w͚͈̟̬̩̝̙̲̰͚̗͓͝h̢̛̛̟̲͠ͅơ͈̙̦̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡͏̵̼̝́v͏̛̮̮̼̤̣̬̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̡̣̰͓̻͎̺̘͍͚̻̤͡ŗ̸̲͙͉͓͚ ̧͈͇̘͎̫͙̰̗̩s̵͇͈̤̩̝̣ṱ̛̛͓̕ͅó͈̙̦̜͔̘̰͇͠l͏̛̘̜̭̤̱͇̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢͞ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡ ̧̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̧̛̯͖̺̥͕͚̝̘̞y̕҉͙̝̟̞͈̪̼ ҉̠̦͍͓͖ͅj̷̩͕̲̖a͏́͏̧͖͍̞̥̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̴̧̯͖̺̥͝͏̬͙͕ͅb͎͚̤̩̪͎͕̖͚a͏́͏͖͍̞̥̜͔̘̰͇́͠l͏̘̜̭̤̱͇͞a͏́͏̛͖͍̞̥͕͚̝̘̞y̕҉͙̝̟̞͈̪̼a͏́͏͖͍̞̥." was all he said in return, his eyes becoming radio dials.