Ace in a Hole (Undertale x Hazbin Hotel)

Chapter 8

Sitting on the roof with Alastor, peering up at the beautiful night sky, was somehow... fulfilling. An odd meal that managed to leave Sans with begrudging satisfaction.

It was somehow just right, in every twisted sense of the word. Both of them bantering like usual, knowing that one of them was a homicidal maniac teetering on the edge, and the other was the sweet temptation over that very edge. Every stare Alastor gave Sans was delectable with vile intensity. That was the very reason Sans had put on a little performance of teleporting, just to rile him up.

Over the radio, it created a secure blanket Sans no longer had. He was starchily stripped of every defense he had weaponized against Alastor previously, left (metaphorically) bare bones in front of the threat. Sans found himself oddly addicted to it, as if he was an exhibitionist at a non-nudist beach. Prancing around despite all the danger with a thrill of adrenaline to him that left him breathless.

Alastor did that to him. Somehow. The demon was just a few feet away, one leg tossed over the ledge haphazardly. Occasionally, he would sweep his gaze back toward the forest he hadn't seen in ages. But Alastor's focus was always drawn elsewhere, inevitably. Alastor was never subtle about it, and nor was Sans about being aware of it. They both knew he had some fucked-up reason for coming up there.

He wasn't stupid. He could tell that Alastor fancied an internal debate of homicide every time his eyes lingered on Sans. Hungry. No one looked at someone's neck that much unless they wanted to do something to it. Alastor wasn't kinky, so that left the more likely option of something to do with strangling or snapping it.

Another look from wide, near-blown pupils. Alastor's ears flickered under the breeze shifting about. Funny how he took on the appearance of a deer, probably the most commonly associated animal with the concept of prey. That had to piss off Alastor. The guy was forever stuck looking like an animal that was hunted for sport. Especially after the guy was shot by a hunter. That wasn't something Alastor would tolerate if he had any alternative.

"So how did the injury turn out?" Sans broached. "Everything okay?"

"I suppose," Alastor answered, his tone prickled with honesty. Amused, he tilted his tea-riddled cup to the side, watching Sans with a gaze that never threatened to glance away. Not for a second. "It did sting for a few days, but I'm perfectly healthy now!"

"That's good. Sounded like shit over the phone, so I'm glad it's better now. So if I have to kick your ass, I can do so guilt-free. Lucky me."

Alastor cackled, lips pressing impossibly wider as he took in Sans' everything. Again, that static took hold, but Sans was already so used to it he was beginning to be able to brush it off. "Oh, silly skeleton, you could certainly try."

"Nah. Too much effort. And what kind of host would I be if I did?" Sans snorted.

"No, please, do enlighten me!" Alastor said, all but setting the cup to the side (neatly, Sans noticed, being very careful not to spill it despite his sinister expression) as he fully turned toward Sans. Green stitches suddenly pulled taut when his teeth glistened under the moonlight, impossibly close. Alastor's breath, a warm hint of air, pressed against the curve of his nose socket. Sans' body twitched with a sudden, primal desire to run.

Sans twitched. Static crawled across his limbs, the anthill disturbed.

"I would adore to see what you can do. Monsters have magic while alive, don't they? It would be so fascinating to see how you can try to—"

Sans wasn't someone to attack first. Not if he could help it. Sans would grit his teeth and let someone pass if he didn't have to fight. If he had a choice. Sans despised fighting. Too many memories linked to it, every single one worse than the last. And Sans wasn't prone to angry outbursts. If anything, he shut down instead of springing out.