Ace in a Hole (Undertale x Hazbin Hotel)

Chapter 27

Hell, from the small landscape of Alastor's room, was odd in all sorts of ways. Hot even when it was supposed to be cold. Dense or thin air, no in-between. In Alastor's arms on the way to the tub, Sans had easily caught sight of a rotating pentagram in the sky. Blood red and unyielding. The pentagram dimmed or brightened in correspondence to the day. Only when acid rain clouds swept in did the obnoxious red give way to dark grey.

Sans might have been able to steal himself out onto the balcony for a watch of the sin-tinted sky if he hadn't pulled the stunt he did with the Princess of hell at Alastor's door. Which Alastor deserved, because he had upset Papyrus in ways Sans quite despised.

Regardless, it meant the balcony of Alastor's room was strictly off-limits until movement wasn't a tentative option. Being the husband to the radio demon didn't afford luxuries when he belted out his very injured presence for others to be aware of. Instead, it granted him the adult version of a time-out, instilled by a cranky demon who fretted over him.

Alastor was a beauty to behold, in Sans' clear mind. Wonderfully ecstatic to have Sans hogged up for his own entertainment, yet dreadfully worried for his health all the same. It combined like the primary colors on a canvas into a shit of a brown, yet Sans found himself nearly addicted to watching the disgusting swirl unfurl.

His full and unfull fingers twitched, and there was a low thrumming of excitement down his almost shattered back. As if the bullet had torn through a restrained part of Sans that surged forth, and seeped into every crack the injury had produced. Leaving him so woefully underprepared for the guileful bliss of importance that Alastor's attention gave him.

Alastor flickered through the room, too solid to be a ghost yet too rotten to be anything but. The corpse of a man would continuously check over Sans to ensure his body reconstructed itself. Both of them were begrudgingly relieved when Sans' body took to healing quite easily, with enough magical reserves to drag him through recovery.

Alastor's hand had lingered when he checked. The edge of a thumb curving temptingly against the fragile injury. One sharp move, and anew would Sans' injury sputter blood and require his services.

Alastor drew away as if he was burned. The demon hadn't needed to share the ache to dig until Sans was a constant upon his bed.

Sans didn't have the need to share the ache had reached him as well, as if it clawed its way across the soul-bonded chain. Not that it needed to.

The ache for Alastor's obsessive attention was a native. He didn't need to outsource.

Sans dared to feel special, wrapped up nicely in Alastor's bed within hell. Underground, he felt special in the only way the Judge position would allow: unique to his soul type and position, required to work unless their species gave way to extinction. He was a special authority that had to apply himself out of necessity.

In hell? Sans was a special little carry-on. A pleasant addition that Alastor craved more than the air itself. A mortal that didn't belong would be sought after. Cold in a room of snuggling warmth. The legendary husband of the legendary radio demon. Sans was finally special in all of the right ways he craved, so terrifyingly fulfilling that it stuffed him like a turkey.

Sans also dared to feel somewhat disappointed with the kidnapping. He would have preferred Papyrus not to worry out of his skin about him, though he supposed it was very last minute. Which bothered him. Alastor was a typical meticulous planner. When Sans let his daydreams become red with their waving flags, he always envisioned Alastor would have had everything set perfectly for him to steal his obsession away.

Sans hasn't even been chained. It feels almost unfair how little Alastor had to do to keep Sans down.

It felt far more unfair that Sans even ached for the weight of iron around his wrists.