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curiosityunsated · 2 months

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An Act of Creation

Alastor intends to create a vessel in which to safeguard some of his power.

What he actually gets is? In over his head.

Prequel to “You could even call me… Dad!”

Hello all! Here’s a quick look at Aurelie’s entrance to the world. Alastor is in for a bit of a shock.

Again, not beta read and I used Google translate for the French…

The shadows circled him, rising up the walls, jeering down at him with sickly jagged smiles. Alastor panted roughly, hair whipping around his growing antlers in a storm that didn’t exist in this corporeal world. Blood dripped from his arms, his legs, his chest- there was barely a surface on his body that he hadn’t marked with his knife. The essence of his afterlife bloomed across his person, staining his clothing in macabre red flowers.

Tomorrow he would make a deal. Tomorrow, his wings would be clipped- if she was smart, that is. But tonight? Tonight, he would safeguard his magic. Hide it within the void, create a conduit- no, a bolthole- for his power. He poured as much of his essence as he could without truly noticing its absence, and his intent, into his practice. He worked for what must have been hours but could have been minutes. Sweat blended with his blood, coating his skin and wounds in salt, but it was a minor pain. It was nothing compared to the masterpiece he was creating. He would not be able to access what he locked away, but neither would she. And one day, when he had wrenched himself free of the chains that bind, he could undo this work. Reclaim and restore himself.

The storm hit a fever pitch, threatening to throw him off his feet. The shadows grew impossibly taller, and it wasn’t just the wind that screamed in his ears. Alastor’s grin tightened against the sucking from his core, the burning separation of something that was never intended to be severed.

And then, it stopped. The Radio Demon dropped to his knees as everything around him seemed to freeze. His hair stuck to his forehead, dampening in either sweat or blood or both. His antlers had grown nearly impossibly tall, and his neck ached with the strain. His jaw loosened, and his grin opened into a bloody maw as he panted softly and struggled to regain his bearings. Blood and saliva dripped from his teeth, but he could hardly summon the energy or will to care at that moment.

The shadows rushed around him as they raced to a single focal point. He watched as they became one, tumbling and roiling in a rough sphere mere feet away. And then something began to emerge- a shapeless mass that grew and struggled free from the void’s clutches. It glowed in flashes of green as the shadows continued to fold over and around it, and he recognized the call of his own power. How odd it was, to see it separated from his own will in such a way. And then the thing was released from the void’s clutch with an odd squelching sound. He dove forward to catch it, fumbling as he struggled to keep purchase on the slime covered thing.

The ’thing’ was a being. A knot squeezed in his chest as he watched the being, a strangely solid shadow, wiggle slightly in his palms. The hair on the back of his neck rose, the cervid instincts in him telling him he was being watched. The being began to writhe, and he struggled to maintain a hold on it as it shifted and roiled in his hands. He could do nothing but watch as it began to cycle through forms- it grew limbs and absorbed them with sickening wet noises, flashing variety of different colors.

The eyes formed first. It settled on two, which watched him unblinkingly as the rest of its body shuffled like a deck of cards. Slowly, though, it seemed to decide on form. Once he was certain the nauseating shuffle had stopped, he began to wipe the black goo from it as best he could; first with his own bloody claws, and then even a strip of his shirt. Two arms, hands, and eight fingers. A pair of cervid ears and a tail twitched, and tiny cloven hooves kicked as it tried to dislodge more of its sticky prison.

“W-well this is… unexpected…” he muttered around inhales, and the tiny ears swivelled to his voice. “I suppose though, this magic has never been attempted…”

He was tired. He felt the exhaustion radiate from his bones, even as his antlers began to shrink. But he climbed to his feet, stumbling only once, and brought the sticky eldritch mass to his chest. It clutched to his shirt immediately, and he winced as eight tiny holes joined the mess of cuts already adorning his skin. Getting to the bathroom was a feat he would tell no one about, and by the time he got to the sink spots had appeared at the edges of his vision. He had fully intended to rinse the thing off in the sink, but his knees protested any attempt to hold his weight. His thighs shook with the effort, and his stomach threatened to empty the last sinner he had dined upon before this evening’s supernatural efforts.

He leaned against the wall, waving a halfhearted hand towards the tub. He continued panting in exertion as his shadow rushed to begin filling his rarely-used bathtub. He lacked the effort needed to snap the grime away from himself, let alone whatever it was he held against his chest. It squirmed against him, tail flicking and ears pinning in irritation as the goo began to crust over in some places.

“Hush now, I’m trying. Patience is a virtue, my dear.” Tiny ears swivelled back to him, and he stared down at it in discomfort. The knot tightened in his chest. He refused to acknowledge the pieces sliding into place in the back of his mind.

The water was merely warm when he clambered over the edge of the tub, sloshing water over the edges as he collapsed into it. It felt heavenly against his abused skin. It soaked his clothes, turning an immediate shade of sickly brown with all sorts of carnage. Alastor cupped a hand of the dirty water and began washing rivulets of black away from the small creature’s body. He uncovered greyish skin, red hair, and a spattering of white spots across red ears and a red and white tail.

The pieces in the back of his head refused to be ignored any longer. His head cracked against the back of the tub as he cackled loudly. It rang around the washroom, climbing in hysteria as the full impact of what he had done began to settle. He had parted his own power from him and created a safe space for it, all right. He had broken one of the most fundamental rules of hell in a single evening. He had spawned.

A sharp pain in the meat of his thumb cut off the laughter, and his other hand rose in instinct to claw whatever had dared to grab him in the comfort of his own home-

But he caught himself immediately, locking eyes with the tiny spawn. It had clamped down on his hand, whimpering as it tried to grind what appeared to be tiny pointed teeth. Alastor’s grin widened. Well then. That was an instinct he knew all about.

“Mmm. Already trying to climb the ranks of Hell, are we? I admire the ambition, but the Radio Demon is not food my dear. You would do well to remember that.” He scolded, dislodging the tiny needle like teeth. It growled at him, and he tapped it on its nose. It went cross eyed and he smirked. It took some effort to shift in the water, but with the help of his shade and two more rounds of clean water, he was able to get the small thing suitably clean. He deposited it gently on the bathmat beside the tub, hoping it had no locomotive skills yet, and began to strip his ruined clothing away. It landed beside the spawn in wet slaps, and he kept half an eye on the thing to make sure it wasn’t about to erase itself as he got himself clean. His shallowest cuts were already mostly sealed over, and as he regained his energy, he fully expected the deepest ones to accelerate in their healing. With the help of his shade, he was able to wrap a towel around himself and exit the tub without stepping on the tiny thing. He leaned against the wall and dried off the best he could, trying not to aggravate his self-inflicted wounds.

“Stay here. Watch the…thing. I will return momentarily.” He commanded his shadow, which abandoned his heels to do his bidding. It peeled off the floor to become more of a smoky shape than a flat shadow, and Alastor began the trek further down the hall. He left a wet slide on the wallpaper as he went, but couldn’t find the energy to care as he willed his shaking legs not to drop him. It had been so, so long since he had expended this much energy in one go. But that was what happened when one created life, he supposed. He scoffed to himself. Alastor had never particularly liked children. They were often loud, normally sticky, and demanding. They had no concept of the world, they were… naïve. This had not been the plan. The plan had been to create a vessel- an inanimate vessel- of his power that he could tuck into the shadow world to forget about until he needed it. He could not do this with a creature, could not run the risk of it dying and snuffing out that little flame of his power.

Finally reaching his wardrobe, he pulled on his robe. It wouldn’t aggravate healing wounds, covered them from the chill of the night, and was coincidentally the most comfortable thing he owned. He leaned heavily on the wardrobe, contemplating the walk back to the washroom. As tempting as falling into bed and sleeping was, even he knew he couldn’t leave the tiny thing on the ground in the washroom of all places. So he snagged the decorative walking stick from the recesses of his closet and hobbled back to the washroom. It was nowhere near as solid feeling as his microphone, and slightly shorter, but that was tucked into the shadow world and currently inaccessible until he was more… restored. So this gift from Rosie would do for now. Walking was easier with it, anyhow, more-so than clinging to the wall like some half-dead nincompoop.

When he arrived in the doorway of the washroom, his shadow was coiled over the thing and flexing its claws in an uncharacteristic show of concern. The thing was grunting and squirming as it struggled to get its limbs underneath it, face red with exertion as its tail stood straight up.

Alastor smothered the instinct to laugh at the poor thing’s frustration and chose to focus instead on the fact that he had definitely not left it on its belly.

“You may be tougher than you look, my dear.” He said, and slowly picked it up. Wrapping it neatly in a handtowel- Stars, it was tiny- he noticed that the thing was definitely female. It continued to squirm as he tucked it into his arm and began the hobble to the kitchen, which was thankfully much closer to the bathroom than his bedroom was. He placed the child on the tabletop and had only gone two steps when his shade let out an alarmed screech. Alastor whipped around, definitely opening some newly formed scabs, and was just barely able to use the end of his cane to push the child back onto its back. The shade stared at him accusingly, and he glared back at it. As if it were his fault the child lacked the self preservation not to roll off the table.

He used the end of the cane to push it further into the middle of the tabletop, well away from any edges, and then continued to the ice box to grab a container of raw venison. Thick strips of fresh meat sat in a small puddle of blood, and his mouth watered at the sight. Once he was back at the table and seated, he pried the lid off and nearly groaned at the scent of a nearly-fresh kill. The child’s ears pricked up, and it began to struggle in the towel to get closer. A small growl emanated from it, and this time he had to laugh. But the small thing’s hunger did pose an interesting problem. Surely he couldn’t just let it go to town, as it were, on a piece of meat whilst laying on its back. Would that not cause it to choke? He slid the being closer and was able to arrange it in a somewhat reclined position on his lap and in the crook of his arm.

Ignoring the grumble of his own stomach, he hooked one of the long pieces of venison with two claws and offered the dripping morsel to the child. It took but a moment for the child to grab it, and then it immediately began to gnaw on the end of it. Alastor laughed once more at its fervent enthusiasm for its meal, chewing on his own piece. He felt light flicks on his leg, muffled by both his robe and the towel, and after a moment realized that the thing’s tail was wagging. The knot in his chest tightened just a bit more when he realized that his very own tail did the same thing when he was pleased.

He felt distinctly uncomfortable. The weight of what he had actually done was beginning to press in on his exhausted self, and his aversion to touch was beginning to rear its head again after being shoved the back corner of his mind in the hullabaloo of the evening. What in the unholy hell was he going to do with this thing? It was a product of his own power, unable to be tapped by himself, or anyone else- but that didn’t mean others wouldn’t try if they knew what it was. But at the same time, what would he even do with it? He protected his souls, but they were full adults capable of not waltzing into danger with every flop. This one had much less self preservation.

Tiny pinpricks dug into his wrist, and his eyes flashed down to see that the thing had finished the strip of meat. Blood covered its lips, teeth, and hands to nearly its elbows. One tiny hand clawed to his wrist, the other making grab hands at his own strip.

“Well, don’t you look satisfied. Another?” He handed a fresh piece to it and froze when it didn’t immediately bring it to its mouth. Instead, it smiled at him. It positively beamed at him. But that wasn’t what stopped his cold, dead heart.

Underneath the blood was his mother’s smile. He hadn’t seen it in over a lifetime, and here it was on a tiny eldritch abomination that had gone back to sucking cold blood out of a small hank of meat. He stared at the thing, searching for and taking note of other characteristics.

His mother’s smile. The shape of his own eyes. Even below the baby fat, he could see she had his jawline. Thankfully the void had seen fit not to give her his nose, though.

For the third time that evening, Alastor felt the world tilt beneath him. This went so far beyond hellspawn. He stared at the child in his arm for so long that he watched it drift off to sleep, last handful of its meal forgotten in his claws. He watched it for so long that the remnants of his own meal warmed to a disgusting lukewarm temperature that he had no desire to scarf down.

Eventually his back began to ache and his heavy limbs raged loud enough that he had to move. Using the edge of the hand towel, he tried to rub dried blood from the child’s skin to no avail. He hesitated for a moment, unwilling to wash the child once again and wake it from its slumber. A memory drug itself from the very edge of his mind, of his mother. He didn’t ruminate too long before popping his thumb into his mouth and using the now damp digit to clean the child. Animal instinct urged him to lick the child directly, but he decided that would be too far. He was a man, not an animal, no matter what his reflection looked like.

It took longer than he cared to admit before he finally re entered his bedroom. He contemplated putting the child on the bed with him, before dismissing the idea. It was apparently determined to be mobile, and he had no desire to try and fix whatever damage it would cause itself by rolling off the bed. He pulled one of the large drawers from his dresser and upturned it, spilling clothing all over the floor. Niffty would have a conniption, but at this point Alastor was too tired to care. He set the drawer on the ground in case the child suddenly became able to climb as well, and arranging pillows and a blanket until a suitable nest was formed. It was difficult to stoop low enough to put the small fawn into the makeshift cradle, but he managed. She cooed in her sleep, clutching one of his fingers in both hands before releasing him to snuggle deeper into the softness he deposited her into.

The knot in his chest loosened and something foreign bloomed in its place- something warm that had gone cold the same time his mother’s corpse had.

“Sleep well, mon petit faon.”

Under the towel, he was able to see that small tail wiggling slowly once more. He collapsed onto his own bed, legs shaking without his own weight bearing down on them. He sat and stared, and stared, and stared at the sleeping fawn- his sleeping fawn- until unconsciousness took him and he collapsed backwards onto the mattress.

The Radio Demon had sired an heir, but Alastor… Alastor had fathered a child.

#Alastor played fuck around and find out #and then he found out #Alastor’s little fawn #Aurelie #prequel #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #the radio demon #Alastor & child character

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