"Fuck me sideways—where the hell am I?" I groaned, rolling onto my side in a crumpled heap. My head pounded like a jackhammer, and the air smelled like burning tires and old piss. Rough cobblestones dug into my bare skin, except—wait, since when did I have fur?
The sudden realization hit harder than the fall. My hands—hooves?—were black and hairy, tipped with thick, curved claws. A quick pat-down confirmed the rest: ram horns, a tufted tail, and... Jesus Christ, was that *mine*? I craned my neck to stare at the obscene weight swinging between my thighs.
Somewhere above me, neon signs buzzed, casting flickering pink light across the alley walls. A dripping pipe added its own rhythm to the pounding in my skull. I tried to stand, but my legs buckled—new joints, new balance, everything wrong.
The cold cobbles pressed against my bare ass, and I instinctively grabbed at the thick, furry sac between my legs, as if covering it would make the whole situation less insane. "Alright, think," I muttered, voice deeper than I remembered, laced with a growl I didn't recognize as mine. "You're a fucking goat-man now. Priorities: pants. Then existential crisis."
Then I saw it—staring right at me from the grimy alley wall. A peeling, water-stained poster for *VoxTek*, the logo unmistakably sharp despite the decay. My breath hitched. *No fucking way.* That was from the goddamn Hazbin Hotel show. A show I'd binge-watched last night, sprawled on my shitty apartment couch, stuffing my face with cold pizza.
A slow grin spread across my muzzle, fangs pressing into my bottom lip. Pros? Pros were fucking *endless*. Magic. Demons. Overlords and deals and the kind of raw, unhinged chaos my ADHD brain had always craved. And me? Built like a porn parody of Pan, with a dick that could double as a fucking battering ram.
Then the cons hit—like smelling salts to the face. This wasn't the show. No fourth-wall safety net, no respawns. If I bled out in this alley, that was it. And oh fuck, the *politics*—Overlords didn't play nice, and sinners like me were glorified chew toys unless we got sharp teeth fast.
But wait. The thought slithered in, sticky-sweet with relief. *Sinners come back.* Unless an angelic weapon punched through my skull, I'd just… reassemble like a fucked-up Lego set. The tension in my shoulders uncoiled a fraction. Okay. Okay, so death wasn't permanent. That was something.
The neon buzz overhead sharpened, painting stripes across my fur. Right. Edge of the city. Less eyes, less teeth. Less chance of running into some Overlord's territory before I figured out how to walk without tripping over my own hooves. I braced a hand—*claw*—against the damp brick wall and hauled myself upright. The alley tilted, then steadied. Progress.
Something crumpled underfoot—fabric, stiff with dried hell-rain and reeking of sulfur. A hoodie, shredded at the sleeves but mostly intact. Jackpot. I wrestled it on, the material straining around my shoulders and *definitely* not covering the swinging problem below the belt. Fuck it. Modesty was a luxury for people who didn't have to relearn basic motor functions.
The alley mouth yawned ahead, a slit of crimson sky between leaning buildings. Distant screams and engine snarls twisted into the hum of the city—sounds that should've sent me running, but my pulse kicked up for a different reason. Adrenaline, not fear. Like the first drop on a rollercoaster. I flexed my claws, testing the grip on the brick as I shuffled forward. Hooves clicked against stone, unfamiliar but solid.
Then the voice cut through the din—razor-sharp and pissed. "—because your *dick* couldn't wait till payday, Chuckles, now I'm stuck with a fuckin' light bill that's taller than Rosie's tits!" A window shattered overhead, glass shards raining onto a dumpster lid. I craned my neck. Second floor, fire escape. An imp woman dangled half-out, phone wedged between her shoulder and pointed ear, free hand gesturing wildly. Her tail lashed like a bullwhip. "Oh, *now* you've got signal? Eat a—*click*—ugh! Dickbag!" She hurled the phone into the wall with a crunch.
The rant dissolved into wet, hiccupping sobs mid-syllable. She slumped over the rusted rail, shoulders shaking. Her spiked collar slipped sideways, revealing a patch of lavender skin under the neon glow. Cute—if you ignored the claws digging into the metal. I hesitated. My hooves scuffed against gravel. "Uh. You good?"
Her head snapped up, tears carving shiny tracks through smudged eyeliner. "Do I *fuckin'* look good?!" The words cracked like rotten wood. Her nostrils flared, pupils dilating as she registered my—admittedly alarming—anatomy. "Holy shit. You're either fresh meat or *really* into farm animal kink."
I snorted, adjusting the hoodie's pitiful coverage. "Fresh meat, unfortunately. Or fortunately? Still deciding." My tail flicked, knocking over an empty bottle with a hollow *clink*. "Look, I just dropped into this shithole—literally—and I'm guessing you're hellborn?" Her flattened ears twitched. Bingo. "So, uh. Any chance you'd wanna trade sob stories for Survival 101?"
She wiped her nose on her sleeve—a gesture so human it threw me—and sized me up. "Martha," she muttered. Then, sharper: "And *fuck* no, I'm not running a charity. But..." Her gaze hooked onto the *VoxTek* poster behind me, then flicked back with sudden, calculating interest. "You can pay rent in other ways. Got muscles under that fur?"
I grinned, flexing a forearm just to watch her eyes track the movement. "More than enough to haul your shit up four flights when your last roommate bails." Her lips twitched. Progress. "Plus, I don't snore. Much."
Martha sniffed, swiping at her eyeliner again before vaulting over the railing with a clatter of hooves on metal. She landed in a crouch, tail whipping behind her like a pissed-off cat's. Up close, her breath smelled like cheap whiskey and nicotine gum. "Fine. But if you so much as *look* at my vinyl collection, I'm feeding your balls to a hellhound." She jabbed a claw at my—*ahem*—problem area.
The apartment was exactly what I expected—cramped, smelling of stale takeout, and with a lava lamp that looked suspiciously like it was filled with actual lava. Clothes and empty energy drink cans littered every surface except the bed, which was shoved against the far wall and barely big enough for one. Martha flopped onto it, kicking off her boots. "Congrats, farmboy. You're officially my new mattress warmer." She patted the space beside her, grinning when my ears twitched. "Don't get shy now—you weren't built for modesty."
I rolled my eyes, but my tail betrayed me with an eager flick. The hoodie barely covered my waist, let alone anything else, and Martha's pointed stare made my fur prickle. Still, I sat—careful not to knee myself in the dick—and leaned against the chipped headboard. "So," I said, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve, "what's the catch? Besides the implied ball removal?"
Martha grinned, fangs glinting in the dim light as she stretched her arms behind her head. "Glad you asked, furball. Rule one: dishes are your nightmare now. Rule two: you cover half the rent—and before you ask, no, 'I just got here' doesn't count as currency." She dug under her pillow and slapped a crumpled receipt onto my chest. The number at the bottom made my balls shrivel. "Welcome to Pentagram City's shittiest studio."
I exhaled through my nose, tapping the paper with a claw. "Got it. So how does a freshly-dead sinner scrape together cash? Strip club? Underground fight pits? Or—" I flashed her a smirk, "—should I just lean into the aesthetic and start an OnlyFans?" Her bark of laughter was sharp enough to cut glass.
Martha sat up abruptly, eyes raking over my furred chest and down—lingering—with the clinical assessment of a pawnshop owner pricing a questionable Rolex. "Huh." She chewed her lip. "You *are* built like a fucking centrefold. And the horse-cock thing's a niche market, but..." She flicked her wrist dismissively. "Eh, stripping's oversaturated. But porn? Fuck, with that *equipment*, you'd make bank in a weekend. Just gotta find a studio that won't skim 90% off the top."
I blinked, then burst out laughing, the sound rough and unfamiliar in my new throat. "Christ, and here I thought Hell would be more *fire and brimstone*, less *back-alley talent scout*." My tail lashed, knocking over a tower of old pizza boxes. The smell of rancid pepperoni slapped me in the face. Martha cackled, swiping a claw through the air as if marking a tally. "Welcome to the grind, dumbass. Hell's got *standards*—just not the ones you'd expect."
She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands. The neon from the window painted stripes across her back. "At least you sinners got powers," she mused, tapping a claw against her teeth. "Hellborn like me? We're stuck with baseline bitchiness and a caffeine addiction." Her eyes narrowed. "So? What's your gimmick? Pyrokinesis? Tentacle arms? Fuck, don't tell me you're one of those *shadowmeld* creeps—"
I flexed my claws, watching the fur ripple. Something *itched* under my skin, like static between channels. "Dunno yet." The words came out slower as I concentrated—not on changing, but on *unspooling*. My vision blurred at the edges. The hoodie sagged suddenly, fabric pooling around... softer curves. Martha's gasp was worth the headache blooming behind my eyes.
Her reflection stared back from the cracked mirror across the room—same smudged eyeliner, same lavender throat where her collar slipped. I grinned *her* grin, sharp and wicked. "Bingo." The voice was hers too, pitch-perfect. Even my tail coiled the same lazy, pissed-off arc. Then the itch became a *burn*, muscles writhing under stolen skin. "Fuck—*ow*—" The transformation snapped back like a rubber band, leaving me panting and furry again.
Martha's claws dug into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. "You *shapeshitfing* son of a—" She caught herself, eyes flickering between awe and pure, unadulterated greed. "Holy *fuck*. Do you know what Overlords pay for talent like that?" Her tail lashed against my thigh. "Vox would *cream* his stupid fucking pants if he got you under contract."