What if the reader was Alastor's wife in a past life, had died, become an angel, gone to hell to help Charlie after the second season (when Alastor is more powerful and free from his contracts), and the reader hated and ignored him for having discovered what he was in life and having had to endure everything he did (since he died first)? Now, a twist: along with the reader came another young angel who is very kind and takes care of her. Alastor thinks he might be the reader's boyfriend or second husband, but later we discover that he is actually her son. The reader was in the early stages of pregnancy and Alastor died before finding out. The reader never told her son about his father or who he was… The reader forbade her son from approaching Alastor when he was at the hotel… What will Alastor do? And if the reader and his son return to Heaven, would Alastor find a way, or would he make the reader make a contract with him to never leave Hell and (abandon him; he wouldn't admit it, but I think he feels lonely. And if there is an Adam 2.0 in Heaven, Alastor's thoughts)...Perhaps Yandere Alastor is possible?
➺ Warning: Blood, Abel's broken heart (and I'm feeling bad about this rn)
➺ Author’s note : I hope I was able to answer your request as best as possible! It took me some time as I got a little carried away by the possibility, and honestly, the idea has a lot of potential! As for the son's name, well… I saw that Alastor was the name of a demon, so I assumed that in her anger, the reader named her son in reverse and gave him the name of an Archangel, hence the origin of the name. Enjoys! English isn't my native language, so I apologise for any mistakes. I'll do my best to make it enjoyable to read!
“Mrs. Hartfelt? Please follow us to the police station, we have some questions about your husband, Alastor Hartfelt.”
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“Each month we’ll send someone to check on how things are going at the hotel. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do this regularly because of my own commitments.” Emily puffed out her cheeks in a grumpy pout, worried about not being able to see her new friends regularly, especially Charlie. “But don’t worry, the ones coming are exceptional! They’re Winners who have earned Heaven’s trust! Abel loves them dearly; in fact, he’s the one who recommended them, and I supported his proposal! You won’t regret it!”
The Seraphim applauded joyfully, using her powers to pop small bubbles into tiny sparks. Only Charlie’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm; the others were much less enthusiastic about the news, whether out of indifference or because they didn’t appreciate the idea of Heaven being under almost constant surveillance.
“They’ll be here in a few moments! Sera and the Speaker of God still need to inform them of a few details to ensure they carry out their mission as effectively as possible, for the good of the Redemption!”
“Why is the Speaker of God involved…?” Vaggie asks, hesitant at the mention of a being who embodies God.
“Why do they need more details when the subject is perfectly clear?” Alastor continues, not with a question but with a demand. His inhuman smile widens at the angel’s start of surprise. She hadn’t expected such suspicion.
“Oh, um… The Redemption plan is still very new, and since the Winners were only recently informed, there’s a lot to share,” Emily explains with a broad, cheerful smile. “We wouldn’t want our presence in Hell to cause you any further inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience—what an interesting choice of words.” Alastor mocks me with an amused laugh.
Emily does her best to keep smiling, but Alastor's words sting, like an arrow striking its mark. Vaggie's lips part, the rebukes burning her tongue. But each word goes in one ear and out the other; the Radio Demon remains perfectly still with that characteristic smile that seems eternal. His gaze lingers on the Seraphim's wounded wing, without a trace of gratitude. Why should he? He never asked her to sacrifice herself for him. It was the consequence of the kind of deep empathy that leads even the kindest souls to their downfall—or the most gullible, a term that suits them far better.
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The meeting with Sera and the Speaker of God had barely ended, and you were finally able to breathe normally. It had been truly stressful being confronted with the closest being to God. Your heart was pounding. They were so warm. Their voice, their gestures, their gentle caresses—absolutely everything about them was enchanting. You felt like you were back in your mother's arms on a rainy evening. But at the same time, it was intimidating to be faced with such a symbolic and majestic figure. A man's sigh pulled you from your thoughts; you weren't the only one who felt the need to release the tension after that interview.
"It was terrifying. It's like facing a jury where the grade counts for 12." he exhaled.
"What did you get for your specialization, by the way?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Mom! It’s been over forty years already, it’s ancient history, let’s not dwell on old stories like that.” Your son with brown curls laughs nervously, nervously adjusting his glasses, his eyes searching for anything but your inquisitive gaze. “Oh, look at my future stepfather! It seems like he wants to see you before we leave! I’ll be waiting for you at the meeting point, see you later!”
“Don’t think you’re getting away with it!” you shout, but he simply waves as he darts out of your sight.
A faint smile stretches your lips. Despite the passing years, your son still possesses that childlike part of his adolescence, a touch rebellious, always cheerful, and above all, a constant need to grow up quickly to fill the role of an absent father in his life. He never fully accepted the absence of a father figure, nor even your fierce determination to keep this man a secret. Nevertheless, he could never reproach you for your silence; you were never able to hide the underlying pain that the mere mention of his father brought to your eyes, even after your death. You suspect he forces himself to act like his teenage self to comfort your maternal soul for never having been able to witness the years of his life. Your death was a shock, an unexpected event when he was only fifteen. You had missed all his achievements, all his accomplishments, and he knew you blamed yourself. Your death is tragic, a swift cancer that left you no chance.
Abel flies beside you in the distance. You notice Saint Peter giving a thumbs-up to encourage the blond man who is melting away with each passing second. An affectionate laugh escapes your lips. Your son enjoys teasing you about the First Man's son's obvious affection for you, even going so far as to call him his future stepfather to Abel's face, relishing the obvious embarrassment he causes the blond boy. You weren't sure if your son seriously considered Abel a father figure, but he is a healthy father figure, far more so than his biological father. And the idea of sharing your life with the blond angel doesn't seem to displease you all that much… perhaps it's time for you, too, to begin a new chapter in your life and enjoy the many pleasures of having eternity ahead of you.
Abel, meanwhile, is paralyzed, captivated by the melodious sound emanating from you. He feels as if he's hearing celestial songs resonating just for him. His heart beats wildly to a symphony in which you are the muse. He clasps his hands together, taking a deep breath to calm his flaring nerves.
“Hey…how are you?” Abel asks, cursing himself under his breath for his basic approach.
“As good as forty minutes ago,” you reply, unable to resist teasing this adorable angel.
“Right…right…haha, sorry!”
“I’m just kidding, Abel, you don’t need to apologize. So tell me, how can I help you?”
“Well, I was wondering…maybe…after your mission, of course, we could go to a restaurant…?” Abel asks, his cheeks flushing crimson as he summons all his courage to keep from running away.
“Me?” Your heart skips a beat, and you try your best to maintain a composed expression. How long has it been since someone showed you such interest? “Of course, I’d be delighted to go with you.”
In the distance, Saint Peter raised his fist in victory. He would finally be able to stop listening to Abel's saccharine daydreams about your breathtaking beauty, your warm kindness, and everything that made you an extraordinary person… or worse… his depressing sighs about how you were too good for him, unattainable, and deserved so much better than a coward. But deep down, he knew that now he would be treated to Abel's happy exclamations, eagerly anticipating your date.
“Great! I'm going to make this evening worthy of you! I mean… I'll text you tonight! Watch out in Hell!” Abel ran off to his friend, bustling about the next steps he needed to take for your date.
You made your way to the meeting point, your cheeks burning. Your son pointed out your embarrassment, wondering what had caused your blush. Nevertheless, his smile tells you that he knows perfectly well the reasons for your discomfort. You hate and love that smile… he has the same one as his father. In fact, you see your ex-husband in your son's face, a carbon copy of the man who was once the person you loved most. It was sometimes difficult to look him in the eyes once he was an adult; each year his features became a little more refined.
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“Oh, there they are!” Emily cried in a high-pitched voice as she formed a pale blue portal leading directly to Heaven.
A sleek young man, his figure sculpted by a tailored burgundy suit that accentuated his bronze skin perfectly complementing his brown curls. A sophisticated smile played across his face, a delicate balance between the tenderness of the Winners and something more sinister, like a sin shrouded in mystery. He extended his hand toward the portal to help you out. Your fingers slid against his palm as your body stepped through the Seraphim portal. The scarlet red of the hotel highlighted the brilliance of your feathered robe, as if Hell itself wanted you to realize how out of place you were, that you would never be accepted.
“So this is the famous hotel…” you murmured under your breath.
“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! We are absolutely delighted to have you with us! Oh my God, Vaggie! The first Winners are in the hotel, can you believe it!” exclaims Charlie, completely thrilled by your presence.
“Vaggie…like Adam’s favorite? After Lute, of course. She’d kill me if I hadn’t added the rest…” Your son asks, adding the last part in a meditative drone of all the pain Lute would cause him once he returned.
Vaggie stands awkwardly, forcing a smile to avoid completely chilling the atmosphere, but it seems it’s already too late. A sudden cracking sound alerts you all, and all eyes turn to the Radio Demon, whose neck is twisting at an unnaturally awkward angle. Incomprehension is etched in every gaze except yours, which hardens with icy coldness. For the first time in decades, you feel that bitter sting of betrayal, that anger, that uncontrollable rage, stirring in your chest like a fire in a drought. It only takes a single ember to reignite this flame. Your fingers tighten around your son's hand, his attention immediately drawn to you. His eyes widen, startled by the hatred in your pupils. You have never before expressed such fury. The silence thickens until it becomes suffocating. Charlie tries to find topics of conversation, hoping to ease the underlying tension with Emily's help, but you are unable to manage even the slightest smile, your focus solely on the scarlet-clad man.
He had lost his warm colors, his curls that you so loved to caress between your fingers, as if to define them. But you can't help but recognize that smile, that same eternal smile you cherished so much when you danced in the moonlight, illuminated only by the small lamp on your porch. That smile that so irritated you when it played on his lips during your kitchen arguments, and which, by some miracle, managed to calm you. That smile you so hated when the police confronted you with your husband's body, his face curled in mockingly, as if laughing at your impending misfortune.
You're the first to look away, not out of a lack of conviction, but because you've decided to turn the page on that chapter of your life, to consign it to the flames and let it vanish into the ashes of your past. He grips his staff tightly. He had anticipated several reactions: anger, an outburst of emotion, tears, or even the sharp insults you were so adept at delivering, but certainly not cold, calculated indifference, nor even this masculine figure clinging to you, orbiting you like the moon around the earth. Had you turned the page, eager to replace him with someone who resembled him when he was still human? Was it a sign that you still missed him? Or was it a cruel mockery on your part?
“I’m Y/N. I’ll be staying for the week to begin gently establishing Operation Redemption. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for your hospitality.” You say, like a secretary repeating the same speech over and over.
“Mikhâ’êl, we thank you for your hospitality. I hope our presence will not cause any discomfort.” Your son introduces himself, bowing his head slightly in politeness.
A surge of pride rises in your chest when the Princess of Hell gushes to her girlfriend about your son's courteous manners. You've raised a gentleman who stirs emotions; after all, politeness is a rare commodity in Hell. You stroke your child's cheek, a child who is taller than you. Sometimes realizing that the little boy who used to come home covered in mud from playing outside has grown up is a strange feeling, a mixture of joy and nostalgia. He frowns but nonetheless accepts your maternal affection without flinching, leaning against your touch as he always does, for despite his silent protests, he can't help but revel in your tender caresses. You could swear you see a dog's tail wagging behind him; it's in moments like these that you feel you see Abel in your son's manner.
They grew closer gradually. Abel didn't have the courage to impose himself as a strong parental authority figure; he wasn't like his father or his brother. He was a gentle soul who brightened those around him with his good intentions. It was through his kindness that your son allowed himself to be approached on a deeper, more intimate level. He decided to trust Abel, both with himself and with you.
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“I don’t really understand the point of the princess exercises.” your son confesses, his head on your shoulder as he flips through his notes.
“To raise awareness and help people question themselves so they can then fully work on their sin.” you murmur wearily.
Exhaustion coursed through your veins. You’ve only been in Hell for two days, yet it feels like you’ve been there a lifetime. You’ve desperately ignored your ex-husband, who has made it his mission to orbit you like the earth around the sun, or in his case, like a mosquito around its meal. No matter how much you try to shut him off, how stubbornly you try to ignore his presence, he chattered on, filling the thick silence with his static voice. A voice unfamiliar to you, but one whose echoes you recognize in a more human, deeper tone, like when he whispered a secret in your ear on the pillow. You can still feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, like a ghostly memory. Mikhâ’êl wondered, who was this sinner who seemed to know his mother so well? Who was he to drive you to such a state simply by being there? It was incomprehensible; you had never expressed such fury, such suffering. It was as if he were witnessing your deepest wounds, your open sores, your unhealed scars, and he was powerless to do anything. Mikhâ’êl was a spectator because you wouldn't allow him to help you…how could it be otherwise? You had to protect him, spare him the cruel truth of knowing his origins, his father. It was better for him to remain ignorant. It was selfish of you to deny him that possibility, but it was your choice.
The annoying static hum buzzes through the air for a split second, announcing the arrival of the sinner you're desperately trying to escape. His presence creeps up behind you, but close enough that you can see him in your peripheral vision. You exhale loudly, in the vain hope of easing the tension in your muscles. You swear you see his lips curl further, his eyelids narrow with an unhealthy pleasure at provoking the slightest reaction from you. He was like a child misbehaving for adult attention, except he only wanted yours.
"Charlotte wants to see you."
You raise an eyebrow. It was…oddly ordinary for him, far too ordinary... it's suspicious. You tilt your head to observe him, searching his gaze for anything. But his pupils are unfathomable. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, yet he always seemed so mysterious. Did he simply not have a soul? A dry laugh escapes you at the thought, brief and bitter. What a ridiculous question; the answer was obvious. If only you hadn't been blind when you were human and still alive, you wouldn't have had to go through all these trials. You wouldn't have had to move to spare your son his father's grim reputation. He was too young to remember, yet you remember it as if it were yesterday: the stares and the insults. They cursed the day he was born; his perfect resemblance to his father led the citizens of New Orleans to believe that the terrible legend of the Bayou Butcher would live on from father to son. But he was just a baby, an innocent being who had the misfortune of having a notorious murderer for a father and a mother oblivious to all the suspicious signs.
Yet, despite blaming yourself for your ignorance, Alastor has always been this perfect man, the charismatic man who attracts all the investors to sign on to his radio show. The one everyone wants, even after he got married. You weren't the only one fooled by that mysterious, alluring smile, yet you're the only one who has borne the weight of his crimes, as if they hadn't been blinded by them too.
“Let’s go, Mikhâ’êl.” You sit up from the sofa, dusting off your feather dress that so clearly distinguishes you from the other hotel guests.
“Alone.” Seeing your confusion, he repeats. “She’s asking you alone.”
“What a bizarre request. Are you sure?”
“My dear, I wouldn’t dare lie to your face, and I’m not old enough to have failing hearing.” His smile widens, taking on a mocking hue. His static laughter hums in the air at your disdainful gaze. “Saying nothing isn’t a lie; it would have been if you had asked.”
You open your mouth, outraged by his audacity. Who in their right mind would ask their husband if he’s the serial killer who’s been terrorizing New Orleans for years?
“Don’t worry about me, you can go. It’s not like I’m in any danger.”
“Mikhâ’êl! Danger is everywhere, especially with him!” Your son follows the movement of your arm, which emphasizes Alastor as a threat.
“You worry too much. I feel like I’m seeing you again when we were still alive.”
You exhale heavily. Perhaps he was right, perhaps you were being overprotective, seeing your little boy again but now he was a grown man with his own family after your death. Nevertheless, you can’t shake the anxiety of leaving your son out of your sight. Your gaze falls on Alastor, whose smile has widened, but something in the curve of his face seems to have tightened. With hesitant steps, you slip away to join Charlie. It takes you a good ten minutes to find her through the crowd. She was right in the middle of this anthill, running around to attend to the many needs of the sinners who had suddenly discovered a desire for repentance.
“Charlie, I heard you were looking for me.”
Her gaze becomes hesitant, not like someone who has an intrusive request, but like someone who doesn't know anything. Your heart races, skips a beat, as a bad feeling grips your stomach. Anxiety and uncertainty take root in your gut, creep under your skin, and seep into every nook and cranny. The hotel rumbles beneath your feet, the lights flashing suddenly in green. “No…” The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You sincerely hope that's not it, you hope you're wrong. You don't have time to run through the curious and noisy crowd, you fly through the air to find your child whom you left in the hands of an ex-husband whom you know better than anyone.
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“What is your connection?” Mikhâ’êl asks, shortly after you leave. The seriousness of his face overshadows the brown glint in his eyes.
“Oh?” Alastor hums with a hint of amused pleasure. “Curiosity killed a cat.”
“And satisfaction brought it back to life.”
A heavy silence falls between the two men. Neither breaks the visual battle that has begun, perhaps out of pride, ego, or simply because looking away now would leave a breach, a weakness, open. Alastor thinks, the gears of his mind whirring, his pupils scanning the familiar figure of the man before him. The idea of him being your second husband feverishly tickled his mind, not to mention that the mere thought deeply disturbed him, as if the notion that you had rebuilt your life after his death tormented him to the point of scratching himself raw. He had embarked on the path of marriage out of a desire for possession, a desire to imprint his presence on your entire being—down to your very soul. He desired you ardently, followed you for months to be certain he was the ideal man who would capture your heart, simply because he wanted to. Your union opened doors and opportunities for him. This obsession, rooted in his professional ambitions, morphed into something sweeter, but no less unhealthy.
However, once in the quiet of his radio tower, his thoughts became clearer, and a grotesque idea began to take root. The angel looked far too much like a version of himself from when he was still alive. The same brown curls, the same chocolate-brown eyes, the same warm hue that absorbs the sun, adorning itself like a jewel. The resemblance was far too striking to be a mere coincidence.
“Who are you to my mother?” Mikhâ’êl repeated his question.
“Your mother…?” The realization hit Alastor like the bullet that had lodged in his forehead that night. He laughed heartily, his pupils gleaming with a dangerous intensity. “We’re just very old acquaintances.”
“Does that mean you know each other from your past lives?” The angel’s gaze widened, surprised by this revelation.
“Do we know each other? More than well.” The scarlet sinner hummed slyly, twirling his staff between his fingers.
Mikhâ’êl momentarily lowered his gaze to the ground. Was that why you didn't want him near Alastor? Out of fear that he'd discover your past connection? Out of fear that he'd ask him who his father was? A question that constantly haunted the corner of his mind, sometimes keeping him awake for hours, tossing and turning in his blanket. The words burned on his tongue, curiosity and fear of the answer locked in a fierce battle. Alastor's eyelids narrowed in delight, savoring the inner conflict that tormented the angel. It was a weakness to exploit, an opportunity to reach you directly. Alastor slid down beside the angel on the sofa.
"A question is troubling you, isn't it? I could satisfy your curiosity and answer all your questions in exchange for a tiny, insignificant favor."
"I wouldn't give my soul." Mikhâ’êl flatly refused his offer.
“Now, what a ludicrous idea! I’m not asking for your soul! As I said, I only want a small favor from you, nothing compromising.” Alastor held out his hand as he leaned toward the angel, who watched him hesitantly.
“Tell me what you know about my mother…about my father.” Mikhâ’êl shook Alastor’s hand, and his laughter echoed darkly through the hotel.
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You furiously fling open the door to his radio tower. The door slams violently against the wall, knocking the picture frames off the wall. Glass shatters on the floor, cracking beneath your heels as you rush into the tower like a raging storm. Your wings are puffed out, like a cat's fur standing on end to appear more intimidating. You seethe with anger, your blood boiling in your veins, feeling as if you're suffocating in the heat you ignore in your rage. You spot the demon sitting in a rolling chair, pressing a button to stop his live broadcast. Legs crossed, he pivots to face you. Oh, that smile, that damned arrogant smile, the one he wears every time he emerges victorious. You clench your teeth, your nails digging into the palms of your hands until gold drips from your wounds onto the parquet floor.
“What a pleasant surprise, my dear!” he exclaims, his eyes sparkling with the dark gleam of sadistic pleasure.
“Your own son! You dared to make a deal with him!” You grab the first thing you can reach and throw it at him. His shadow catches it mid-air.
“Come now, my dear, I didn’t know who he was until I made a contract with him. Perhaps if you had let us in on it beforehand, you wouldn’t be in this situation,” he mocks.
“I know you, Alastor. I know you only made that deal because you knew he was my son.” Your voice trembles with suppressed rage. You want to scream, to let out a piercing shriek to release the seething anger inside you. “To chain him in Hell for the same length of time as our marriage, ten long years! Do you even know how much he’s risking his life by staying here?!”
“You’re exaggerating. You always have a tendency to amplify things. What are ten years in an eternity?”
The scarlet demon rises from his chair, forcing his way toward you until he invades your personal space. He towers over you, dominating you. You hated it when he looked down on you, as if he were surveying one of his possessions. Without a second thought, you slap him. The sound reverberates through the radio tower, the echo spreading before fading into an electric silence. Your golden blood traces the mark of your hand on his cheek. Yet, despite everything, striking him hasn’t helped lessen your rage; it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough. Alastor laughs, deep, somber, fractured by the crackling of a radio. His fingers grip your wrist in a demanding, commanding hold; he doesn't offer you the luxury of resisting his touch. His lips press against your injured palm, his tongue slowly tracing the small but deep wounds you've inflicted upon yourself. You hiss in pain, electric shocks coursing through your nerves as he lingers over your injuries, the tip of his tongue, eager for your taste, trying to venture into the wounds. You clench your teeth, fighting his grasp in vain. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him, stifling your fidgeting that disrupts his snack.
"When you scream my name, it brings back old memories," he murmurs against your palm. Embarrassment burns your cheeks, but his taunts leave a bitter taste in your throat; he's adding fuel to the fire of your rage, feeding it.
"Bad ones" you spit out bitterly.
“Don’t be a sore loser. We both know you were always the one who started this.”
Your declaration of hatred elicits yet another laugh from him. You cry out in pain as he sinks his teeth into your palm, drawing more blood. He is addicted to your taste, this aspect of Heaven that flows through the veins of his most prized and exquisite possession.
“I will guarantee our son’s safety during his stay in Hell. Think of it as a father-son moment to make up for lost time,” he says against your bloodied palm. But something in his eyes, his tone, and his smile tells you otherwise.
“We can always make a deal.” His laughter echoes through his radio tower.
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The last day of your visit had arrived. Dark circles surrounded your eyes as fatigue weighed heavily on your shoulders. You could no longer close your eyes for more than a few minutes at night, gripped by this constant fear. You felt trapped in a spiderweb that tightened around you every time you tried to escape. Alastor was toying with you, presenting himself as the perfect father, spending time with his son and proudly showing him off to anyone who would listen… your son was happy, but you knew better than anyone… Alastor was putting a target on your child's back to force you to stay in Hell and watch over your child's safety… This demon would do anything to keep you with him, even risk your child's life. Nausea tightened in your throat.
You stood in the empty hotel lobby with Charlie and Vaggie, ready to welcome Emily, who should be opening her gate any minute. How will you explain your situation to him? The Seraphims entrusted you with a mission, and in seven days you've managed to fall into the clutches of the Radio Demon. You feel tears of frustration stinging your eyes.
The portal opens. You expect to see the energetic angel leap into the arms of the Princess of Hell, but instead, it's Abel who timidly emerges from the portal, his smile lighting up as he looks at you. Your heart breaks as he flies toward you, his hands behind his back.
"Hello, I hope you're well? Did everything go well this week?" he asks in such a gentle voice, so concerned for your well-being.
"I…Yes, everything's fine…" The words catch in your throat.
"I've booked the restaurant for tomorrow at seven o'clock. I hope that works for you!" Abel calls out to you, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling with a happy light. Oh… your heart breaks. Your lips tremble, words fail you, but the threat of Alastor weighs heavily on your shoulders.
“Abel…” You begin, but he interrupts you, presenting you with a flower. It was the one you loved so much, but which was so rare, so hard to find even in Heaven. You feel your eyes well up with tears. You cannot shatter this angel’s hopes.
“I tried to cultivate a small garden of your favorite flowers! I had to try many times over decades, but I finally succeeded! If you would like more, I can find some for you…” Abel nervously scratches his cheek with his index finger, looking away from yours.
“I…Abel…” You can’t. You simply cannot. Your chest tightens with an indescribable pain.
“I’m afraid your plans must be canceled. We’re going out tomorrow night.” Alastor's static voice shatters the precious moment between the two angels. His hand slides down your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You lower your eyes, lips pressed tightly together. "Alastor, pleasure to meet you." Alastor extends his hand to Abel, his smile widening.
"Abel…pleased to meet you." Abel shrinks back, hesitating to shake the hand of the scarlet demon, who takes it with an elegant, mocking laugh. Abel searches your eyes, but you stubbornly stare at the floor. "You are…?"
The crack in Abel's voice rips your heart in two, pain piercing your chest. You want to tell him the whole truth, to explain that this is all just a charade for your ex-husband's sadistic pleasure. But his hand on your back is a cruel reminder of the hold he has over your son and the tragedies he could inflict upon him if you cross him. Alastor leans in, his lips against your temple, with an affection so tender and warm, like a loving husband. But his gaze is fixed on the blond angel, decomposing on the spot, Abel's fingers trembling around the flower. And Alastor savors the view, this delightful spectacle, as he covers you with tender affection, breaking the blond's heart a little more…to his own great pleasure.
Taglist Alastor requests -
