32F (She/Her) and I need some place to put all this that isn't my main lmao Asks are open and I'm very friendly. My pfp is Alastor but I'm so much more a Charlie IRL. Requests and asks open! ❤️
Hello! I go by Frosty on my main, but you can call me whatever.
Queer, female, she/her pronouns. 31 years old.
I like Hazbin Hotel a lot, if you couldn't tell by the entire blog dedicated to it. I've also watched Helluva Boss, so you're welcome to request or ask questions about that too.
My blog isn't just 18+ stuff but it will probably contain some at some point.
I like smut, fluff, angst. I love it all!! So don't be shy.
Feel free to request!
Request Rules
REQUESTS: OPEN
Can request canon characters with reader/OCs or each other. I'm not picky.
I will write the reader as gender neutral unless otherwise specified. I like to ensure as many people as possible can enjoy it, but do still feel free to request a specific gender if that's what you want!
You can specify if you want an imagine or headcanons, etc. otherwise I'll go with what seems to fit the prompt best.
NSFW and SFW requests allowed.
I write for all the characters at this time. ❤
Masterlist
Current Taglist
My favs change all the time but I quite like Alastor, Vox, Lucifer, Angel Dust, Velvette, Zestial, etc. For Helluva it's Millie and Moxie, Blitzø, Stolas, and Vasago. But I like everyone and will write for everyone!
The recent fic recs have me thinking about Vox and Velvette's dynamic in canon vs fanon, and wondering why the fandom made the choices it made. And why it decided that their relationship is defined, specifically, by ageism and sexism. Against all canon evidence to the contrary.
Like, sure, S1 only had one episode where they interacted (plus a phone call and Velvette as a silent presence in the finale), so fans had to fill in most of their dynamic. But a lot of common fanon, especially for Velvette, is actively contradicted by S1. For example, her being annoyed by Vox and Valentino's relationship, when she literally spends the Vees' part of Finale recording the two dancing, then taking a selfie with them kissing behind her. She has never been shown to have an issue with them (or with displays of affection, which is another common Velvette portrayal that runs counter to S1).
The only piece of Velvette's fanon dynamic with Vox that makes sense when based exclusively on S1 is her being ageist towards him, because she is canonically (and aggressively) ageist. Except even this falls apart when you consider that she finds no fewer than nine ways to call Zestial and Carmilla old in the span of three minutes, but never once uses such language against Vox. Not in S1, not in S2. Not even when she's mad at him. If she cares about his age at all, she respects him too much to talk to him like that.
In fact, S1 just overall gives the appearance of an affectionate, mutually respectful relationship. Velvette clearly doesn't feel like she has to prove anything to Vox, because she has no problem calling him in to deal with Valentino, and Vox doesn't try to offer help she doesn't need. She rolls her eyes when he observes that she has everything under control in her studio, but she's smiling a little when she does it. And while Vox seems to be on edge about the Overlord meeting, given it sounds like he's checking on her when she arrives, he still trusted her to go in his place (between the importance of the meeting and the fact that it's the first time she's filled in for him, I'd argue some anxiety is understandable here). The call itself is casual and playful on Velvette's end.
And S2 builds on this dynamic of affection and respect. When they visit the hotel, Vox takes the lead conversationally, but he leaves Velvette to do her work as she sees fit. He knows she's good at her job and trusts her implicitly to get what they need. And of course, they're joking with each other and having fun the whole time. And in turn, Velvette doesn't take offense to it when Vox steps in to protect her, either at the hotel or when she and Val are attacked by Alastor. She can absolutely take care of herself, but she seems to know and accept that Vox is just Like That.
If sex/gender played any prominent role in their dynamic, they would not interact with each other the way they do. Vox would not be willing to let Velvette do her own thing with minimal interference while they're working on the same project. He would not be caught dead taking tea with her in a violently pink and purple room. He wouldn't tolerate the way she frequently talks to him like a female friend (frankly, if gender plays any role in their dynamic, it's in the way Velvette treats Vox, not the other way around. And he just lets her do it).
On that note, "fragile masculinity" needs to be put on a shelf until y'all learn what it actually is. Or until you can give me a clear example of Vox displaying masculine insecurity in a context unrelated to Alastor.
I'll wait.
In conclusion, the disparity between their canon relationship - even just in S1 - and the fandom interpretation is baffling. I can only assume that it's a result of real world biases against men and women, or people from different generations, being friends and having things in common. Because it has not let up, even six months after S2xE3 aired and gave us a damn good look at their relationship.
Also, it's a popular headcanon that Vox and Alastor can communicate through radio waves, and that it's unique to just the two of them. But no one ever talks about the fact that Vox and Velvette canonically have a seemingly unique method of communicating. So here. Magical video calls.
Everything was as fine as it could be, which in Hell meant it was fragile, imperfect, occasionally interrupted by screaming guests and property damage, but still theirs.
For a while, that was enough.
Y/N and Alastor had built something quiet beneath the noise of the hotel, something hidden in soft knocks after midnight, shared dinners in dim rooms, rooftop dances beneath the red glow of Hell’s sky, and mornings where she woke up tucked against him before either of them remembered they were supposed to be careful. They had learned how to slip around one another in public without making it obvious, though the effort itself had become its own kind of performance, and they had learned how to find each other again once the doors closed.
But secrecy, no matter how lovingly chosen, had a way of pressing its fingers against tender places.
It happened one night while they were tangled together beneath his blankets, not speaking much, simply existing in the warmth of each other. Y/N had her cheek resting against his chest, one hand curled loosely over him, while Alastor stared toward the far wall with an expression too distant to be peaceful. His fingers were in her hair, but even that familiar touch had slowed, like his mind had wandered somewhere he did not want her to follow.
She noticed immediately.
She always did now.
“Love?” she asked softly, lifting her head enough to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes shifted to hers, and his smile returned out of habit more than feeling. “Nothing to fret over, my dear.”
Her brow furrowed. “Did I do something?”
“No,” he said at once, and this time the answer was firm enough to quiet that fear before it could grow. “No, darling. You did nothing.”
She studied him, unconvinced, then moved a little closer. “Then talk to me.”
For a moment, he did not. He only looked at her, his gaze moving over her face with that strange, private tenderness he rarely allowed into his expression. Then his hand rose, brushing along her cheek, thumb passing lightly beneath her eye as though he were memorizing the shape of her.
“Darling,” he said at last, quieter than usual, “I know I told you I would not rush you.”
Her stomach tightened because she knew before he said it.
“But are you ready to tell your family?”
The question settled between them with more weight than it should have.
Y/N looked down, fingers curling slightly against his chest. “Yes.”
He waited.
Then she groaned softly and shut her eyes. “No. Ugh, I don’t know.”
Alastor did not pull away. His hand remained at her face, warm and steady, and he leaned in to press a kiss against her cheek. “What troubles you, my dear?”
She let out a breath, embarrassed by the answer before she even said it. “I’m not scared of us.”
“I know.”
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. “Not because I’m ashamed, and not because I don’t want people to know, but because…” She paused, searching for the truth beneath all the smaller excuses. “Because I like having you to myself.”
His thumb stilled for a moment.
She glanced up at him, vulnerable and frustrated. “That sounds selfish.”
“It sounds honest.”
“I just worry that if we go public, everything changes. Charlie will have questions, Vaggie will watch us like she’s guarding a bomb, my dad will absolutely lose his mind, and everyone in the hotel will start looking at us differently.” Her voice softened. “And I know that’s not fair, but I’m scared you won’t want me the same way once everyone else is involved.”
His expression shifted, not into hurt, but something near understanding.
“Ah,” he murmured.
“I know it’s silly.”
“It is not.”
“It feels silly.”
“Feelings often do,” he said, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That does not make them meaningless.”
She leaned into his touch, relieved by how gently he handled the fear.
“I want to tell them,” she said. “I do. I just don’t know how.”
Alastor considered this, his gaze thoughtful. “Then perhaps we begin with your sister.”
“Charlie?”
“She is the least likely to attempt murder on sight.”
Y/N gave him a look.
He smiled faintly. “Compared to Vagatha, naturally.”
Despite herself, Y/N laughed.
He softened at the sound and drew her closer. “Start with Charlie, if you would like. Not the entire hotel. Not your father. Not the whole of Hell. Just your sister.”
She rested her forehead against his shoulder, the idea feeling terrifying but possible.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “You’re right. I think we can do that.”
“Whenever you are ready,” he said.
And she believed him.
At least, she did until the next day gave them no mercy.
The hotel was busy again before noon, crowded with guests, curious sinners, staff moving from room to room, and a handful of reporters who had apparently decided that Charlie’s dream made for excellent entertainment. Most of them were manageable. Some asked about redemption, others about the hotel’s success, and a few were clearly hoping to catch something scandalous on camera.
Y/N handled them with the practiced grace of a Morningstar princess.
She smiled when needed.
Deflected when necessary.
Kept her posture composed, her chin lifted, and her answers polite enough that Charlie would be proud.
Alastor watched from across the lobby, outwardly calm as he stood near the bar with a mug in hand. To anyone else, he looked entertained by the commotion, perhaps mildly amused by the swarm of questions and cameras. Husk, who stood behind the bar, knew better than to assume anything about Alastor’s calm was harmless.
The reporter who stepped toward Y/N had too much confidence and far too little sense.
At first, his questions were ordinary enough.
“How does it feel helping your sister with such an ambitious project?”
“Do you believe redemption is truly possible?”
“What role does the Morningstar family play in the hotel’s future?”
Y/N answered smoothly, though she did not like the way he kept stepping closer.
Then the questions changed.
“So, Princess, is there anyone special helping keep you motivated these days?”
Her smile tightened. “The hotel itself keeps me motivated. My sister’s dream matters to me.”
“Come on, that’s a very careful answer,” the reporter said with a laugh, angling his microphone closer. “No secret romance? No powerful demon waiting in the wings?”
Across the room, Alastor’s fingers tightened around his mug.
Y/N felt her pulse jump.
She could feel eyes turning toward her now, curious and amused, and the answer rose instinctively in her throat.
Yes.
I am taken.
But the words caught.
Not like this.
She did not want the hotel to find out because some pushy reporter cornered her in the lobby. She did not want Charlie to hear it as a headline before she heard it as a confession. She did not want Alastor turned into spectacle, did not want their private world dragged out under camera lights and hungry smiles.
The reporter mistook her hesitation for encouragement.
He stepped closer and touched her shoulder.
The contact was brief, but it made her body go rigid.
“Maybe another time you’ll give me a real answer,” he said, his tone far too familiar. “Right, Princess?”
Y/N shifted back, swallowing the flash of discomfort and anger that rose in her chest.
“I am very busy,” she said, voice clipped but still controlled. “Please excuse me. I need to find my sister.”
She turned away before he could respond.
Behind her, the reporter chuckled, nudging one of his coworkers with a smug grin.
“Another time then, Princess?” he called, and when she did not answer, he laughed louder. “Yeah, she wants me.”
His coworkers laughed with him.
The mug shattered in Alastor’s hand.
It was not loud enough for the whole room to notice over the noise, but Husk heard it. He looked down at the broken ceramic, then up at Alastor.
“Boss, are you alr—”
The words died in his throat.
Alastor’s smile was there, wide and stitched into place, but nothing about him looked amused. The black mark across his forehead had sharpened, the antler-like shadows of his power seeming to press at the edges of his form, and the seams of his smile looked more pronounced than usual, stretched too tightly over fury. Husk had seen Alastor pleased by violence. He had seen him delighted by chaos.
This was different.
This was not murder-happy.
This was anger.
Cold, focused, and personal in a way Husk had never seen on him before.
Husk’s ears lowered slightly. “Alastor…”
But before he could say anything else, Alastor turned, his form melting into the shadows like ink poured into darkness.
Y/N did not see it.
Charlie had already caught her by the arm, worried and apologetic, pulling her away from the reporters while asking if she was alright. Y/N nodded too quickly and said she was fine because she had no idea what else to do, and the rest of the day swallowed her whole.
They were busy for hours.
Too busy to talk.
Too busy for Y/N to find Alastor.
Too busy for Alastor to trust himself near anyone.
By the time night finally fell and the hotel quieted, exhaustion had settled into Y/N’s bones. She went to her room instead of his, partly because she thought perhaps he would send for her, and partly because the day had left her feeling too raw to be brave. She showered slowly, letting the warm water wash away the reporter’s touch and the weight of too many eyes, then wrapped herself in something soft and sat at her vanity to brush out her hair.
She waited.
Usually, one of his shadows would appear first.
A curl beneath the door.
A whisper against her wrist.
A playful tug at the hem of her robe.
Tonight, there was nothing.
She told herself not to worry.
Then the lights went out.
Y/N gasped, turning sharply in her chair. “Al? Is that you?”
The room was dark except for the faint red glow from the window, and for a second all she could hear was her own heartbeat.
“Al—”
Hands touched her gently from behind, familiar and cool at first before warmth followed, sliding over her shoulders.
She exhaled, relieved. “Oh, it’s you.”
A smile touched her mouth as she turned slightly, but it faded when she saw him.
Alastor stood behind her, his expression controlled in a way that made the air feel heavy.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
The honesty startled her.
She stood immediately, turning fully toward him. “What’s wrong?”
He did not answer right away.
“Usually you send your shadow first,” she said, trying to soften the tension. “You’re here early. What’s the ma—”
“Why didn’t you say no?”
The question was quiet, but it cut through the room.
She blinked. “What?”
His eyes fixed on hers. “Why didn’t you say no to that cretin?”
Her mouth parted, the memory returning all at once. The reporter. The question. The hand on her shoulder. The laughter after.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That.”
“Yea, THAT,” he said, voice tightening. “That little man.”
“I just…” She crossed her arms loosely over herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“You didn’t know?”
The words came sharper than before.
Y/N flinched slightly, then stiffened because she hated that she did.
Alastor saw it, and something in his expression flickered, but he was too deep in his own anger to stop.
“Do you have any idea how it felt to stand there and watch him put his hands on you?” he asked, his static rising at the edges of his voice. “To watch him speak to you as though you were some prize he could win with enough arrogance and poor grooming?”
“I was handling it.”
“Were you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“You stuttered.”
“Because I didn’t want everyone finding out like that.”
“I know why you hesitated,” he said, stepping closer. “But he did not. He thought he had permission to continue.”
“That is not my fault.”
“I did not say it was your fault.”
“It sounds like you are.”
His jaw tightened.
The room felt colder.
Y/N’s own emotions, buried under the day’s exhaustion and embarrassment, rose defensively. She knew deep down that he was not only jealous. She knew he had been angry because someone had touched her without permission, because someone had made her uncomfortable, because secrecy had left him standing across the room with no claim he could publicly make. But logic was thin when hurt got there first.
“I was trying to avoid making a scene,” she said.
His smile sharpened without warmth. “How thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk to me like I’m stupid.”
His eyes flashed. “I have never thought you stupid.”
“Then stop acting like I did something wrong because I didn’t bare my teeth in a lobby full of reporters.”
“I just wanted you to say no.”
“I did say no in the only way I could manage.”
“You excused yourself.”
“That is a no.”
“To men like that, it is an invitation to try again.”
Her face heated with frustration. “I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Because I can’t just be you!” she snapped.
The room went silent.
The words had come too fast, carried by fear, embarrassment, and defensiveness, and once they started, she could not stop them quickly enough.
“I’m not violent,” she said, voice trembling with anger she did not entirely mean. “I’m not going to just kill someone because they’re awful. I’m not some monster who doesn’t care what people think or what happens afterward—”
She stopped.
The silence after was worse than shouting.
Alastor’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Not with an explosion of anger.
It was much worse than that.
Everything in him went still.
His smile remained, but it emptied, becoming a sharp, cold line that belonged to the Radio Demon and not the man who had kissed her forehead in the dark.
Y/N’s stomach dropped.
She realized what she had said.
How she had said it.
“Alastor,” she whispered.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said, very softly, “Oh.”
The single word hit her harder than any anger would have.
“I see.”
“No,” she said quickly, panic rising. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. It came out wrong.”
His gaze did not soften.
“After all this time,” he said, voice quiet enough to terrify, “you still think of me as the cold Radio Demon.”
“No.”
“As a monster.”
“No, Al, please—”
“Then perhaps you are right,” he said, and though he smiled, it did not reach his eyes. “Perhaps that is all there is to see.”
She took a step toward him. “No, that is not what I meant.”
He stepped back.
The movement hurt more than she expected.
“I did not kill him,” Alastor said.
His voice stayed controlled, but beneath it was something raw and wounded that made her throat tighten.
“I wanted to. Oh, believe me, my dear, I wanted to. I wanted to peel that smug little grin from his face and leave what remained as a lesson to any fool who thought to put his hands on you again.”
She swallowed hard.
“But I did not,” he continued. “Do you know why?”
Tears burned at her eyes. “Alastor…”
“Because I cared what you would think.”
The words struck deep.
His smile faltered for half a second before he forced it back.
“I cared what you would feel if I returned to you with blood on my hands over something you had chosen to handle differently. I cared whether I would frighten you. I cared whether my anger would become another burden you had to carry.”
Her lips parted, but no words came.
“I may have been a cold-hearted killer in life,” he said, his voice darker now. “I may be bloodthirsty. I may be cruel when cruelty is useful, and I will not pretend otherwise simply because you hold me sweetly in the dark.”
A tremor moved through her.
“But I am not a mindless monster,” he said. “I do not kill without reason. Power has its reasons. Survival has its reasons. Retribution has its reasons. And yes, some of my reasons are ugly.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and the hurt there was almost unbearable.
“But I thought you, at least, understood there was more to me than that.”
Y/N shook her head, tears finally spilling. “I do. I do understand. Alastor, I know. I didn’t mean it.”
“I understand, Y/N.”
Her breath caught.
Not darling.
Not my dear.
Not princess.
Y/N.
The name sounded distant in his mouth, formal and cold, and it frightened her more than his anger had.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t call me that.”
He looked away.
“Alastor, please,” she said, reaching for him. “I said it wrong. I was upset and embarrassed, and I felt cornered, and I know that doesn’t excuse it, but I didn’t mean you were a monster. I don’t think that. I don’t.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, the expression there was carefully sealed.
“I think I should leave.”
Her heart cracked open. “Please don’t.”
“It would be best.”
“No, please let me explain.”
“I believe you have already said enough.”
“I haven’t,” she said, voice breaking. “Alastor, I hurt you, and I know I did, but please don’t leave like this.”
His gaze flicked back to her, and for one moment she thought he might stay. She saw it there, the part of him that wanted to reach for her anyway, the part that had spent months learning the shape of her hands and the sound of her laugh, the part that still loved her even through the wound.
But then the walls came back up.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.
Cold. Distant.
She shook her head. “Alastor—”
The shadows rose around him.
“Wait, please—”
But he was already gone.
The lights flickered back on, too bright after the darkness, and Y/N stood alone in the center of her room with one hand still reaching toward the empty space where he had been.
For a few seconds, she did not move.
Then the first sob broke through.
She covered her mouth with both hands, trying to hold it in, but there was no use. The room felt too quiet without him, too large, too empty. The bed behind her looked untouched and cold, and the absence of his shadows was everywhere.
Usually, if she cried, even when he was not there, one of them would find her.
A small curl of darkness around her wrist.
A cool brush against her cheek.
A silent promise that he knew.
Tonight, nothing came.
No shadow slipped under the door. No static warmed the silence. No familiar voice called her darling.
She climbed into bed alone for the first time in so long that it felt wrong, pulling the blanket close even though it did nothing to comfort her. She curled onto her side, facing the empty space beside her, tears sliding quietly into the pillow.
She had wanted to protect them.
Protect Charlie. Protect her father. Protect the private little world they had built.
But somewhere in trying to keep everything from breaking, she had placed her hands in the wrong place and cracked the thing that mattered most.
And in another room, far across the hotel, Alastor did not sleep either.
But he did not send his shadows.
He did not go to her.
He stood in the dark with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling at nothing, while something inside him ached in a way he had no patience and no language for.
For once, the silence did not feel peaceful.
They did not talk for a couple of days.
Not properly.
Not in any way that mattered.
To everyone else, nothing looked catastrophically wrong, and perhaps that was the worst part. They still moved through the hotel with the same measured professionalism they had always worn when they needed to appear composed. If a guest came in, Y/N greeted them with a polite smile, and Alastor handled his duties with that immaculate charm of his, his grin bright, his posture elegant, his voice full of theatrical warmth.
But with her, the warmth was gone.
Not cruelly.
That almost would have been easier.
He was distant in the way only Alastor could be distant, all manners and polished edges, never giving anyone else enough to question and never giving her enough to hold onto. If she entered a room, he did not leave immediately, but he did not look for her either. If their work required them to speak, he kept his words efficient and clean.
“Y/N, would you file those forms in Charlie’s office?”
“Y/N, the guest in room twelve has requested assistance.”
“Y/N, I believe your sister is looking for you.”
Her name became unbearable in his mouth.
Every time he said it without darling, without my dear, without princess, it felt like a door closing gently but firmly in her face.
She tried more than once.
The first time, she caught him near the stairwell, her heart in her throat as she stepped toward him.
“Alastor, can we talk?”
His smile stayed in place, but his eyes barely met hers. “Y/N, I am rather busy at the moment.”
“Oh,” she said, fingers tightening around the papers in her hands. “Right. Sorry.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
But another time never came.
The second time, he was crossing through the lobby with his cane in hand, shadows tucked neatly beneath him like even they had been instructed not to reach for her.
“Alastor,” she said softly.
He paused.
That pause nearly broke her because it meant he was listening. It meant some part of him still wanted to turn around. It meant she had a chance if only she could find the right words quickly enough.
But the words tangled in her throat.
He waited for one breath.
Two.
Then he said, “I have errands to attend to.”
She stared at the side of his face, searching for any sign of softness, any familiar flicker, any hint that the man from those private nights was still beneath the careful distance.
He did not look at her.
So she swallowed the apology that could not seem to come out right and nodded.
“Alright.”
She did not push.
She had promised herself she would not force him to listen before he was ready, because she had hurt him, and she knew that. She had no right to demand forgiveness simply because guilt had made her restless.
But not pushing him meant sitting inside the silence.
And the silence hollowed her out.
By the third day, she no longer knew what they were.
Lovers, maybe.
Former lovers, possibly.
Something broken that had not yet been named.
The uncertainty left her numb, and because she did not know what else to do with her hands or her mind, she drowned herself in work. She checked guest ledgers twice, then three times. She reorganized schedules that were already organized. She rewrote supply lists, updated room assignments, reviewed Charlie’s notes, cleaned the front desk, refilled pamphlet displays, and corrected errors no one else had even noticed.
At first, pride had tried to save her from guilt.
A small, wounded part of her had whispered that he had been unfair too, that he had come into her room angry, that he had frightened her with the weight of his jealousy and expected her to handle it perfectly. She clung to that for a little while because it was easier than facing the truth.
Then, late one night, alone in the bed where his shadow still did not come, the truth settled beside her.
She had hurt him.
Whatever else had happened, whatever fear or frustration had pushed her words forward, she had said something cruel to someone who had trusted her enough to be vulnerable. She had taken the part of himself he feared she would reject and struck it in anger.
That was not fair.
And she knew it.
So she worked harder.
Hard enough not to think.
Hard enough not to cry.
Hard enough that Angel noticed.
“Hey, Y/N!” Angel called brightly one afternoon, stepping into the lobby with his usual dramatic flair. “There’s my favorite princess with the emotional support paperwork—”
His smile faded when he got a good look at her.
She was moving too quickly behind the desk, eyes scanning a ledger while one hand sorted room keys and the other tried to reach for a stack of forms that nearly slid off the edge. Her hair was slightly less tidy than usual, her expression distant and strained, and when Angel spoke, she did not immediately react.
“Y/N?” he said again, softer this time.
She blinked as if surfacing from underwater. “Hm? Oh, Angel, hi. Sorry, I’m just double-checking if room seven’s request was added to the—”
She stopped, groaning under her breath when one of the papers slipped from the stack.
Angel caught it before it hit the floor.
“Hey, doll,” he said, stepping closer. “Slow down. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “I just need to make sure everything is correct because if the linen order is wrong again then Vaggie’s going to have to deal with another guest complaint, and Charlie already has enough to worry about, and I should probably check whether Baxter turned in that repair list because if he didn’t—”
“Y/N.”
The firmness in his voice made her stop.
Angel’s expression was still gentle, but there was no teasing in it now.
“Everything is fine,” he said. “You’re overthinking.”
She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh but carried no humor. “Am I?”
“Yeah, babe. A lot.” He leaned one hip against the desk, watching her carefully. “I haven’t seen you like this before. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and I once told Valentino I loved his outfit, so clearly words can be lies.”
That pulled the smallest smile from her, but it faded quickly.
Angel noticed that too.
“Something’s on your mind,” he said. “I’m not gonna push, but you look like you’re about to alphabetize the wallpaper, so maybe talking would be healthier.”
Y/N looked at him for a long moment, trying to hold the mask in place.
Then her shoulders dropped.
“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I guess something is.”
Angel softened at once. “Come on. You can always talk to me about it.”
She glanced around the lobby, then toward the bar, then toward the hall where Alastor had disappeared nearly an hour ago. “Can we… go to your room?”
“Sure thing, toots.” Angel straightened immediately, offering her a hand with exaggerated gallantry. “Private drama suite, right this way.”
She laughed weakly and let him lead her away.
When they reached Angel’s room, Cherri was already sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone with one boot kicked over the armrest. She looked up when the door opened, grin spreading immediately.
“What up, biiitch?”
Angel chuckled. “Hey, Cherri.”
Y/N managed a polite smile. “Hi, Miss Cherri.”
Cherri pointed at her without looking offended, only amused. “Oi, stop with the miss. You make me sound old, and I refuse to emotionally process that.”
Angel motioned toward the couch. “Come sit. You look like you need to vent before you explode.”
Cherri sat up a little, suddenly interested. “Oh shit, someone we need to bash a head in?”
Y/N shook her head quickly. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Shame,” Cherri muttered, though she softened when she saw Y/N’s expression. “Alright, no head bashing. For now. What's up princess?”
Y/N sat between them, hands folded tightly in her lap. For a moment, she could not make herself speak.
Angel waited.
Cherri waited too, surprisingly quiet.
That kindness nearly made the tears come back.
“Please,” Y/N said softly, “this stays here.”
Angel’s face became serious at once. “You know it will.”
Cherri nodded. “Vaulted, babe.”
Y/N inhaled slowly.
“I…” She stared down at her hands. “I really like Alastor.”
There was silence.
Not shocked silence.
Worse.
The kind of silence that meant they were trying very hard not to say something obvious.
Y/N looked up slowly.
Angel pressed his lips together.
Cherri’s eyebrow lifted.
“What?” Y/N asked.
Angel cleared his throat. “Doll.”
“What?”
“We know.”
Her eyes widened. “You know?”
Cherri gave her a sympathetic but thoroughly entertained look. “Babes, you’re not subtle at all.”
“I am subtle.”
Angel touched her shoulder gently. “Sweetheart, you once stared at his hands for so long that Husk asked if you were having a stroke.”
Her face went hot. “That did not happen.”
“It absolutely happened.”
Cherri laughed. “And every time Smiles walks into a room, you straighten up like someone just plugged you into a wall.”
Y/N groaned, covering her face with both hands. “Oh fuck.”
“It’s cute,” Angel said.
“It is not cute.”
“It is very cute,” Cherri said. “Disgustingly cute, honestly.”
Angel leaned closer. “But for the record, I think Smiles has got a thing for you too.”
Y/N lowered her hands just enough to look at him.
Angel shrugged. “He watches you.”
Her stomach twisted painfully.
“He watches everyone.”
“Nah,” Angel said. “Not like that.”
Cherri nodded. “Yeah, there’s watching like ‘I’m gonna murder you if you breathe wrong,’ and then there’s watching like ‘I wanna throw you against a wall but make it sexy.’”
“Cherri,” Y/N said, mortified.
“What? I’m helping.”
Angel sighed. “Yeah she's helping.”
Y/N’s smile faded, and she looked down again. “I think I messed up.”
Angel’s expression softened. “How?”
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She could not tell them everything. Not about the relationship, not about the nights, not about the argument in her room, not about the way he had left without sending even one shadow back to comfort her.
So she kept it vague.
“I said something that offended him,” she said quietly. “Something really unfair. I was upset and defensive, and I said it in a way that made it sound like I thought badly of him.”
Angel listened without interrupting.
Cherri’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.
“And now he’s being more formal than usual,” Y/N continued, voice tightening. “He only calls me by my name. He doesn’t really look at me when we’re alone. Every time I try to talk to him, he says he’s busy or has errands, and I don’t want to force him, but I don’t know how to fix it if he won’t let me.”
Angel leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. That sounds rough.”
“I deserve it,” she said.
Cherri immediately pointed at her. “Don’t do that.”
Y/N blinked. “Do what?”
“That thing where you decide you’re the villain and start punishing yourself instead of actually fixing anything.”
Angel nodded. “Yeah, babe. Guilt’s useful for about five minutes. After that, it just turns into emotional quicksand.”
Y/N swallowed. “I just don’t know what to do. I really want things to work with him.”
The admission came out softer than she intended, and there was no hiding how much it hurt.
“I haven’t told Charlie yet,” she added, almost in a whisper.
Angel and Cherri exchanged a look.
“Well, good news,” Cherri said. “Your sister is completely clueless.”
Angel lifted a finger. “Bad news is Vagina is definitely suspecting things.”
Y/N blinked. “Please don’t call her that.”
“What? It’s basically her name.”
“It is not.”
“It’s affectionate.”
“It is not affectionate.”
Angel waved a hand. “Anyway, Vaggie’s clocking something. She’s got that whole angry hawk thing goin’ on.”
Y/N sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I know. Charlie asked if we fought.”
“Did you?” Angel asked gently.
Y/N’s silence was answer enough.
Cherri softened a little more. “Then apologize.”
Y/N looked at her.
“Not a fancy apology,” Cherri continued. “Not some royal speech where you try to make it all perfect. Just tell him you fucked up and say what you actually meant.”
Angel nodded. “And don’t make it about getting him to forgive you right away. Just own it.”
Y/N looked between them, surprised by how sincere they both sounded.
Angel gave her a small smile. “Doll, you don’t need to be perfect all the time. You’re allowed to mess up. That’s how people learn and grow and all that gross emotional stuff Charlie’s always singing about.”
Cherri snapped her fingers. “Exactly. But you do gotta be brave enough to walk into the mess instead of scrubbing the whole hotel until your feelings vanish.”
Y/N let out a shaky laugh. “That obvious?”
“Painfully,” Cherri said.
Angel squeezed her shoulder. “Look, I don’t know what you said, and I don’t need to unless you wanna tell me. But if you hurt him, apologize. If he hurt you too, say that. You can be sorry without pretending your feelings didn’t matter.”
That landed quietly.
Y/N had been so focused on what she had done wrong that she had not allowed herself to admit that she had been hurt too. Not in the same way, maybe not as deeply, but still. He had frightened her with his anger, then closed every door before she could explain, and that pain had not disappeared simply because she felt guilty.
Cherri leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “And if he’s worth all this sad princess stuff, he’ll hear you eventually.”
Y/N smiled weakly. “He is.”
Angel’s expression warmed. “Then give it a shot.”
She looked down at her hands and nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“There we go,” Cherri said, clapping once. “Now enough with all the sappy shit. Let’s fucking drink.”
Y/N laughed despite herself. “Okay, okay.”
Before anyone could move, her phone buzzed.
She glanced down, and her smile faltered slightly when she saw the message.
“It’s my dad,” she said. “He wants to see me.”
Cherri groaned dramatically. “Awwwh, lame. Come on, Angie, we were just getting to the fun part.”
Angel flopped back against the couch. “Royal family summons. Very rude. Zero stars.”
Y/N stood, still conflicted but lighter than she had been when she entered. Cherri got up enough to hug her goodbye, squeezing her tight with surprising warmth.
“Don’t spiral too hard, yeah?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good enough.”
Angel stood too, walking her to the door. For once, his teasing quieted before it reached his mouth.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She turned back.
“You don’t have to listen to us, alright? But just… think about it.” His hand settled gently on her shoulder. “We love ya. We care about ya. You don’t gotta carry everything by yourself.”
Her throat tightened, but this time the tears were gentler.
“Thank you, Angel.”
He pulled her into a hug, and she hugged him back tightly.
“Anytime, doll.”
When they pulled apart, he gave her one of his usual wicked grins, though his eyes remained kind.
“Alright, now go see what Big Daddy wants.”
Y/N made a face immediately. “Ew, don’t say that.”
Angel laughed, waving her off as she stepped into the hallway. “What? He’s literally big and your daddy!”
“That does not make it better!”
Cherri shouted from inside the room, “It makes it worse, actually!”
Y/N laughed for real then, the sound following her into the hall as she walked away.
For the first time in days, the ache in her chest had loosened just enough for her to breathe.
She still did not know how to fix things with Alastor.
She still did not know how to tell Charlie.
She still did not know what her father wanted, and that alone was enough to make her nervous.
But as she made her way toward Lucifer’s room, Angel’s words stayed with her.
Y/N made her way upstairs with Angel and Cherri’s words still circling through her mind, but the comfort they had given her did not erase the nerves sitting heavy in her chest. If anything, now that she had admitted out loud that she had messed up, the truth felt sharper. She kept thinking about Alastor’s face when her words had landed, the way his expression had gone still, the way he had called her by her name like he was stepping away from everything soft between them.
She wanted to fix it.
She wanted to tell him everything properly, without fear twisting her words, without pride making her defensive, without hurting him worse because she was too scared to be honest. By the time she reached her father’s room, she had already imagined a dozen different ways to apologize, and every single one of them sounded wrong.
She knocked softly before opening the door. “Dad? Are you—”
“Y/N!” Lucifer’s voice rang out with immediate brightness, and before she could even finish stepping inside, he spun toward her with something hidden behind his back. “How are you, sweetie?”
She tried to smile. “I’m okay, Dad, I just—”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wonderful, love that for you,” he said quickly, already too excited to notice her expression. “Well, I just wanted to show you this new duck I made recently. It is amazing, if I do say so myself, and I do, because I made it.”
He thrust the little rubber duck into her hands with a flourish.
Y/N looked down at it.
It was, unmistakably, a demon duck, painted with tiny red details, a wicked little smile, and two small antler-like horns that curved from its head. They were not exact, probably not intentionally modeled after anyone specific, but to her tired, aching heart, they looked just enough like Alastor’s that something inside her twisted.
Her smile came, but it trembled.
“Golly, Dad,” she said softly, turning the duck carefully in her hands. “It’s cute.”
Lucifer beamed at first. “Right? See, I was thinking the horns give it a little edge, but not too much edge, because a duck still needs whimsy, obviously, and—”
He stopped.
For the first time since she had entered, he really looked at her.
His excitement faded into concern so quickly it made her throat tighten.
“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
She shook her head, blinking too fast. “Nothing, Dad. I just…”
“Baby girl,” he said softly, stepping closer, “you take after me more than you think, and I know when something is wrong.”
That was all it took.
The care in his voice cracked straight through what little composure she had left.
Lucifer guided her toward the couch before she could argue, sitting beside her and taking the duck from her hands so he could set it gently on the table. “Come here. Tell me what happened.”
She tried to speak, but the first sound that escaped her broke into a sob.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, folding into him like she had when she was younger, when the world had felt too large and he had still seemed big enough to protect her from all of it.
Lucifer’s arms wrapped around her immediately, firm and trembling with alarm. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened? Y/N, did someone—”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head against him. “No, Dad, it’s all my fault. I—”
Her words dissolved into another sob, and he held her tighter, one hand smoothing over her hair.
“Okay, okay, slow down,” he said, trying to keep his own panic out of his voice for her sake. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. I can’t understand you when you’re crying this hard. Come on, just breathe with me.”
He drew in a slow breath, exaggerated enough for her to follow, and she tried, shaky and uneven at first. He did it again, patient and steady, until her sobbing quieted enough for words to form.
“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s my girl. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
She wiped clumsily at her face, though more tears came immediately. “I messed up, Dad.”
Lucifer’s expression softened with worry. “Messed up how?”
“I liked this guy so much,” she said, voice trembling. “And I said some things that were hurtful. Really hurtful. I didn’t mean them the way they came out, but I said them, and I hurt him.”
Lucifer went still for a moment, his protective instincts clearly trying to wrestle their way to the front.
“A guy,” he repeated carefully.
She nodded.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is he a sinner?”
Y/N hesitated, then nodded again.
Lucifer’s mouth tightened, but to his credit, he did not explode. “Do I know him?”
Her heart jumped into her throat.
“Kinda,” she whispered.
“Kinda?” he echoed, alarm rising. “What does kinda mean?”
“Dad,” she pleaded, tears still shining in her eyes. “Please.”
The fear in her voice stopped him.
Lucifer exhaled slowly, visibly forcing himself to calm down. He reached for her hands, holding them between his.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, baby, I don’t know who you like, and I don’t know exactly what is happening, but I trust you.”
Her lips trembled.
“I trust that you made the right decision for yourself,” he continued, though the protective edge in his voice remained. “But I need to ask you something.”
She nodded.
“Does he treat you well?”
That question made her break all over again, but not because the answer hurt.
Because it was so easy.
“He treats me so good, Dad,” she whispered. “He makes me feel loved. I never had to question whether he cared about me or whether I was special to him. He takes care of me, and he listens, and he sees me, not just as Charlie’s sister or your daughter or someone who has to keep everything together.”
Her voice cracked.
“Oh, Daddy,” she sobbed again, falling back into his arms. “I love him.”
Lucifer’s face shifted with surprise, then sadness, then something tender and pained as he held her.
“I really love him,” she cried. “And I know he loves me too. I wanted to tell you, but I was scared, and then I said something awful to him, and now he won’t talk to me the same way.”
Lucifer closed his eyes for a second, pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
“Oh, sweetie,” he murmured. “You’ve been carrying all of this by yourself?”
She nodded against him.
“I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
That hurt him.
She felt it in the way his hand paused in her hair.
When he pulled back slightly, his eyes were gentler than before, filled with a guilt she had not expected.
“Y/N,” he said softly, “I know how hard you try to be perfect.”
She looked down.
“And if I taught you that,” he continued, voice quieter now, “then I am sorry, sweetheart.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
Lucifer gave her a sad smile. “I know I can be a lot. I know I worry, and I hover, and I react too strongly because you and your sister are everything to me. But you do not have to earn my love by never making mistakes.”
Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.
“You don’t have to hold the family together every second,” he said. “You don’t have to be calm all the time, or graceful all the time, or right all the time. You are allowed to be scared. You are allowed to mess up. You are allowed to love someone even if it gets complicated.”
“But I hurt him,” she whispered.
“Then apologize,” Lucifer said gently. “Not because you need to punish yourself, but because you care about him. Tell him what you meant. Tell him what you didn’t mean. Let him be hurt if he needs to be, and let yourself be honest.”
She sniffled. “What if he doesn’t forgive me?”
Lucifer’s expression softened further.
“Then it will hurt,” he said honestly. “But love cannot survive if no one is brave enough to tell the truth. If he loves you the way you say he does, then give him the chance to hear you.”
Y/N swallowed, his words settling deep beside Angel and Cherri’s.
“I don’t know how to be brave about this.”
“Yes, you do,” Lucifer said, wiping her tears with his thumbs. “You have been brave your entire life. You just confuse bravery with never being afraid.”
She let out a shaky breath.
He tilted her chin gently so she would look at him.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart.”
Her face crumpled again, but this time the tears came with relief.
She hugged him tightly. “Thanks, Dad.”
Lucifer held her close, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“Always, baby girl,” he murmured. “Always.”
Y/N kept thinking of ways to talk to him.
That was the worst part, really, because she had never been a coward when it came to difficult conversations. She had stood before princes of Hell, impatient Sins, grieving sinners, angry guests, her father at his most dramatic, and Charlie at her most emotionally impossible, yet somehow the thought of standing in front of Alastor and saying, I hurt you, and I am sorry, made her chest tighten until breathing felt like work.
She rehearsed apologies in her room.
She rehearsed them in the mirror.
She rehearsed them while signing ledgers, while folding guest forms, while walking from one end of the hotel to the other with papers she barely remembered picking up.
But every time she finally gathered enough courage, she could not find him.
At first, she assumed he was avoiding her. Then she realized, with growing frustration, that he actually was busy. The hotel had become more demanding with every passing day, and Alastor was everywhere and nowhere at once, fixing problems, terrifying unruly guests into politeness, taking calls through that strange old radio of his, disappearing for errands no one had the courage to question, and returning just long enough to make it clear he was still present without giving her a moment alone with him.
She told herself, When he comes back, I’ll talk to him.
Then he came back and Charlie needed him.
She told herself, When he finishes with the guests, I’ll catch him in the hall.
Then he finished and vanished into shadow before she could get within three steps of him.
Another day passed.
Then another.
By the time a full week and a few aching days had gone by since that night in her room, the distance had become something she felt in her bones. It was killing her slowly, not with one clean wound but with a hundred small ones. The worst of it was not even that he was angry. It was the uncertainty. She did not know where they stood anymore, did not know if he still thought of her as his, did not know if the private world they had built had survived what she said.
Every time he called her Y/N, a piece of her sank.
Every time he looked through her instead of at her, she felt that name become colder.
And for all the damage it was doing to her, it was doing something crueler to him.
Alastor had always enjoyed certainty.
He liked knowing where he stood, what he wanted, who feared him, who owed him, who underestimated him, and who would come to regret doing so. He enjoyed control the way other demons enjoyed liquor or applause. He moved through Hell with the confidence of a man who had turned himself into a nightmare and found the role suited him quite well.
Fear had never offended him.
Fear was useful. Fear was clean. Fear did not ask anything of him except that he remain terrifying, and that was easy. He liked being respected that way, liked the way rooms stiffened when he entered, liked knowing he was the monster waiting in the dark corners of someone else’s imagination.
But Y/N had never looked at him like everyone else.
Or perhaps she had, and that was why it hurt.
He knew she had not meant it.
That was the infuriating part.
He knew her well enough to know she regretted it. He knew the words had come from panic, embarrassment, defensiveness, and fear rather than hatred. He knew she had been cornered that day by a disgusting little reporter who had put hands where they did not belong, and perhaps Alastor had come into her room with too much anger still clinging to him.
He could admit that, if only to himself.
But still.
Monster.
The word had lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs and refused to move.
It was almost funny, in a humorless sort of way. He had been called far worse by people whose bones he had later arranged into lessons. He had smiled through rumors, threats, curses, screams, and pleas. He had built parts of himself from those names.
But from her?
From the woman who had lain beneath his hand and listened to him speak without polishing the sharp edges first?
From the woman who touched his hair like he was something worth gentleness?
It was unbearable.
Because, yes, he wanted to devour her, but not the way the rest of Hell feared he would devour them. Not with hunger sharpened into destruction. Not with violence. Not with conquest. With her, the wanting had become something stranger and much more dangerous. He wanted to ruin her composure only to gather her close afterward. He wanted to hear his name on her lips when no one else could hear it. He wanted to keep her, protect her, tease her, watch her, touch her, feed her, argue with her, dance with her, and return to her.
He wanted more than fear from her.
And because of that, he had no idea what to do.
Leaving that night had felt necessary.
Now he wondered if it had also been cruel.
He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to take one look at that tired expression she kept trying to hide and pull her against him until her breath steadied. He wanted to send his shadows under her door, to let them curl around her wrist the way they used to when he could not be there in person.
But then he remembered her face when she said it.
And the wanting twisted into hurt again.
So he stayed away.
And the hotel noticed.
Charlie noticed first in the way only a sister could. Y/N had become too focused, too careful, too quiet in the moments where she was usually soft. She kept herself busy until exhaustion blurred the edge of her smile, and though she still answered questions and helped guests and gave Charlie that same reassuring nod whenever things got chaotic, something was missing.
Vaggie noticed because Charlie noticed, and because Vaggie trusted her instincts when it came to anything that made Charlie worry.
“I’m telling you,” Vaggie said one afternoon, standing beside Charlie near the front desk while Y/N moved across the lobby with a stack of papers. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Charlie watched her sister disappear into the hallway. “I know.”
“And I don’t like that Alastor is involved.”
Charlie glanced at her. “We don’t know that he did anything bad.”
Vaggie gave her a look.
“I mean it,” Charlie insisted. “Y/N wouldn’t just let someone hurt her and say nothing. Dad taught us not to take shit from other demons before he taught us how to properly use cutlery.”
Vaggie blinked. “That explains so much about both of you.”
“I’m serious,” Charlie said, worry creasing her face. “If Alastor did something awful, she would be upset, yes, but she would also be furious. This is different. She looks… guilty.”
“I know she is.” Charlie hugged her arms around herself. “I just don’t know why.”
That was when Charlie began investigating.
Not subtly.
Charlie had many talents, but stealthy emotional interrogation was not one of them.
She started appearing near Alastor more often, catching him in the lobby, joining him near the bar, asking him questions about guests that somehow always drifted back to Y/N.
“So, have you talked to my sister lately?”
“Y/N seems really tired, doesn’t she?”
“Do you think she’s overworking herself?”
“Has she said anything to you?”
Every time, Alastor denied knowing anything more than was proper.
“She is a capable woman, Charlie.”
“Perhaps she simply needs rest.”
“You may be worrying yourself into knots, my dear.”
“Your sister is not a fragile little bird. She will speak when she wishes to.”
His answers were polished, sensible, and entirely infuriating.
Charlie kept trying.
Angel noticed that too.
He noticed Charlie and Alastor speaking more often, noticed the way she would follow him up the stairs sometimes, noticed the way they would disappear into quiet rooms to talk while Y/N buried herself in work downstairs. At first, he assumed Charlie was just being Charlie, nosing her way into emotional business with the determination of a golden retriever in a therapy vest.
But after the third time he watched them walk upstairs together, his eyes narrowed.
“That’s weird,” he muttered from the bar.
Husk did not look up. “Everything in this place is weird.”
“No, I mean that specifically is weird.”
Husk followed his gaze just in time to see Charlie and Alastor turn the corner at the top of the stairs.
His ears twitched. “Huh.”
Angel leaned closer. “Didn’t Smiles have a thing for Y/N?”
Husk’s jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Angel said, lowering his voice. “He’s been icy with her all week, now suddenly he’s chattin’ up her sister every five minutes and walkin’ upstairs with her when nobody’s lookin’? That smells fishy.”
“It’s probably Charlie interrogating him.”
“Or,” Angel said, “it’s worse.”
Husk stared at him.
Angel held up his hands. “I’m not sayin’ it is. I’m sayin’ it better not be, because I may be stupid, but I am not emotionally prepared to watch Y/n get hurt and their cute love story turn into a love triangle with the deer freak.”
“Please never say that again.”
“I make no promises.”
Upstairs, Charlie’s latest attempt at casual conversation had finally pushed Alastor’s patience thin.
They had been walking side by side down one of the upper halls, Charlie trying to sound normal and Alastor growing increasingly aware that she had circled the same topic four different ways.
At last, he stopped.
Charlie made it three more steps before realizing he was no longer beside her.
She turned.
Alastor stood with both hands folded over his cane, smile still present, but strained at the edges.
“What is it you wish to discuss so persistently?” he asked, voice clipped but not cruel. “Because I find we have now wandered past three perfectly good destinations without arriving at a single point.”
Charlie winced. “Okay. Fair.”
He waited.
She sighed, all the performance leaving her at once. “It’s about Y/N.”
His expression did not change, but something in him went still.
Charlie looked down, worrying her hands together. “She’s been acting weird. Really weird. And I just…”
Her voice caught.
Alastor’s irritation softened despite himself.
Charlie blinked hard, clearly trying not to tear up. “I don’t know what happened.”
He looked away, jaw faintly tense. “Perhaps nothing happened.”
“Alastor,” she said, and there was enough gentle pleading in her voice that he looked back. “I know my sister.”
He said nothing.
“She’s hurting,” Charlie continued. “And she’s pretending she isn’t, which means she thinks she has to handle it alone. She does that when she’s scared of disappointing people.”
His fingers tightened once around his cane.
Charlie stepped closer, voice lowering. “Besides me, she’s been talking to you a lot lately. Well, before whatever this is. I know you guys are busy, and I know you both help with the hotel, but she trusts you.”
Alastor began walking again, slower this time.
Charlie followed.
“I asked her,” Charlie said. “She said she was fine. Which means absolutely nothing, because everyone in this family says they’re fine when they are absolutely not fine.”
“A charming hereditary flaw,” Alastor said, though the usual flare was absent.
Charlie gave him a sad little smile. “Yeah. It is.”
For a few moments, they walked in silence.
Then Alastor stopped again.
“Why not speak to her about it directly?”
Charlie’s eyes shone a little. “Because I don’t think she’ll tell me.”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“I think she’s afraid to,” Charlie admitted. “And I don’t know what I did wrong.”
The vulnerability in that sentence struck harder than he expected.
Alastor looked at her, and though his instinct was to wrap the moment in humor and side-step the discomfort, something stopped him. Perhaps it was because Charlie’s worry was not performative. Perhaps it was because she loved Y/N so openly that even he could not mock it.
Or perhaps because he knew exactly why Y/N was afraid.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said.
Charlie looked up at him.
His voice had softened without permission, and he cleared his throat slightly, as if irritated by his own sincerity. “Your sister’s burdens are not always assigned by others. Often, she appoints herself to them.”
Charlie’s face crumpled a little. “I know.”
That seemed to open something in her, because suddenly she was pacing, words tumbling out faster than she could organize them.
“I just keep thinking maybe I put too much on her. When I asked her to come help with Dad and Heaven, she did, and then she stayed, and she kept helping. Every time Vaggie and I had to go somewhere, Y/N handled the hotel. Every time I was overwhelmed, she made it easier. Every time Dad spiraled, she calmed him down.”
Alastor watched quietly.
Charlie’s hands moved as she spoke, nervous and emotional. “And she does that. She makes things easier for everyone, and I let her because I needed her, and because she’s so good at it, and because she never complained.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“But I’m the older sister. I’m supposed to carry weight for her too. I shouldn’t have expected her to do everything a big sister should do just because she was capable of it.”
The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of the hotel below.
Alastor’s gaze drifted past Charlie, his mind moving somewhere else entirely.
He thought of Y/N late at night, sitting with a ledger in her lap, insisting she was not tired while leaning so heavily against him that her eyes kept fluttering closed.
He thought of her smiling at guests after skipping breakfast.
He thought of her taking care of Lucifer, reassuring Charlie, managing Vaggie’s concerns, softening Husk’s grumbling, easing Angel’s fears, helping Baxter settle, laughing with Niffty, and still returning to him in the dark as if she had anything left to give.
He thought of that night when she had told him she wanted him but feared hurting everyone else.
He thought of her tears after he had left.
And then another memory came, uninvited but tender.
One night, weeks before the argument, she had found him quiet after a difficult conversation with Rosie. She had not pushed him. She had simply sat beside him on the rooftop, wrapped a blanket around both of them, and said, “You don’t have to talk. I just don’t want you sitting alone if you don’t want to be alone.”
He had told her, almost harshly, that he was perfectly capable of being alone.
She had only smiled and said, “I know. That wasn’t what I asked.”
At the memory, his smile softened.
Only faintly.
Only for a moment.
But Charlie was not looking at his face, too caught in her own spiral to notice.
“I know she says hurtful things sometimes when she’s overwhelmed,” Charlie said, still pacing. “Not because she’s mean, but because she gets scared and defensive, and then she hates herself afterward. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want to push her, but I also don’t want her thinking she can’t trust me.”
Alastor’s fondness faded into something sadder.
Not because Charlie was wrong.
Because she was painfully right.
“She does trust you,” he said quietly.
Charlie stopped pacing.
“She does?” she asked.
“Quite deeply,” Alastor said. “But trust does not always silence fear.”
Charlie stared at him for a moment, absorbing that.
He straightened, his usual composure sliding back over him, though not completely. “If I may offer a suggestion, my dear, do not corner her with worry. She will interpret it as another thing she must soothe.”
Charlie’s lips parted slightly.
“Instead,” he continued, “give her a place where she is not required to perform. No grand interrogation. No declarations that make her feel responsible for your feelings. Simply make it very clear that she may come to you messy, frightened, wrong, or uncertain, and you will not love her any less for it.”
Charlie’s eyes filled again, but this time the expression was softer.
“That’s… actually really good advice.”
“Naturally,” he said, the old flair returning as he lifted his chin. “I am a man of many talents.”
Charlie laughed wetly, wiping beneath one eye. “Thank you, Al.”
His smile twitched at the nickname, but he did not correct her.
“I think I feel better,” she said.
“I am delighted to have been of service.”
She looked up at him with hope in her eyes. “Do you think you can help me?”
“With your sister?”
Charlie nodded. “Not in a pushy way. Just… if she talks to you, can you remind her she doesn’t have to hide everything from me?”
The request pressed into a wound he had been trying to ignore.
If she talks to you.
He wondered if Y/N would.
He wondered if he had made it impossible.
Still, he smiled at Charlie, gentler than he meant to.
“I shall do what I can.”
Charlie smiled back, relieved. “Thank you.”
From the end of the lower hall, partly hidden near the stairs, Angel watched them with growing suspicion as Charlie and Alastor continued walking together.
His eyes narrowed further.
“Oh, I do not like that,” he muttered.
Husk, who had unfortunately followed him because Angel’s curiosity had a tendency to become everyone’s problem, sighed. “They’re probably talking about Y/N.”
“Yeah, and why’s he smiling like that?”
“Because he’s a freak.”
“No,” Angel said, pointing. “That’s not his murder smile. That’s like… a fond smile.”
Husk’s ears flattened. “Angel.”
“What if he’s moving from Y/N to Charlie?”
Husk turned slowly toward him.
Angel held up both hands. “I’m not saying it’s true. I’m saying if it is true, I’m committing crimes.”
“You commit crimes when the coffee is bad.”
“And this would be worse.”
Husk rubbed a hand down his face. “You are going to misunderstand this into a disaster.”
Across the hotel, Y/N had become too busy to notice any of it.
She was in Charlie’s office, buried beneath guest forms and supply reports, trying yet again to convince herself that when she saw Alastor next, she would talk to him. She did not know that Charlie had been speaking to him. She did not know Angel had begun forming dramatic theories. She did not know that, upstairs, Alastor had finally allowed Charlie’s worry to crack something open in him.
But after that conversation, Alastor knew one thing with far more certainty than he had felt all week.
He needed to speak to her.
Not because everything was solved.
Not because the hurt was gone.
But because he had been standing at a distance, waiting for pain to become easier, when perhaps what they both needed was not more distance at all.
Perhaps what they needed was the very thing they had both been avoiding.
Meanwhile, Angel tried not to think too much of it at first.
For once in his afterlife, he genuinely tried.
He told himself he was probably being dramatic, which was rich considering dramatic was usually his resting state, but even he knew there were times when his brain took one suspicious detail and built an entire three-act tragedy around it. Maybe Charlie and Alastor were only talking. Maybe Charlie was trying to pry information out of him because Y/N had been acting like someone had hollowed her out and replaced her with paperwork. Maybe Alastor was being his usual unsettling self, and maybe Angel was reading too much into every little glance and every quiet conversation.
Besides, Charlie was Y/N’s older sister.
Charlie would never do anything like that. Surely.
And Alastor, as creepy and sharp-toothed and morally bankrupt as he could be, had really seemed to care about Y/N. Angel had seen it. He had watched the way Alastor looked at her when he thought nobody noticed, and even if Angel did not understand the Radio Demon’s heart, assuming the man had one in the first place, he knew desire and attention when he saw it.
Y/N had confessed to Angel that she liked him.
No, more than liked him.
She had said it with that ache in her voice, the kind of ache Angel knew too well, the kind that came from wanting somebody enough to make your own heart dangerous.
Charlie would not do that.
Alastor could be cruel, yes, because Angel was not stupid enough to pretend otherwise, but surely he could not be that cruel.
Except, of course, he absolutely could. That was the problem.
The thought stayed with Angel like a splinter under the skin, small at first, then sharper every time he saw Charlie and Alastor together. It was innocent from the outside, maybe. Charlie catching him in the hall. Charlie asking him to step aside and talk. Charlie walking upstairs with him while Vaggie stayed downstairs with Y/N, conveniently distracting her with hotel plans or guest forms or some suspiciously timed emergency that kept her from noticing where her sister had gone.
From Charlie’s side, it was nothing more than love.
She had been planning something for Y/N, a quiet surprise to remind her sister she was valued, and she had asked Vaggie to help keep Y/N occupied while she figured out the details. Charlie had gone to Alastor because he knew the hotel, because he had a flair for theatrics, and because, despite every reasonable warning sign in existence, she believed he might know how to help her do something special for her little sister.
But Angel did not know that.
Angel only saw the timing.
He saw Charlie slip away when Y/N was busy.
He saw Alastor looking far too composed whenever Charlie spoke to him.
He saw Vaggie distracted, unaware, trusting.
And from the outside, if someone was already worried and had all the wrong pieces in the wrong order, it looked like Alastor had grown distant from Y/N and started replacing her with Charlie.
Angel tried to laugh it off.
He really did.
“Maybe they’re plannin’ a surprise,” he muttered to himself one afternoon, arms crossed as he leaned in a doorway and watched Charlie disappear upstairs with Alastor again. “Yeah. That’s it. A cute little sister thing.”
He lasted three seconds.
“Unless he’s bein’ a two-timing strawberry pimped bastard,” he added under his breath, eyes narrowing.
The thought made his stomach turn.
Y/N had looked miserable for days. Not loud about it. Not messy in a way others would immediately understand. Just quieter. More brittle. More like someone walking around with a wound hidden under pretty clothes and perfect posture.
Angel cared about her.
That was the inconvenient truth of it.
She had become like a sister to him in a way he had not expected, someone soft enough to comfort but strong enough to call him on his nonsense. She listened without making him feel pathetic. She laughed at his worst jokes and caught the sadness underneath them. She checked on him without making a whole production out of it, and when he needed help, she showed up.
So if Alastor was playing her?
If Charlie, somehow, knowingly or unknowingly, was part of that?
Angel would burn the hotel down before he let Y/N be blindsided.
The day everything went from suspicious to catastrophic, Angel had been looking for Charlie.
She was not downstairs with Vaggie, which already made his nerves prickle. Vaggie was in the lobby, helping Y/N with something near the front desk, and Charlie was nowhere in sight. Alastor was also missing, which did nothing to soothe Angel’s imagination.
He checked the sitting room first.
Empty.
Then the upstairs hall.
Still nothing.
Eventually, he passed Alastor’s room and found the door partly open, which was unusual enough to make him slow down. From inside came the rapid little sounds of frantic cleaning, humming, and something being scrubbed with far too much enthusiasm.
Angel leaned into the doorway carefully.
“Niff?”
Niffty popped up from beside a table, holding a rag in one hand and wearing a frighteningly cheerful expression. “Hi!”
Angel placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Jesus, warn a guy before you materialize like a haunted Roomba.”
“I was cleaning!” she chirped, then held up the rag. “There was dust and we all know dust attracts bugs.”
“Sure, uhuuh. Love that for you.” Angel glanced around the room as casually as he could manage. “You seen Charlie around?”
Niffty immediately returned to wiping the table. “She was with Alastor.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed despite his best effort. “Was she?”
“Mhm!”
“Like… recently?”
“Yeah!”
Angel forced a light laugh, though it sounded strained even to him. “Huh. Funny. They’ve been, uh, chatting a lot lately, haven’t they?”
Niffty looked up, utterly unaware of the implication. “They talk about Y/N a lot.”
Angel froze.
“They do?”
“Yep!” Niffty scrubbed harder at an invisible stain. “They always talk about ways to keep her busy.”
Angel’s expression shifted, but he was too tangled in suspicion to let the information land correctly.
“They talk about Y/N,” he repeated slowly.
Niffty nodded, then suddenly gasped. “Bleach! I need more bleach!”
“Do I wanna know why?”
“Nope!”
“Cool. Don’t tell me.”
Niffty darted past him in a blur, nearly knocking into his legs as she left the room. “Don’t touch anything!”
Angel stood in the doorway for a moment, trying very hard not to look suspicious even though no one was there to see him looking suspicious.
He should leave.
He knew he should leave.
This was Alastor’s room, and snooping in Alastor’s room was, generally speaking, one of the worst survival choices a person could make. The smart thing would be to walk away, find Charlie later, and forget whatever weird feeling had crawled up his spine.
He turned to go.
Then something on the bed caught his eye.
A single strand of golden hair lay against the dark sheets.
Angel stopped.
His mind immediately told him to relax. Y/N had blonde hair too. Charlie had blonde hair. Lucifer had blonde hair. Half the dramatic royal family looked like they had been kissed by a spotlight. One strand of hair meant nothing. It could have come from laundry. It could have come from a hug. It could have been tracked in by Niffty, for all he knew.
“No big deal,” he muttered. “Just hair. People got hair. Very normal. Very not worth dying over.”
Then he saw the corner of something white peeking out from beneath Alastor’s pillow.
A small square.
A Polaroid.
Angel stared at it.
“Nope,” he whispered. “Nope, nope, nope, that is none of my business.”
He looked toward the door.
The hallway was empty.
He looked back at the Polaroid.
His fingers twitched.
He reached under the pillow and pulled it free.
The second he saw it, his eyes widened.
It was a photograph of someone in lingerie, blonde hair falling around their shoulders, their body posed with deliberate confidence, but the face was partly blurred by shadow and angle. Not enough to make the image meaningless, but enough to keep it from being immediately clear who it was.
Angel’s brows drew together.
Blonde hair.
Lingerie.
Hidden under Alastor’s pillow.
And the only blonde woman Alastor had been spending suspicious time with lately was Charlie.
His face went cold.
“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
The pieces slammed together in his head all wrong and with absolute confidence.
Alastor was sleeping with Charlie.
Charlie was cheating on Vaggie.
Y/N was in love with Alastor.
Alastor was playing Y/N.
Y/N and Vaggie were both going to be heartbroken.
Angel’s jaw tightened.
For a moment, all the jokes drained out of him, leaving only anger.
Real anger. The protective kind.
The kind that made his hands shake because he knew exactly what it felt like to be made a fool of, to be wanted in secret and discarded in public, to have someone powerful play games with your heart and body and trust.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, absolutely not.”
He shoved the photo back into place for half a second, then stopped, grabbed it again, and tucked it into his pocket along with the hair, wrapped carefully in a tissue from his sleeve.
Evidence.
He needed evidence.
He needed Cherri.
He needed to catch them.
He needed to make sure before he destroyed anyone’s life, because some small part of him still begged that he was wrong.
But the bigger part was already furious.
He slipped out of the room just before Niffty came darting back with a bottle of bleach nearly as big as she was.
Angel found Cherri in the lounge, boots kicked up, one arm draped over the back of the couch as she drank something neon and dangerous-looking.
He grabbed her wrist.
“We got a problem.”
Cherri looked up, instantly alert. “What kind?”
“The bad kind.”
Her expression sharpened as she smiled. “Who do I gotta blow up?”
“Maybe nobody yet,” Angel said, then corrected himself. “Maybe Alastor.”
Cherri sat up properly. “I’m listening.”
He pulled her into a quieter corner and showed her the tissue first, then the Polaroid.
Cherri stared.
Then stared harder.
“No fucking way.”
“I know.”
“Is that—”
“I don’t know, but look at the hair.”
Cherri took the strand carefully, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. “Blonde.”
“Exactly.”
“Could be Y/N.”
Angel shook his head immediately. “No, listen. Y/N told us she likes Alastor, right?”
“Right.”
“And Alastor’s been actin’ weird with her, right?”
“Right.”
“And lately Charlie and Alastor have been sneakin’ off for little chats, walkin’ upstairs together, disappearin’ while Vaggie’s conveniently downstairs with Y/N.”
Cherri’s face darkened as he continued.
“Now I find a blonde hair on his bed and a sexy little Polaroid under his pillow, and the face is all blurred, and the only blonde he’s been all buddy-buddy with lately is Charlie.”
Cherri looked down at the photo again.
Her fingers curled.
“That son of a bitch.”
“I know kinky shit when I see it,” Angel said, voice low and furious. “That ain’t some innocent keepsake.”
Cherri punched the nearest wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
“Cherri!”
“What? I’m processing.”
“We can’t be loud about this. They might freak out.”
She grabbed his arm, eyes blazing. “Are you sure?”
Angel’s face tightened, the certainty and fear battling across it. “Positive enough to be scared.”
“That’s not the same as sure.”
“I know,” he snapped, then dragged a hand through his hair. “I know. But what else am I supposed to think? If it’s not Charlie, then who the hell is it?”
Cherri looked at the picture again, then back at him.
Neither of them said Y/N.
Because in Angel’s mind, that possibility had already been dismissed by the pain of what he thought he was seeing. Y/N had been miserable. Alastor had been cold. Charlie had been the one slipping away with him. The wrong story was easier to believe because it matched the fear already burning through him.
“Shit,” Cherri muttered. “How are we gonna tell Y/N?”
Angel’s face twisted.
“I don’t know.”
“She’s gonna be fucking crushed.”
“I know.”
“And Vaggie?” Cherri hissed. “Oh, Vaggie’s gonna lose her mind.”
“I know.”
Cherri began pacing, anger feeding Angel’s until the room felt too small for both of them.
“We can’t just walk up and say it,” she said. “Y/N might not believe us and Vaggie might stab first, ask later.”
“Which, honestly, mood,” Angel muttered.
Cherri pointed at him. “We gotta catch them.”
Angel nodded slowly, already thinking.
“We catch them doing something suspicious, show Vaggie first, and then Vaggie can tell Y/N,” he said. “Y/N might think we’re overreacting if it comes from us, but if Vaggie sees it…”
“She’ll believe her own eyes,” Cherri finished.
Angel swallowed, the anger faltering just enough for hurt to slip through.
“I hate this,” he said quietly.
Cherri stopped pacing.
For all her fire, she softened when she heard his voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
Angel looked down at the Polaroid again, jaw clenched.
“I keep thinking maybe I’m wrong.”
Cherri’s expression tightened. “Do you think you are?”
He looked toward the hallway where Y/N had passed earlier that day, tired and quiet and trying so hard to look alright.
Then he thought of Vaggie, loyal and fierce, trusting Charlie with her whole heart.
Then he thought of Alastor, smiling that polished smile while holding secrets behind his teeth.
Angel’s grip on the photo tightened.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But they deserve to know.”
Cherri nodded, anger settling into determination.
“Then we keep our eyes peeled.”
“Yeah,” Angel said, tucking the photo away again. “We watch. We wait. And if that deer-faced fucker is playing both of them…”
