Imitation of an Angel, picture of holiness Part 5
Pairing: Alastor x f!reader
Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent to hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.
Alastor had never fussed this much before leaving for a meeting.
You stood just outside his room, straightening your own feathers while he hovered around you like a manic hummingbird in a three-piece suit.
“My dear,” he said, smoothing your collar for the fifth time, “do remain here. In the hotel. With the doors locked. And don’t answer any knocks. Or speak to strangers. Or step into any contract circles. And if Angel Dust tries anything suspicious...”
“I’ll be careful,” you promised, touching his arm.
He melted. Which was why he leaned in and kissed your forehead. And your cheek. And the corner of your mouth.
And then, embarrassingly, your temple, jaw, shoulder, and both hands like he was blessing relics.
“Alastor,” you laughed softly. “You’re going to be late.”
He ignored that. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice low and firm. “Stay here. I will return shortly. No harm will come to you. I swear it.”
He cupped your face, thumb brushing your skin with desperation. “I can’t lose you again.”
You kissed his palm. “You won’t.”
Only then, begrudgingly, did he force himself to leave, back straighter and smile sharper as he stepped into the hall.
Rosie was already lounging elegantly, sipping tea from a porcelain cup worth more than several souls combined. She gave no reaction whatsoever to Alastor’s arrival. Or to the fact that he had a wife again. Rosie knew everything and cared about less than a half of it.
“Morning, sugar,” she greeted lazily. “Wife doin’ well?”
“Splendid, thank you,” Alastor answered, absolutely unbothered.
Velvette glared daggers the moment he walked in. Valentino’s eye twitched. Vox looked like he was buffering.
“You,” Vox hissed, “have some explaining to do.”
Alastor adjusted his tie. “Do I?”
Velvette stomped a heel. “YES, YOU DO.”
Valentino crossed his arms. “You stole something. YOUR PROPERTY? Your…your…whatever she is.”
Alastor tilted his head. “My wife?”
Rosie chuckled into her teacup. “He means they were about to bulldoze the poor girl into a contract.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Yes, I noticed.”
Vox slammed his hand on the table. “Who...WHAT...is she?!”
Alastor blinked. “My wife.”
“No,” Vox snapped, “you don’t get it. She’s not a normal sinner. She doesn’t look like a sinner. She doesn’t act like one. She looks like a fallen angel or a disguised power...or some kind of ancient entity in a mortal shell!”
Velvette nodded rigorously. “Yeah! No offense but you don’t exactly attract normal people.”
Rosie sipped. “He did once.”
Alastor ignored all of them with malicious serenity.
Vox leaned forward, voice dropping into conspiratorial paranoia. “Did you make a deal? With her? For her? Did someone from Heaven send her? Is she binding your soul? Is this some old ritual from your life? Are you...OH MY GOD...did you make a pact with a cherub?!”
Rosie noticed and grinned.
“Vincent,” Alastor said pleasantly, “you are spiraling.”
Alastor folded his hands, elbows on the table. “My wife is exactly what she appears to be. An ordinary sinner.”
“That’s impossible,” he spat. “She’s too...too...too nice. Too clean. Too bright. Too...OPPOSITE OF YOU.”
Valentino muttered, “Yeah, what kinda woman willingly marries you?”
Rosie raised her hand. “A very lucky one.”
Alastor nodded. “Indeed.”
Velvette threw her hands up. “This is BULLSHIT.”
Vox leaned back, fingers drumming rapidly, clearly rewriting entire conspiracy boards in his head.
“You’re hiding something,” he muttered. “And I’m going to find out.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened into something cruel and delighted.
“Oh, do try,” he purred. “I’ll enjoy watching you fail.”
Rosie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
Vox had spent the entire overlord meeting with one obsessive, vibrating thought:
“I need to know what she is.”
So the moment the meeting ended, he retreated to his massive neon tower, marching into the surveillance chamber like a televangelist about to perform an exorcism on live TV.
“Camera teams!” he barked. “Deploy micro-drones into the Hazbin Hotel. I want eyes on her. I want audio. I want EVERYTHING.”
A terrified tech demon saluted. “Y-yes, sir!”
“And send one of our field agents,” Vox added. “Someone discreet. Someone who won’t get emotionally compromised. Someone heartless.”
Three demons immediately backed away.
“…Uh,” one muttered, “sir, we don’t have anyone like that. It’s the Hazbin Hotel. It…changes people. Like with that snake...”
Vox growled. “Just pick the meanest intern and THROW HIM.”
Within minutes, a spy drone zipped into the hotel and instantly caught you in the kitchen, humming to yourself while making tea.
The feed showed you adjusting your little apron, wings fluffing absently as you searched for honey.
Vox felt his circuits glitch.
“Is she...she’s...she’s being adorable on purpose,” he muttered. “It’s a trap. IT HAS TO BE A TRAP.”
But then you whispered to yourself:
“Alastor will want cinnamon in his. He likes cinnamon.”
The drone made a small, mechanical whirr of emotional damage.
The intern monitoring the feed sniffed. “She’s…so considerate…”
Vox slapped him. “SHE IS A SINNER, DAMNIT! STAY STRONG.”
The drone physically fell out of the air and landed on the countertop in front of you.
“Oh, hello?” you said kindly.
The drone made a weak beep…be-beep like a dying Roomba.
You gently picked it up, dusted it off, and set it in a spoon rest so it wouldn’t fall again.
“There you go. Try to be careful, little guy.”
The drone’s camera wobbled. It emitted one soft ping of pure devotion.
The intern started sobbing.
“WHY IS SHE NICE TO OUR EQUIPMENT?! WHO DOES THAT?!”
The field agent demon Vox had sent, meanest intern, name: Trudge, crept into the hotel through a cracked window with a tiny notepad.
Hellishly powerful sinners.
Instead he found you in the lobby, reading a book with your wings tucked neatly around you.
You looked up, startled. “Oh! Do you work here? Are you lost? Can I help you find something?”
Trudge felt his entire worldview collapse like a wet cardboard box.
“I...uh...I...are...uh...do...you...want...uh...water?” he stammered.
You blinked, confused. “I can get my own water, but thank you.”
“I’LL BRING YOU SOME ANYWAY,” he squeaked, sprinting to the kitchen.
Vox, watching the feed, slammed his head into the monitor.
“NO! NO KINDNESS! STOP IT! DON’T LET HER GET TO YOU!”
Trudge ran back with a glass of water, panting. “Is this okay?”
You smiled. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
“I’M SO SORRY I BROKE IN! YOU’RE TOO NICE! WHY ARE YOU SO NICE?! WHY DID VOX MAKE ME SPY ON YOU?! I CAN’T DO THIS. YOU’RE LIKE A SUNBEAM WITH FEATHERS...”
Vox shrieked so loud the screen cracked.
“GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, INTERN! SHE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND!”
Trudge curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing. “She said thank you…Vox never thanks us. I can't remember the last time someone said thank you to me.”
Unfortunately for Trudge, Alastor arrived.
He stepped out of a shadow with a voice like a violin tuned to menace.
His smile widened, teeth gleaming.
“…It seems I’ve acquired uninvited guests.”
A dozen other hidden cameras around the hotel crackled, sparked, and combusted in terror as Alastor’s aura filled the room.
Vox screamed over the monitor:
“ALASTOR, WAIT, LET’S NEGOTIATE...”
Alastor reached out and crushed the last functioning drone in one elegant hand.
He looked directly through the screen. Smiling.
“Do keep your eyes to yourself, old chap.”
Vox watched as every single screen in the surveillance room flickered, distorted, and finally melted.
Vox stood in the dark, trembling, hands shaking so hard his neon frame glitched.
“WHAT...WHAT...WHAT IS SHE?!”
From the shadows behind him, Velvette muttered:
“Someone Alastor’s obsessed with.”
Valentino nodded solemnly. “Someone we should leave alone.”
Vox hissed. “You don’t get it. He never loved anyone. Not like that. And she...she...she just smiles and people fall in love with her!”
Velvette snorted. “For once, Voxie, maybe you should stop poking the demon radio man.”
Vox shook, staring at the melted screens.
“…I need stronger cameras.”
You woke beneath the weight of a warm, long arm draped over your waist.
Alastor had wound himself around you sometime in the night, one leg hooked over yours, chin pressed to the back of your head, breath warm against your nape. He was…humming. Happily. Sleepily. Like some content animal hiding its face in its favorite blanket.
He immediately tightened his hold.
“Mm, good morning, my dear…” His voice was still gravel-soft from sleep. “Going somewhere?”
“I was just trying to stretch…”
“You can stretch here,” he murmured, squeezing you, burying his face against your shoulder like he intended to fuse with you permanently.
The affection hit you too quickly. Your pulse fluttered.
Just a tremor, just a little twitch, just a ripple of heat running down your spine. But Alastor’s hand tightened at exactly the wrong moment, pulling you in, and the sudden, overwhelming flush of embarrassment shot through you like lightning.
Your wings exploded open.
The left wing smacked into the wall with a loud thud.
The right wing smacked directly into Alastor’s face.
There was a muffled “…oof!”
You whipped around in horror. “Alastor! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, my wings just...!”
He was flat on his back now, hair mussed, antlers crooked from the impact, his expression dazed.
And then he burst out laughing.
Actual laughter: bright, delighted, startled. A sound you had rarely heard when he was alive, and even less since his death.
“Well!” he wheezed, adjusting his crooked antlers, “I certainly didn’t expect to be assaulted this early in the morning.”
“I didn’t assault! My wings have a mind of their own, I swear.”
“Oh I gathered.” He propped himself on an elbow, still chuckling, still blinking bits of feather fluff off his eyelashes. “Though I must say, if you wished to make a dramatic gesture of waking me, a simple shake would have sufficed.”
Your face burned. “You squeezed me!”
“And you reacted quite beautifully.” His grin turned sly. “I had no idea you could do that, little dove.”
“Stop looking so pleased.”
He only laughed more, reaching to gently gather your wings closer so they wouldn’t keep flaring. He touched them reverently, smoothing a feather with his thumb.
You were too flustered to move.
“Does it happen every time you get flustered?”
Your wings immediately twitched.
He looked delighted. “Oh-ho.”
He immediately pulled you into his chest again, whispering shamelessly, “My sweet, sweet wife…”
Your wings shot out again. WHAP!
He fell off the side of the bed this time.
“My dear,” he groaned from the floor, “you may be the death of me all over again.”
You crawled to the edge, mortified. “Alastor, I’m so...”
He peeked up at you with ruined hair and the most besotted grin you’d ever seen.
“No apologies. None at all.” He reached up and tapped your nose. “It’s delightful.”
“What part of this is delightful?”
“You,” he said simply. “Being flustered. Being yourself. Being here.”
Your wings, of course, reacted.
He braced an arm over his head and shouted through a laugh:
You tried to ignore it. The next day, the first thing you felt when you woke up was the weight across your waist, his arm tightening as if your movement set off some internal alarm.
He murmured something into your hair, your name, stretched tender like warm caramel, and then, without opening his eyes, hauled you closer with a sleepy strength that made your spine pop.
“Good morning, my little lark,” he mumbled, voice muffled and uncharacteristically soft. “Don’t go flying off without me…”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.
“Mmh. Good.” His nose nudged the back of your ear. “You’ll stay and be charming with me, won’t you?”
You shied helplessly, which was the exact wrong thing to do, because your wings reacted immediately.
They snapped open behind you: too large, too luminous, too feathery for the narrow bed.
One wing slammed squarely into Alastor’s chest, sending the Radio Demon toppling unceremoniously off the mattress and onto the floor with an “oof” and a startled burst of static.
From the floor came the unmistakable sound of him laughing.
Not his polite chuckle. Not his dangerous I-might-kill-somebody amusement.
A real, helpless, delighted laugh.
“Marvelous!” he wheezed, crawling back onto the bed. His grin was huge, wild, and boyish. “My dear, if you wished to sweep me off my feet, you could simply ask.”
“Ah-ah,” he said, tapping your nose. “They respond to emotion. Perfectly natural. Perfectly adorable.” His smirk sharpened. “And very informative.”
You hid your face, which made the wings twitch again.
He gathered you up in his arms again, deliberately threading his fingers through the nearest wing. “Now then,” he purred, “before the day begins…give me another reaction.”
And he absolutely insisted, kisses along your cheek, your shoulder, the back of your neck, every one sending your wings flicking and startling and fanning until one finally whacked him again, at which point he collapsed dramatically across your lap like you’d mortally wounded him.
You were still laughing when he sat up and announced:
This was how you ended up asking everyone else for help before admitting you needed Alastor.
Vaggie squinted, grabbed your wing, flared it out with clinical precision, and tried to explain muscle movements that you simply didn’t have.
Finally she sighed. “Okay, try…uh…lifting from the scapular junction and no, not like that, that’s just your shoulder.”
“No, that’s still shoulder.”
After ten minutes she stepped back, defeated. “I don’t know how to help you. I was born with wings. I didn’t even learn them, they just worked.”
Husk’s contribution was worse.
He stared at your wings, took a long drag of his cigar, and said, “Just leap off something tall. Your instincts’ll kick in. Probably.”
“Probably?” you repeated, horrified.
Alastor appeared out of nowhere behind you with a murderous smile.
“I knew,” he said sweetly, “that consulting Husker would be a mistake.”
Husk flicked ash. “She asked.”
“And you answered. Tragically.”
Lucifer, of course, was out of the question, Alastor made sure of that. The one time the Morningstar had even looked at your wings, Alastor pulled you behind him like you were a rare artifact on loan and Lucifer was a museum thief.
Lucifer just grinned. “Relax. I’m only admiring. Baby wings are adorable.”
“They are not baby wings,” Alastor hissed, then whisked you away like a Victorian husband offended on his wife’s behalf.
Back to his room, he circled you like a ballet instructor preparing to reshape your entire skeleton.
“Stand tall, sweetheart,” he said. “Wings relaxed. Shoulders down. Don’t hunch, you’re not a frightened dove.”
You tried to flare your wings gracefully.
What happened: they unfurled unevenly, twisted at the midpoint, and knocked a lamp over.
Alastor caught the lamp midair and set it down without looking, his smile beaming with the kind of pride parents usually reserved for a child’s first steps.
“I almost destroyed hotel property.”
He moved behind you, hands gentle at the bases of your wings, guiding their angle with terrifying care. His voice lowered, rich and coaxing.
“There. Feel that tension? Breathe with it. Don’t force the movement, invite it.”
The wings lifted in a trembling, luminous arch.
Alastor’s breath hitched.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You have no idea how exquisite you are.”
Your wings spread further.
He made a noise so helplessly fond it practically broke something in the room.
Then he snapped into instructor mode again.
Several times you hit him.
You hadn’t accessed much of your Hell-given abilities yet, but they were emerging in strange ways. As Alastor tested your wings’ balance, he noticed one.
“Hm,” he said. “Your aura shifts when you’re frightened.”
He stepped back, flicked off the lights, and the room immediately filled with a soft glow, your glow. Whitish-gold, the color of early dawn, floating from your skin like smoke.
You startled. The glow brightened.
Alastor gasped. “Oh, that’s delicious.”
“This is angelic resonance,” he breathed. “You can mesmerize. Not through violence, but through overwhelming calm. Affection. Serenity.”
“That’s not useful in Hell.”
He looked personally offended. “My dear, half of Hell’s population would collapse if someone simply told them they were proud of them.”
“In fact, I suspect you could subdue even powerful demons if you wanted to. All without lifting a finger. A form of emotional paralysis. Charming.”
That...actually made sense in a twisted Hell logic way.
“So I can…calm people to the point of incapacitation?”
“Precisely. You shine, they freeze.” His smirk softened. “You were always dangerous, darling. You simply lacked the proper setting.”
Alastor’s eyes darkened affectionately. “Careful. If you flutter them like that at me, I may forget we’re supposed to be training.”
Later, during another exercise, he asked you to hold still while he tapped a rhythm on your wings. Soft, experimental.
You blinked. “What was that?”
“A response,” he said, delighted. “You can manipulate sound vibrations. Not through radio or mimicry, like I do. Yours is…harmonic.”
“You can disrupt demonic frequencies. You can break enchantments. Even unravel illusions.”
“My little angelic amplifier.”
And then, of course, you accidentally demonstrated it.
During an attempt to hover, just a little, you flapped awkwardly and produced a soft hum.
The chandelier above you shattered. It simply disassembled itself. Every crystal bead slid apart like melting ice, drifting down in a glittering cascade.
Alastor watched with starry eyes.
You looked at the carnage. “Oh no. Oh no I’m so sorry!”
He grabbed your hands in both of his.
“Marvelous! Stunning! Do it again!”
At the end of hours of practice, tumbling, hovering, gliding attempts, accidental knockouts of furniture, Alastor finally lowered himself beside you on the bed.
You lay on your stomach, wings draped over the sheets, exhausted in every muscle you didn’t know you had.
Alastor stroked a hand down the nearest wing.
“You’re progressing beautifully.”
“You say that because you’re biased.”
“Absolutely,” he said happily. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
He leaned down, kissed between your wings, and hummed.
You felt your powers flicker, soft golden light spreading through the room.
He tucked himself against your side, his antlers tangling slightly in your feathers.
You laughed as you gently freed them. “You look ridiculous.”
“I look devoted,” he corrected, closing his eyes. “And I intend to bask like this for at least an hour.”
You rested your cheek against his shoulder. “Alastor?”
“Thank you for teaching me.”
He squeezed you, voice low and genuine, the kind of softness he hid from the world.
“I would teach you anything you wished to learn.”
Your wings fluttered involuntarily.
He grinned into your hair.
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