. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ [How do they react if their baby calls them by their name and not mom/dad?] ࿐ྂ
Summary: How would some of the Hearthstone characters react if their baby called them by name one day? I saw a TikTok about it and found some of the parents' reactions hilarious.
Type: Platonic, Reaction/One-Shot
Warning: None
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Alastor Hartfelt
The Hazbin Hotel kitchen smelled, unusually, of disinfectant lemon and something sweet melting in a saucepan. The usual chaos had given way to a silence broken only by the soft humming of a 1930s jazz tune. Alastor stood with his back to us, adjusting the knot of an absurdly mundane floral apron over his immaculate red suit. On the counter beside him, you sat in your high chair, watching his every move with the absolute devotion of someone gazing upon their personal hero.
He had returned. He had come back to the hotel with you in his arms after… that. After the confrontation with Vox, after the Radio Demon's blinding pride had nearly killed you both, and after the moment of pure panic when, because of you, because of you, he had chosen a different path. The battle had left invisible scars. He was stiller, his smile a little less strident, his static a low hum instead of a roar. There was something different about the way he looked at you: a raw, newfound protective instinct that had replaced some of the calculated amusement.
"Now, my little fawn, Daddy's going to make Grandma's jambalaya," he said, his voice the whisper of a late-night talk show announcer, designed just for you.
As he walked away toward the refrigerator, your little heart sank. You stretched your arms behind him, making a protesting sound. "A-ba!"
Alastor turned, and for a split second, something in his eyes softened. He came closer and stroked your cheek with the back of a finger, carefully, as if afraid his own touch might be too sharp.
"No, my love. Dad has to cook so you can eat. Be a patient girl, okay?" His tone was gentle, but the command was firm. He was the same man who negotiated with overlords, but now the contract was about cookies.
At that moment, the kitchen door opened. Vaggie poked her head in, her posture rigid, her gaze searching. She carried her spear on her back out of sheer habit, but she wasn't drawing it. "Alastor?"
The demon didn't turn around; he continued rinsing some suspiciously bright berries under the tap. "Yes, my dear? What do you need? I'm about to perform a little culinary feat."
Vaggie stepped inside, crossing her arms. Her gaze shifted from Alastor to you, and her stern expression softened slightly. "No, nothing. I just… wanted to see how you were. You were gone for a long time. We were worried about you." The word "we" weighed heavily on her, implicating Charlie and the entire hotel, but the slight tremor in her voice was hers alone.
She approached your high chair. Its armor creaked softly. "Hey, Y/N," she said, and her voice sounded completely different to you: warmer, more disarming.
You, recognizing the fallen angel who sometimes made you fly through the corridors like an airplane, stretched out your arms again. This time, toward her. Vaggie hesitated for only a moment, glancing quickly at Alastor's motionless back, before unbuckling your seatbelt and lifting you up. She settled you on her hip with a naturalness that defied all her military training. "Huh? Did you miss your Aunt Vaggie?"
You stared at her face, her large, worried eyes, her scar. You stammered, concentrating on forming the new sound you'd practiced so much in your mind. "Y-yes… a…"
Vaggie leaned in, a genuine smile playing on her lips. "Yes, baby?"
And then, with all the clarity of a bell, you said it. "A-ah… Alastor!"
The sound of running water stopped abruptly.
Clack.
The tap was off. The room didn't change, and yet, everything changed. The low hum of static shot up to a sharp, piercing whistle that made the spotlights flicker. Vaggie froze. "Oh, shit," she whispered, and it was the most sincere and terrified curse you'd ever heard from her.
Alastor turned slowly. He hadn't changed form, but the energy emanating from him had. His smile was still there, but now it was carved in ice. The eye that wasn't a radio dial began to twitch, tiny spasms that made his eyelash quiver. It was the only sign of the inner turmoil. The static made your small body vibrate slightly in Vaggie's arms, but you, innocent of any danger, only saw your dad looking at you. And you gave her a wide, toothless smile.
"Oh, no, Y/N. It's dad. D-dad," Vaggie corrected quickly, her voice strained. She tried to straighten you up, as if better posture could undo the mistake.
Alastor approached. His shadow lengthened, enveloping Vaggie and you. He placed his hands, immaculately gloved, on Vaggie's shoulders. It wasn't a blow, but a grip, firm and decisive. His smile widened until it became unnatural. Behind his head, his stag antlers grew a few centimeters with a subtle crackle of antler.
"Ah, ah, ah, my child," Alastor said, his voice like a broadcaster's, but distorted, as if it were being transmitted from the bottom of a well filled with teeth. His grip on Vaggie's shoulders tightened, not to hurt, but to make it clear who was in control of the space, the air, the situation. "I am your daddy. Your father."
A bead of cold sweat trickled down Vaggie's temple. She didn't dare move, caught between the instinct to protect you and the visceral knowledge that she was on the personal territory of an offended force of nature. She looked at you, forcing a shaky smile. "Y-yes, listen to your… your dad."
Intrigued by the intensity in the air, you glanced at Alastor, then at Vaggie, and back at him. The new word floated in your mind, now with a new syllable. You opened your mouth, concentrating.
"D-dad? Daddy?" you said, crystal clear.
As if someone had flipped a switch, the static stopped. Alastor's horns retreated to their normal size. His smile, though still wide, regained its usual performative quality, losing its nightmarish edge. The grip on Vaggie's shoulders loosened, becoming an almost comradely squeeze before he released her.
"That's it, my girl!" He announced, with his characteristic loudness and cheerfulness, as if the last minute hadn't happened. "Come with Daddy." He held out his arms.
Vaggie handed you over almost too hastily, letting out a sigh of relief so deep it seemed to deflate. "Sorry, Al," she murmured, rubbing her shoulder where his fingers had been.
Alastor settled you on his hip, brushing a strand of your hair away from your face. He looked at you, and for an instant, the Showman's mask vanished, revealing something genuinely gentle and triumphant.
"Don't worry, darling," he said, not looking at her, his focus on you. "Be grateful my baby likes you. Otherwise…" He trailed off, but the static returned for a split second, a friendly reminder.
"Yes!" you chirped, hugging his neck, happy to be at the center of his universe again.
Vaggie nodded, understanding the true meaning of his "grace." She took a step back toward the door. "I… I'll go help Charlie." And she left, leaving the Radio Demon and his daughter in the kitchen.
Carmilla Carmine
You're in Clara's arms, her light, cheerful gait making the stroll through the vast Carmine Industries facility feel like a leisurely walk. Around you, the metallic rhythm of the machines and the orange glow of the lava flowing through special channels create a landscape both infernal and mesmerizing. Odette, walking beside her with a focused expression, reviews a tablet with the production reports their mother entrusted to them.
"Look, Y/N, that's lava. It's very, very hot. Like chocolate, but inedible," Clara says, pointing to the shimmering river with a smile, making you turn to get a better look.
"Clara, don't get distracted. Mother needs the final report before the end of the shift, and… we have to get Y/N to sleep," Odette sighs, without looking up from the screen. Carmilla's order was clear: they had to put you to sleep so she could work in peace. But your eyes, wide open and full of curiosity, shone with an energy that defied any drowsiness.
An employee in protective gear approaches respectfully. "Ladies, Mistress Carmilla wishes to see you in her office immediately. It seems… urgent."
Clara cradles you in her arms and looks at Odette, who finally raises her eyes, a flicker of worry in her scarlet gaze. "Okay. Let's go, girls," Odette says, taking the lead with her steady stride. Clara follows, gently rocking you.
"Ca-…" you stammer, staring at your older sister. Clara's eyes sparkle with excitement.
"Odette, Odette, look! She wants to say something!" The excitement in her voice is contagious.
They both pause for a moment, leaning toward you. The world of machines seems to stop. "Come on, sweetheart, tell us," Clara encourages in a whisper.
"Ca-milla?" you say, with the innocence only a small child can possess.
Clara's face falls with exaggerated tenderness. "Awwww… I thought you were going to say my name. What a disappointment!"
Odette places a hand on her sister's shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile. "Next time, sister. Now, let's get down to business. Mother is waiting for us."
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As they reach the imposing door of Carmilla's study, an aura of seriousness envelops them. Odette knocks softly before opening it.
Inside, the atmosphere is different. The polished steel desk is illuminated by the dim light of a designer lamp, and the walls display antique maps and ceremonial weapons. Carmilla, standing by her desk, is deep in conversation with Zestial, whose tall, elegant figure seems made of shadows and courtesy. The Overlord turns her head at the sound of their entry, and her usual severity instantly vanishes, transforming into a genuine, warm smile at the sight of her daughters… and you.
"I see our little ray of sunshine has decided that nap time is a suggestion, not an order," Carmilla remarks, a spark of humor in her red eyes. Her voice is soft, directed only at her daughters.
"No, Mother. I was quite engrossed with Clara, watching the lava channels in the foundry. Good afternoon, Mr. Zestial," Odette greets with perfect formality. Clara mimics her with a slight nod, still holding you.
You, however, have your eyes fixed on Carmilla. Upon recognizing her, a wide smile lights up your face, and you stretch your little arms out toward her, opening and closing your hands in a clear and desperate gesture. Clara can't help but giggle and steps forward to hand you over.
Carmilla receives you in her arms with absolute confidence. Her ballerina dress sways slightly. "Hello, my love," she murmurs, drawing you closer. Zestial observes the scene from his place, and an almost imperceptible smile spreads across his face. She takes a sip from her teacup, its aroma of dried herbs filling the air.
"I imagine it must be a Herculean task to raise a creature with such an… admirable energy reserve, my dear Carmilla," Zestial says, his voice serpentine and polite.
You, now safely nestled in your mother's lap, gaze curiously at the arachnid Overlord. Then your attention returns to something far more fascinating: your own fingers, which you open and close in front of your face.
"C-" you try again, concentrating.
Carmilla looks down at you. "Mmm… Did you say something, little one?" she asks, her voice a silken thread.
With visible effort, you manage to form the complete word: "Carmilla!"
There is a brief but eloquent silence in the room. The soft clinking of Zestial's teacup as it rests on the saucer sounds like a bell.
"Wow… how unexpected," Zestial remarks, his tone one of genuine astonishment. Carmilla glances at him for a moment before turning her gaze back to you. A flurry of emotions flashes in her eyes: surprise, a touch of humor, and a deep, immense love.
"Ha… Where did you learn that, huh?" she asks, gently rocking you while casting an inquisitive but not angry glance at your older sisters. Clara and Odette exchange a knowing look, trying to maintain their composure.
Carmilla brings her forehead close to yours. "I'm 'Mommy.' 'Mommy.' 'Ma-ma' to you, my precious child," she says, cradling each syllable with a tenderness that very few in Hell have the privilege of witnessing.
You look at her, processing. Then, with a smile that lights up the entire room, you repeat, "Mommy?"
"Yes, darling. Your mommy," Carmilla confirms, and gently presses you to her chest, sealing the moment. In that embrace, the most feared Overlord in Hell, the master weaponsmith, disappears completely, and only a mother remains.
Lucifer Morningstar
You're playing with dolls and a rubber ducky—a special, golden one that your father made himself—on the lobby floor of the Hazbin Hotel. Vaggie is playing with you, gently moving a small doll. You love your "Aunt" Vaggie very much, with her seemingly endless patience. Until Charlie arrives.
"Hi, love," Vaggie says, looking up.
Charlie comes over and gives his girlfriend a soft kiss. Vaggie returns it with a smile. "It's bedtime," Charlie announces. Vaggie nods and carefully begins to gather your toys as Charlie lifts you into his arms. You look at your older sister and lean back against her shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and something else… a redemptive promise. You close your eyes, hoping to reach your father.
Charlie carries you through the quiet hallways to Lucifer's room. He knocks on the door with his knuckles in a cheerful rhythm.
The door opens immediately. There he is. Lucifer comes out wearing his favorite sweater, a white wool one, knitted with tiny rubber duckies embroidered all over it. His blond hair is a little tousled, as if he's been concentrating on something.
"Oh, hi, my girls!" he says, with a wide, genuine smile that lights up his red eyes. He leans over and almost snatches you from Charlie's arms with a gentle but enthusiastic movement, spinning you around a bit in the air before pulling you close to his chest.
"Haha, well, Dad. Good night. I have some things to take care of at the hotel," Charlie says, watching the scene with a tenderness only she possesses.
"Sure, sure. Good night, Char-Char. Let me know if you need any help, okay? Even if it's just… organizing paperwork? I'm good with creative stuff, not so much with bureaucracy!" he admits with a comical gesture of frustration, gently rocking you in his arms.
"Yes, Dad," Charlie says, smiling as she closes the door. He leaves you your favorite stuffed animal: a heavenly blue rubber ducky, a little worn from affection.
Lucifer holds you in his arms, and suddenly his long, agile fingers transform into menacing ticklish spiders that slither along your side. "Awww, who's Daddy's little girl? Is it you? You are, yes, you, my darling!" he says, laughing, his voice a theatrical, affectionate murmur. His joy is contagious, but in his eyes, for a moment, a spark of profound relief shines, as if these moments were the antidote to an age-old loneliness.
He lays you on the bed, an improvised crib of pillows and soft cushions. "Just a moment, my treasure." He crosses the room, which is an organized and glittering chaos. There are workbenches piled high with tools and paints, shelves lined with rows and rows of rubber duckies in every color and design imaginable (one with a little hat, another with bat wings), and sketches of outlandish inventions plastered on the walls. He returns carrying a few things: a small cup with something that smells of cocoa and honey, and, finally, your favorite blanket, knitted with squares that form smiling ducks.
Seeing it, you smile and get excited, stretching out your little arms. "Lu…" you manage to say.
Lucifer stops dead in his tracks. The cup in his hand clinks softly against the saucer. He stares at you, his eyes wide, his expression of utter surprise transforming into an illumination so brilliant it could rival his own angelic radiance. It's as if the air has caught in his chest.
"Oh, Lord…" he whispers, slowly approaching. "Are you… talking?"
"Lucifer?" you say, looking directly into your daddy's red eyes.
A shiver runs through his body. “Oh, yes! Yes, my little girl! I’m Lucifer, your daddy! Wait, no… 'I’m daddy.' Daddy. Don’t call me Lucifer, call me daddy, okay?” His voice is a quick whisper, filled with a hope as fragile as glass.
“Lucifer, Lucifer,” you repeat, tasting the word in your mouth.
“Nooo, my love, I’m daddy. You’re my little girl, I’m your daddy. Okay?” he pleads, and this time his voice has a hint of wounded, ancient pride mixed with heartbreaking vulnerability. He is the King of Hell, the Fallen Angel, begging a baby to call him daddy. He takes you again, wrapping you in his arms as if you were the most precious relic in all of Creation, more than any throne or legacy. His ducky sweater is soft against your cheek.
“Daddy?” you ask, finally.
The word falls into the room like a blessing. A tear, bright and perfect, escapes the corner of his red eye and falls, disappearing into the fabric of your pajamas. The age-old tension in his shoulders dissipates.
"Yes, my love. Dad," he confirms, his voice now firm, serene, filled with a newfound certainty. "I'm Dad…" he cradles you, looking at you as if you had rebuilt the foundations of his world with a single word. "And I'll always be here."
He settles down beside you in bed, enveloping you with a white and red wing that unfurls gently from nowhere, creating a warm and protective canopy over you both. Outside, Hell rages on in its eternal chaos. But here, inside the nest of feathers and wool with ducklings, there is a new kind of paradise. One that he, at last, has been deemed worthy to find.
